Sylvara Fernwake

Sylvara Fernwake learned the language of water before she learned the language of courts. In the oldest greenwood, she follows the river’s silver thread from spring to spring, listening for changes in its song and leaving no footprint where moss can remember her. At the great cascade she is most herself: bright with spray, white hair streaming like a banner, and laughter hidden beneath the thunder. Travelers who glimpse her turning at the pool’s edge say the forest seems to smile with her.