Years passed without witness.
In the depths of the forbidden forest, time flowed differently—not faster, not slower, but irrelevant. Seasons came and went like gentle visitors, leaving only subtle marks upon the land.
Aerin grew.
His body matured steadily into that of a young man, lean and well-built, bearing none of the exaggerated form of heroes sung about in taverns. His strength lay beneath the surface, invisible, absolute.
His cabin became a home.
The clearing expanded gradually, shaped not by force but by cooperation. Trees shifted their roots. Stones moved aside. The forest did not retreat—it adjusted.
Aerin farmed.
Not because he needed to.
Because he chose to.
He learned the soil, the rhythm of rain, the way mana nourished crops when guided gently rather than coerced. His harvests were small but perfect—grains that grew without blight, fruits rich with natural essence.
He hunted rarely.
When he did, he thanked the forest.
And the forest remembered.
Deep beneath the roots of the forest, ancient beings stirred.
Creatures that once hunted gods now avoided a single clearing. Spirits altered their paths. Demon beasts circled wide, instincts screaming warnings they could not understand.
Not because Aerin threatened them.
Because he did not.
Power that sought nothing was the most terrifying thing of all.
High above, the obsidian dragon returned.
It landed at the edge of the clearing, its immense form folding upon itself with regal restraint. Trees bowed under its weight but did not break.
"You have not aged as mortals do," the dragon said.
Aerin set aside his tools and faced it calmly.
"I age," he replied. "Just not toward weakness."
The dragon's golden eyes narrowed.
"You hide from the world," it rumbled. "Why?"
Aerin considered the question.
"Because the world takes without asking," he said at last. "Here, nothing does."
The dragon watched him for a long time.
"Then this place will become something others seek," it said.
"I know."
It began with one.
A wounded man collapsed at the forest's edge, chased by beasts that refused to cross an unseen boundary. Fever burned through his body, and his breath rattled like broken glass.
Aerin found him at dawn.
Not by chance.
By decision.
The man awoke three days later to the smell of stew and clean bandages.
"Am I dead?" he croaked.
"No," Aerin replied. "You're inconvenient."
The man laughed weakly—and cried.
His name was Rethan.
Then came another.
And another.
Not many.
Only those the forest permitted.
Aerin never called it a village.
But it began to form one.
Simple shelters rose near the clearing—never too many, never too close. Fields expanded. Paths appeared where none had been.
Aerin did not rule.
He taught.
How to farm without exhausting the land.
How to hunt without provoking the forest.
How to live quietly.
Those who stayed learned quickly.
Those who didn't were allowed to leave.
The forest never stopped them.
Far beyond the trees, rumors spread.
A place where demon beasts vanished.
A forest that spared the lost.
A man who asked for nothing.
Kingdoms dismissed it.
Churches grew uneasy.
Gods began to argue.
Because something existed outside their control.
And it was growing.