N
o path had led them there, and none would lead them out, for such places are not found by map or memory, but only when the heart grows still enough to hear the world breathe. The air was thick with an unseen music, and even the trees seemed to lean in, listening. The hidden village lay cradled among those ancient boughs, its amber windows flickering like the last warmth of a dream half-remembered. Some called it Emberlyn, though it was not a place to conquer or to name—but to remember, its origins long since lost to time.
