No one remembered when the forest first appeared on the old maps. It had no name—only a patch of black ink where the cartographers refused to draw.
Travelers spoke of pale eyes drifting between the trees, never blinking, never moving unless you did. They did not chase. They waited.
One winter evening, a hunter followed a wounded stag into the woods. He found no blood, no tracks, only silence so deep that even his heartbeat sounded foreign. Then, one by one, white eyes opened in the darkness.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
Watching.
He ran, but the forest stretched farther with every step. The path behind him vanished, swallowed by roots that twisted like grasping fingers. The eyes never came closer. They never needed to.
At dawn, villagers found his rifle resting neatly at the forest's edge.
There were no footprints leading back.
Only a new pair of glowing white eyes, peering from behind an ancient oak, waiting for the next soul to wander too far into the dark.
