In the far-northern realm of Eldwyne, where the snow fell in rhythms and the trees spoke in sighs, there existed a glade untouched by fire or famine. Here lived the Antlerfolk—majestic stag-like beings who walked on two legs, bore twisting crowns of ivory, and held council with the winds. They did not age in years, but in wisdom, and none was wiser than Elder Thorell, whose antlers were etched with silver veins said to hold the memories of all seasons past.
Yet this is not Elder Thorell’s tale.
This is the story of a youngling born without voice or antler, named Wren.
Wren was unlike any other Antlerling. She was born under a moonless sky, when the owls refused to sing and the stars blinked as though confused. No antlers sprouted from her skull, no voice echoed in her throat. The others whispered that she was Hollow—a term not used lightly in Eldwyne.
“She is like a bell with no chime,” muttered the elders.
“A vessel with no purpose,” said the fireflies in their flickering language.
Wren heard them all, and though she could not speak, her silence screamed with longing.
She lived on the fringes of the glade, tending to wounded roots and gathering moonberries. The other Antlerfolk sang to the trees and read the winds, but Wren merely listened. It was in this silence she began to hear what others could not.
One dusk, as the sky burned lavender and gold, Wren wandered deeper into the Wailing Thickets—a forbidden place said to steal voices and trap souls in bark. She wasn’t afraid. After all, she had no voice to lose.
There, beneath the twisted roots of a bleeding elm, she found a creature—a strange, winged fox with glistening fur and eyes like twin suns. It whimpered in pain, a bramble lodged in its paw.
Wren approached, and the fox bared its teeth. Then it spoke—not in sound, but in symbols, thoughts blooming directly in her mind.
“You are not of sound, yet you hear,” it said. “You are not crowned, yet you bow to no purpose. Why do you help me?”
Wren gently removed the thorn and placed her hand on its paw. In that moment, an image flooded her vision—a vision of the Grove in flames, the Elder Tree weeping, and the Antlerfolk tearing at each other in confusion and rage.
The fox blinked.
“You have been shown what lies ahead. The Grove will burn unless its Heart is restored. Only a Hollow may carry it, for only a vessel empty of self can hold the pure flame of meaning.”
Then it vanished, leaving only a single silver feather that hummed with warmth.
Wren returned to the glade, clutching the feather. The others scoffed at her frantic gestures and mute warnings. Only Elder Thorell paused, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the feather.
“You met the Flamefox,” he whispered. “It speaks only to those who carry the ache of becoming.”
He led Wren to the Heartwood—a sacred tree at the center of the Grove. Its trunk pulsed like a slow heartbeat. From a knot in the bark, Thorell drew out a tiny ember, pale and flickering.
“This is the Ember of Meaning,” he said. “It has not been carried since the Days of Shattering. To hold it is to be burdened with the question all beings fear: What is my purpose?”
Wren took the Ember. It did not burn her. It sank into her chest, and her body glowed faintly from within. That night, she dreamt of all the creatures of Eldwyne, each singing their song—yet all in dissonance, disconnected, yearning to belong.
And then she heard a deeper song. Her own. Wordless, but resonant. A music of mending.
She awoke speaking—not in Antler tongue, but in the tongue of flame, of roots, of everything between.
When she sang, trees leaned close to listen. Streams reversed their course. Even the stars paused their drifting.
The Antlerfolk wept.
Wren led them to the Wailing Thickets, where she planted the silver feather. From it rose a new tree—slender, radiant, and humming with harmony. The Heart of the Grove had been restored, not by crown nor council, but by the one who had nothing but the ache of meaning.
From that day forth, Wren was no longer Hollow. She was called Virelin—“She Who Listens.”
And in her song was the reminder: that sometimes, the ones without voice carry the truest sound. That meaning is not found in birthright or song, but in the courage to carry emptiness until it glows with purpose.