Chapter Text
In the heart of the Great Forest, where morning mists curled like spirits through the waking trees and rivers sang songs older than memory, two destinies stirred.
The sun rose that day like a golden crown over the hills, washing the world in light and warmth. The trees stretched their ancient limbs gratefully, their leaves sighing under the touch of the soft wind, and the earth itself hummed a low, contented song. Birds called to one another in jubilant tones, their melodies weaving through the branches like threads of joy. Even the stones seemed to glisten with quiet reverence, as if the forest itself had paused to witness something sacred.
Beneath a canopy of elder oaks, in a quiet glade kissed by morning dew, a young anthro doe lay resting, her breath soft and steady. In her arms, a tiny figure shivered into the world, fur damp, eyes wide and blinking against the newborn light.
He was small, yet sturdy; his coat the color of rich earth, brushed with delicate white spots like fallen stars. His ears flicked at the first sounds of birdsong, and when he lifted his head, his amber eyes reflected the whole of the waking world.
She named him Bambi.
His mother nuzzled him tenderly, her nose pressing against his soft forehead. She whispered to him words only he could hear, promises of gentle days, safe trails, cool streams, and the joy of running free. Her voice was a lullaby of moss and moonlight, a prayer stitched from love and longing.
Nearby, from the shadows of the towering trees, a solemn figure kept silent watch: the Great Prince of the Forest, tall and fierce-eyed, his gaze both protector and warning. His antlers caught the morning light like twin branches of fire, and his breath stirred the ferns with quiet power.
He did not approach, but his presence was a shield, a silent vow that this fragile life would endure. Beneath his gaze, even the wind seemed to hush, and the glade held its breath.
The forest itself seemed to pause, bowing in respect to its new prince.
Yet far beyond the borders of the Great Forest, where trees had fallen to iron and fire, the world was already changing.
A change that would one day reach even here.
But for now, the golden sun rose higher, cradling Bambi in a world that still remembered peace.
That evening, as the sky deepened into violet and the first stars blinked awake, another birth unfolded—not in the Great Forest, but deep within the secret heart of Avalon Forest, where magic breathed with every leaf and stone, and the air shimmered with unseen songs.
Under the arching limbs of an ancient crystalwood tree, the Faerie Wolf King, Arthur, stood close to his beloved. His fur gleamed like burnished steel, and his eyes held the weight of centuries. Morganna, once a human Umbra Witch, now reborn as a proud silver-furred wolf, gave a final cry, fierce and triumphant, as she brought their child into the world.
The boy was pale as new snow, his fur almost glowing under the full moon’s gaze. Faint runes shimmered along his tiny sides, and when he opened his bright, wide eyes, they caught the starlight and held it, like polished silver mirrors. His breath was soft, but the air around him pulsed with ancient power, as though the forest itself had exhaled a secret.
They named him Lukaon.
Arthur bent down, his great hands trembling, not with fear, but with awe. Morganna smiled through her exhaustion, fierce pride burning in her gaze. Together, they cradled their son, whispering blessings in the Old Tongue, a language older than kings and stars. Their voices echoed like wind through crystal, binding the child to the legacy of moonlight and myth.
"Born of moonlight and wildness," Morganna murmured, pressing her brow to Lukaon’s.
"Our night-born prince."
Above them, the ancient crystalwood shivered, as if in answer. From its highest branch, a single white blossom, rare and sacred, detached, drifting slowly through the silver air. It spiraled like a falling star, glowing faintly, and landed gently upon Lukaon’s tiny chest.
For a moment, it glowed—a pulse of pure light—before sinking into him like a gift. The runes along his sides flared briefly, then dimmed, as if the forest had marked him with its own breath.
Far above, across the vast, dark sky, two shooting stars blazed: one golden, one silver, crossing paths, stitching a line of fire across the heavens. Their light lingered, a scar of brilliance against the velvet night.
The spirits of root and river, leaf and sky, whispered:
Day and Night.
Sun and Moon.
Two born as one.
Two paths entwined.
Neither Bambi nor Lukaon could hear the voices.
Not yet.
But the bond was already there, invisible and waiting—woven into the marrow of the world.
Tonight, there was peace. Tonight, there was hope.
But the forests remembered old wounds.
And beyond their borders, men whispered of conquest and sharpened their iron.
Smoke curled from distant forges. Maps were drawn. Names were spoken like spells.
The sons of the wild would soon be called to a path neither had chosen, a path of sorrow, battle, and choices that would scar the stars themselves.
Yet for now, under the watchful eyes of sun and moon, two new lights shone, pure and unbroken.
And for a little while longer, the two forests dared to dream.