The village of Sylthariel lay hidden in the emerald depths of the ancient forest, where the trees themselves seemed to guard the dwellings of the elves like watchful sentinels. Great oaks with branches as broad as towers arched above, their leaves whispering with the voices of centuries. Silver-barked birches lined the winding paths, their trunks glowing faintly in the moonlight as if dusted with starlight.
Every home was woven seamlessly into nature — cottages shaped from living wood, their walls curved with ivy and moss, doorways arched by carved vines. Lanterns of crystal hung in the branches, catching glimmers of sunlight by day and casting gentle glows by night.
For the elves of Sylthariel, the forest was not just a dwelling; it was a soul. Its rivers fed their bodies, its trees gave shelter, its winds carried song. And within this harmony of voices and leaves, children played freely — laughter ringing down the root-tangled paths, bare feet pattering across moss and grass.
