Mystical Forest When Wings Whisper and Paws Are Silent

More about Mystical Forest When Wings Whisper and Paws Are Silent

A Fairy Tale from the Enchanted Forest of Elvandar The fog lay heavy over the ground, as if the forest itself had decided to conceal its thoughts. Silvery veils slid between tree trunks, condensing into dreams, then dissolving again. It was the hour between times, when the shadows breathed longer and the colors began to whisper. In the midst of this silent world, a white wolf stepped out of the mist. He moved with the serene strength possessed only by those who have chosen their solitude. His fur shone in the twilight, a gentle, almost unreal glow, as if the moon itself had touched him. Siral, the oldest beings called him—Siral the Silent. He spoke rarely, not for lack of thought, but out of respect for silence. Above him, barely audible, an owl paced the air. Her wings parted the mist like gentle knifelight, her gaze alert, penetrating, full of questions that no longer needed words. Her name was Kitora—Kitora the Whispering One. Her feathers shimmered in tones of ash-gold and amber shadows, and wherever she flew, the air shimmered for a moment like disturbed magic. The two hadn't met like other animals in the forest. Their story began beneath the Tree of Midnight, an ancient being with a crown of shattered light. Kitora had fallen, her wing injured, scarred by the storm. Siral had found her there, half-hidden beneath a carpet of moss, his eyes dull with pain. He hadn't hesitated, had laid down by her side, night after night, without asking a question. As her wounds healed, something else grew between them—a silence that wasn't empty, but full of understanding. Since then, they had wandered together through Elvandar—one on silent paws, the other with wings like whispering parchment. They saw what others overlooked: the fleeing shadows of memory clinging to tree bark, the faint hum of ancient curses slumbering in pools. Kitora discovered hidden runes in the mist, Siral sensed the movement of the forest beneath his paws. They rarely spoke, but when they did, each word was like a pebble dropped into clear water. One evening, as the light lingered golden among the trees, they both felt a tug, a murmuring that was not of this world. "Something is calling," Kitora said. "Something we have forgotten," Siral answered. They followed the whispers through dense glades, past roots murmuring in ancient languages, until they reached the Pool of Mirrors. The surface of the water was smooth as glass, surrounded by a ring of brilliant ferns. It was said that whoever looked into it saw not themselves—but the being to whom their soul was connected. Siral stepped forward first. The water remained still. Then an image formed—Kitora, alone, fighting a wind that grasped at memories. A hint of forlornness hung in her gaze. Kitora bent over the water. And saw Siral, searching, calling, running through a forest of twilight—all with no answer. For a moment, no one spoke. The mist held its breath. "I thought you'd fly when the sky cal