Legends LXXIX - The Woman with the Shadow Horns

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It is said that deep in the green heart of the primeval forest, where the air hovers like liquid breath over the soft moss, wanders a figure who is neither entirely human nor entirely spirit. The elders call her Nyaraleen, the woman with the shadow horns. Others, who believe they have only glimpsed her, speak of the mask-bearer, who carries night in her eyes and day in her steps. The forest changes when she appears: the leaves fall silent, the flowers reach out to her like searching hands, and even the roots move as if to follow her. Nyaraleen walks barefoot, completely silent, yet every step makes the earth tremble as if under a forgotten memory. Her body, covered with golden jewelry, shimmers in the green twilight, while her braids dance around her face like flowing turquoise flames. The mask she wears is woven from bone patterns and jet-black lines—a face that shows no emotion, yet touches every soul. It is said that she was once a guardian of the forest, before the great rift between the worlds opened. In those days, she was a warrior, revered by humans and blessed by spirits. But on the day the Shadowfire came over the mountains, it brought with it a choice: save the forest or her own form. Nyaraleen chose the former. The forest survived—but she lost her name, her breath, her mortal being. The forest gave her back a new one, forged from horn, gold, and ancient power. Since then, she has wandered between the ages. Some see her as a protector, others as an omen. A young hunter who once ventured too deep into the forest's sanctuary later recounted seeing her calm a pack of direwolves with a single glance. A child lost in the twilight swore a horned woman had led them home without a word. And an old priest wrote that Nyaraleen appeared to him as he hovered on the brink of death, and she drew him back to life with the power of her hands. Yet there are those who never returned after trying to follow her. The forest does not allow just anyone to approach her. And Nyaraleen herself chooses only those who carry the unspoken within them: the yearning for truth, the courage born of pain, or the silent guilt that no light can ever touch. Once, it is said, she was seen standing beneath a waterfall, her face turned toward her reflection. For a brief breath, the mask is said to have vanished, and in its place a human face appeared—beautiful, vulnerable, sorrowful. But when a wanderer who had been watching her approached, the waters closed like veils, and when they opened again, she was gone. Only the scent of foreign flowers remained. Today, Nyaraleen is little more than a whisper in the treetops, a shadow among the ferns, a breath of cold air on a warm night.