A Wound in Memory
Before kingdoms carved borders into the earth, before priests wrote laws into stone, there were groves that listened. There were rivers that judged. There were names hidden in bark, blood, mist, and moonlight. When Gallusar stole the heroes of the Celtic and old forest tales, he did not understand that some stories are not kept in books. Some are kept in roots. Druid entered the Edge as a living woodland suspended between dawn and storm. Its trees grow from forgotten vows. Its stones remember coronations, betrayals, births, curses, and the last breath of hunted gods. Fae lights move between the branches like thoughts that refuse to die. To master Druid is to understand that nature is not peaceful. It is patient.