Chapter Text
In the Sunset World, people believed in the Pantheon of the Sun. All magic in the world existed because of the gods who sustained it, and every being knew their patron deity. Temples dedicated to the pantheon stood in every city, adorned with offerings to the divine. On mountain peaks, dragonborn and kenku carved obelisks bearing the symbol of the Nine—a circle with eight rays and a sun at the center. In the depths of forests, sacred trees grew, their roots forming natural altars where prayers could be offered.
Yet, despite their prominence, the Nine rarely interfered in mortal affairs. As long as balance between the races was maintained and magic did no harm to nature, the gods saw no need to intervene. They were wrong. While the deities remained in their divine plane, the continent was ravaged by endless wars — merciless and bloody.
Amid the fall of empires and the murder of kings, a tragedy unfolded in a valley on the northern slopes of the Western Mountains. There, mages waged war for power, summoning hellfire that annihilated all life across an immense territory. Thousands perished in mere hours. The valley became an ashen wasteland, unfit for any living thing. Worse still, the dark magic that birthed the fire did not dissipate. A curse seeped into the soil, ensuring that anyone who ventured near the valley met a painful end. The land was named Faeremor, the Dark Realm of Spirits—though even spirits could not endure the torrents of infernal magic.
But one god did not fear curses. Giltarin, known to mortals as the God of Life and to his siblings as Jinyeon, was eccentric and unpredictable. Roaming the world, he sought to visit even its most desolate and dangerous corners. No boundary could deter him, and Faeremor, the bleak cursed valley, was no exception.
As the God of Life, Jinyeon could not abide emptiness. One night, while resting on the barren ground of the valley, he pondered the pure force of life that could one day fill this place. In the spot where the deity slept, a lake appeared. Perfectly round, its surface reflected sunlight even under clouded skies. Its waters were as clear as tears, and beneath them, divine magic shimmered faintly. From afar, the lake seemed like a mirror set amidst the blackened wasteland, reflecting the light of the stars. The mountain folk, who discovered it with awe, named it Thorfinnel.
When Jinyeon returned to Faeremor two decades later, he found that a small grove had sprung up around the lake at the heart of the valley. At its center stood a great tree of life — Silvarnel — its blossoming branches spreading wide over the waters. Delicate flowers adorned its boughs, their hues shifting from peachy pink to sky blue in the sunlight.
The blossoming of Silvarnel signified the presence of magical beings nearby. Jinyeon entered the grove, his curiosity piqued, and soon came upon a group of dryads. There were nine of them—young but determined—and they greeted the intruder with weapons fashioned from sharpened branches.
“Leave this place, stranger,” the eldest of them hissed threateningly. The others formed a defensive line behind her, their eyes narrowed.
“I’m afraid you can’t banish me,” Jinyeon replied with a gentle smile. “After all, I created this place. Tell me, where do you think this lake came from?”
The dryads exchanged uncertain glances. One of them hesitantly asked, “Who are you?”
“Mortals call me Giltarin, and my siblings know me as Jinyeon,” he said, his gaze sweeping over the grove. “And I’m glad to see that my power has breathed life into this forest.”
The dryads fell silent and began to step back cautiously. Their curiosity was stronger than their fear. From behind them, a small wolf emerged. Or rather, not quite a wolf — a spirit. Its black fur was adorned with white patterns resembling tree branches, and its antlers, twined with vines, glimmered faintly like the waters of Thorfinnel.
“Chan!” the eldest dryad scolded sharply. “We told you to stay back!”
But the little wolf didn’t listen. It approached the god with wide, inquisitive eyes. Jinyeon chuckled.
“Incredible! Such a small forest, and it already has a guardian spirit?”
The air shimmered faintly, and the wolf transformed. In its place stood a boy, his skin etched with intricate patterns like woven branches. His clothes, like those of the dryads, were crafted from vines and leaves, and delicate flowers of Silvarnel were tangled in his curly hair.
“I’m a guardian spirit?” he asked in surprise. “Jihyo never said anything about that.”
The god’s smile warmed.
“Perhaps she doesn’t yet realize who all of you are,” he replied gently. “But I do.”
Jinyeon stayed in the forest for a few days, observing the dryads and the little wolf. He noticed how the dryads barely understood the whispers of the forest and how the spirit, whom they called by the peculiar human name "Chan," absorbed the magic of nature around him yet couldn’t fully sense the life force flowing through it.
“You need to learn how to use your powers,” Jinyeon told Chan one morning. “The forest is growing, but it’s fragile. The lives of those who dwell here are fragile. You must protect them.”
And so, Jinyeon began teaching the young wolf. Weeks passed as the god showed him how to feel and direct the magic of life. Under his patient guidance, Chan learned to accelerate the growth of plants and command them. Sometimes he played tricks, causing branches to swat at the dryads or trip them with roots, but the stern gaze of the god always brought him back to focus. Near the lake and its great tree, Jinyeon taught Chan to heal broken wings of tiny faeries and the injured paws of rabbits that wandered beyond the forest’s safety.
The wolf’s tears, shed over lifeless creatures he couldn’t save, turned into seeds of Silvarnel. Jihyo, the eldest dryad, immediately planted them at the grove’s edge.
“Guard the spirit’s tears carefully, young maiden,” Jinyeon instructed her solemnly. “These are seeds of a magical tree that will grant you the power of life, and around it, a vast and strong forest will grow.”
The dryads, once wary, began to trust the god. They protected the boy and the god’s rest, forbidding mischievous faeries from buzzing their wings too loudly nearby. They listened intently to Jinyeon’s stories about magic and the world beyond their grove, gathering under the stars to hear him speak. They eagerly practiced their own powers, inspired by Chan’s lessons.
When the time came for Jinyeon to leave, he slipped away without saying goodbye. He knew the forest was still fragile, but it was growing — just as the spirit and his protectors were.
Centuries passed. With each year, the forest expanded and flourished, as did its inhabitants. Chan had grown into a young man — strong, swift, and attuned to the life around him. The dryads had matured into beautiful and proud women, their bonds with the forest deepening. Jinyeon returned to Faeremor again and again, watching as the desolate wasteland transformed into a haven of life.
On one side of the valley, the forest had stretched to the edges of the cursed lands. Now, those who entered Faeremor without malice in their hearts could safely reach the heart of the woods.
A community of wood elves settled at the forest’s border. Reverent of nature, they were welcomed by its inhabitants, who allowed them to build homes among the branches. Two young elves, BamBam and Yugyeom, became especially close to Chan, often riding on his wolf back and swimming in Torfinnel’s clear waters.
In one of the streams flowing from the lake, a naiad named Yeji appeared. She delighted in playing with tiny ice sculptures she conjured from the water and spent long winter evenings wrapping sleeping faeries in blankets of snow to keep them warm.
Seven satyrs found refuge in a secluded glade nestled within deep ravines. Chan frequently visited to hear their music — while the dryads and naiads sang, the satyrs crafted flutes from twigs and danced around fires. The youngest satyr, Jungkook, became a favorite of Chan’s. The satyr would eagerly dance to the spirit’s songs and always ensured the wolf had a warm blanket woven by the satyrs.
The forest buzzed with life and laughter, yet Chan felt an ever-growing responsibility to protect it and its inhabitants. His friends did their best to help, but the role of guardian fell squarely on his shoulders. He barely slept, even if he needed this. His wolf form constantly patrolling the forest’s edges, his human form attending to every fallen branch or misplaced faerie. Every time the rustle of leaves whispered a warning or an unfamiliar presence crossed the forest’s border, Chan was there to shield his home.
However, the surrounding villages, learning of the magical creatures within the forest, could not leave it in peace.
One day, hunters from a distant village on the southern slopes of the Western Mountains heard rumors of wondrous beings hidden within the shadows of Faeremor. They were especially drawn to the tale of a tiny blue bird whose feathers shimmered like sapphires and whose blood, according to the elders, could heal mortal wounds and enhance magical abilities.
Three men, greedy and ruthless, ventured into the forest. Confident in their victory, they armed themselves with enchanted blades said to cut through magic and wore amulets to protect against curses. But as they crossed the forest’s threshold, they had no idea they were stepping onto a land where their weapons would fail them.
Chan sensed their intrusion immediately. The forest spoke to him — its leaves whispered warnings, and the roots of ancient trees stretched toward the trespassers, trying to ensnare their steps. But the hunters' magical wards repelled the forest's defenses as if they were nothing more than brittle twigs.
The spirit darted through the forest like a shadow, his heart a mix of fury and unease. The forest was a part of him, and every wound inflicted upon it resonated in his soul like a searing pain.
He confronted the trespassers near the forest’s edge. A slender, unassuming youth stood before them, barefoot and dressed in simple, woven garments. To the hunters, he seemed no threat at all. They tried to brush past him, but his voice stopped them cold.
"Leave Faeremor, and you will live," Chan said, his tone low and rumbling like distant thunder.
One of the hunters laughed.
"Did you hear that? He's trying to scare us off!"
The man stepped closer, pressing his enchanted dagger to Chan’s chest. The blade cut easily through the fabric, leaving a thin line of dark green blood on the boy’s skin.
"And who’s going to make us leave, boy? You?"
Mockery laced his words, but doubt flickered in his eyes.
The air grew heavy, vibrating with an unnatural tension. Before the hunters, the true spirit of the forest emerged.
Chan’s wolf form loomed before them — enormous and imposing, his antlers glowing faintly in the dim light. His piercing eyes, dark as the void yet alive with flickers of silver, locked onto the intruders. White markings on his black fur glowed softly, tracing intricate patterns like tree branches against a night sky.
For a moment, the hunters hesitated. Then one, mistaking him for a mere shapeshifter, lifted his enchanted blade.
"It’s just a beast! Kill it!"
The air thickened further, almost suffocating, as if the forest itself had taken a breath. Roots burst from the ground, coiling around the hunters’ legs, while vines wrapped tightly around their arms, forcing them to drop their weapons.
Chan moved like a shadow, swift and silent. His enormous frame blended with the darkness, his glowing antlers the only visible trace of his presence. Each leap and strike was accompanied by the forest’s aid—trees bent their branches to block the hunters' paths, and the ground beneath them turned to a sticky, consuming mire.
"This isn't a beast!" one of them screamed, realizing too late that their weapons had no effect. "It’s—"
A root lashed out, silencing him mid-sentence.
The hunters’ cries faded quickly. When it was over, Chan stood alone in the bloodied clearing. The mangled bodies of the intruders lay scattered, their lifeless forms a stark reminder of the forest's power. Though the forest calmed once more, Chan found no peace. He had done what was necessary, yet a heavy weight pressed on his spirit.
A few days later, villagers ventured into the forest to search for the missing hunters. They dared not go too deep but caught a glimpse of him from a distance. There, at the edge of Faeremor, stood the immense spirit of the forest — his antlers glowing faintly, his dark eyes shimmering like twin pools of starlight.
Word spread quickly. Tales of the malevolent guardian spirit, Taurhir, filled the air in the nearby towns and villages. The villagers claimed he was a demon, a shadowy warden of the cursed forest who punished any who dared set foot within its bounds.