As the forest returned to its song, Elara leaned against a tree. The bark felt warm. The hum in her bones settled into a satisfied purr. She wasn't a conqueror; she was the shield. And as long as the sun hit the leaves, the Forest Champion would never truly be alone.
The Iron-Bound had come. They were men who had forgotten the language of the leaves, encased in steam-hissing suits of metal, driven by a hunger for the "Heart-Sap"—the glowing amber essence that kept the forest eternally green. The Forest Champion!
The steam-suits were pinned, held fast by a grip that had endured for a thousand winters. Elara walked toward the lead harvester, who was now dangling five feet off the ground, held by a vine as thick as his torso. As the forest returned to its song, Elara
She reached out and touched the cold brass of his suit. "You see wood as fuel," she said softly. "But the forest sees you as compost. I am the only reason you aren't feeding the lilies by sunset." She wasn't a conqueror; she was the shield
With a wave of her hand, the roots retracted, depositing the terrified men and their ruined machines back toward the edge of the tree line.