You Can Write

Elara,

I stood at the edge of your forest yesterday. Not with fire, not with soldiers—just me. No one noticed. I doubt even your whispering vines sensed me.

And I listened.

I don’t know what I expected. The trees didn’t speak to me. The wind didn’t shift. But I stood there long enough to feel... something. Maybe it was silence. Maybe it was you watching me.

You believe I hate the forest. I don’t.

I fear what it makes of men. I’ve seen strong minds unravel at its edge. I’ve seen villages disappear into its hunger. You speak to it like it’s kin. I see it as a predator dressed in beauty.

To the One Who Pulls the Strings,

You made me the villain, didn’t you?

You gave her trees that whisper secrets, and you gave me fire. Convenient. Lazy, even.

But let’s talk truth.

You built a world rotting in stagnation. A forest that devours light, devours men, and calls it "balance." And when I seek to bring order, steel, and flame—to make something of this moldy world—you call me a monster.

Have you ever tried leading? Feeding mouths while roots strangle your fields? I didn't want to become this—but somebody had to stop worshiping the dirt and start shaping the future.