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Few humans ever come this far. Fewer still do so knowingly. The paths that lead
here are not marked, and the forest does not announce itself as forbidden. It simply
deepens, grows quieter, and waits. Those who turn back do so without ever
understanding why. Those who continue arrive as this one has—bearing fire, not as
a weapon, but as the last human habit carried into places where habit no longer
applies. The flame throws light enough to reveal scale, and mercy enough to allow
recognition before mistake becomes transgression.
What stands before the intruder is not summoned, nor roused. It has always been
here. Not to hunt, nor to test courage, but to remain where remaining matters. The
great wings do not spread in threat, only in sufficiency, filling the clearing the way a
final word fills a sentence. No blow is struck. None is required. The torch burns, the
warning is given, and the meaning is unmistakable: this is not a place of conquest or
trial, but of keeping. The human may leave with breath and memory intact—but not
with passage. Some boundaries exist not to punish those who cross them, but to
remind the world that there are still places it must not finish explaining.