Into the Silverwood
You run for the trees, and the trees — you would swear it in front of anyone — lean apart to let you in, then lean back together behind you like a closing door.
The horn-calls of the patrol circle overhead twice, three times, fading. They don't follow. Sera slows to a walk, sides heaving, and the two of you stand in the sudden hush getting your breath back.
The Silverwood is lit by its own leaves — a soft grey-silver glow, like moonlight that grew on trees. Every trunk is pale as birch and smooth as a mirror; in some of them, you can almost see reflections that aren't quite yours. The air smells of cold water and secrets.
“Rule one of the Silverwood,” Sera murmurs. “Be polite to everything. Rule two: everything is listening, so see rule one.”
From the shadows ahead, something chuckles. “Wise rules,” it says, in a voice like a violin with opinions.