The House of Hollow Light

Enid was born in Skarlhaz, Osinia. A mountain town nestled in a tropical seasonal forest beside a still lake, where trails string through mist like veins. Her Glasswing wings gleamed like sacred windows, yet to her parents she was merely an asset. They never held her, only shaped her. To obey. To impress. To disappear when inconvenient. Her needs were labeled selfish, her empathy twisted as weakness. She learned early. Love was not given. It had to be earned. But she never could. So she became a reflection of what they wanted, until even the reflection began to hate itself.
 

The Desert That Named Her

At sixteen, she fled into the unnamed desert beyond Skarlhaz. A cursed land, scorched by a sun trapped by the high jagged Hoovalor Peaks that enclosed it. The only pass led from her home. Locals feared it. Called it The Breach of Dust, where only death reigned. She entered with no plan. No hope. Just a question: “If no one wants me, does it matter if I die?” Days passed. Her wings cracked. Her skin split. The heat roared until even despair faded. Then something changed. Beneath the silence, she heard it. A rhythm, soft and slow. Nature, whispering in dunes and wind. When she collapsed, it caught her. When she surrendered, it cradled her. She didn’t find her way out. The desert guided her. When she returned, Skarlhaz whispered of the ghost-girl kissed by the land. She had no answers. But the desert had given her something better, belonging. Nature is her home.
 

The Night the Knife Sang

Enid swore never to return to her parents. At thirty, when she heard of her sister Isel’s birth, she couldn’t stay away. She watched from a distance, an uninvited guardian. One night, a man crept into the family home, hidden and vile. Enid, already nearby, sensed the wrongness. She entered like smoke. Silent. Sharp. She slit his throat before he touched the crib. No one ever saw her. But the blood on her blade was real. She buried the body in the woods, beneath moonflowers. Her sister slept, unharmed, unaware. Enid wept, not for the man, but for the truth she could no longer deny. She could kill. She could save. And she would never stop. From that night, she returned often, unseen, to leave food, gifts, stories. A shadowy constant. Her sister never knew. But she lived. That was enough.
 

The Bloom of Blood and Theft

Survival taught her to steal. At first, it tore her. She wept after every purse snatched, every crust pocketed. But the guilt dulled. Then vanished. By thirty five, her fingers moved before thought. By forty, her knife danced without hesitation. She stole not just from the rich, but from those who hurt. She murdered again. And again. Each death etched into her not as shame, but scripture. Predators fell like rotted trees. Their blood fed her roots. The thief who vanished like fog, the blade that found only the cruel. What began in desperation became art. In precision, she found peace.
 

The Sanctum and the Sporekeeper

In the verdant lowlands of Glat, Enid met Thalor Felorinil, a Mireling Mycoguide who returned the dead to the forest. She appeared with a body and no name. He asked none. His hands, gentle on rot, spoke to her. She returned again. And again. Not for answers, but for his stillness. She met his adopted Petalcarver daughter, Mel, who never asked “why.” Mel saw her for what she was. A wounded wing still beating. “She never walked in like she owned the place. She walked in like she was asking permission from the trees.” the girl once said. Enid smiled. Maybe for the first time.
 

The Shadow’s Pact

The Ancestors of Old Shwazen called to her in groves and groans of the forest. She didn’t join them. She obeyed them. Not as a servant, but as a daughter. They asked her to vanish like dew, to strike like roots through stone. And she did. The Verdant Shadow welcomed her. Not for who she could be. For what she was, fierce, wild, loyal. Her blade answered prayers spoken in moss and silence. Her footsteps left no mark but justice. She didn’t fight for good. She fought for balance.
 

The Person, Not the Mask

She wears her beauty like armor. Her wings shimmer, but she hates the reflection. Enid sees the souls of others with clarity, yet cannot bear to glimpse her own. She gives too much. Stays too little. Her body feels like borrowed silk, too fragile to be hers. But when the moon filters through her wings, and petals stir beneath her step, she remembers: “I was never meant to be anything else”.
 

To the Sister, Always

Her sister is her anchor, though the girl never knew. Enid watches from rooftops. Leaves garden-pouched treats. Shimmers just beyond reach. She cannot stay. Not near the parents. But she is always there. The child who now thrives owes her life to a shadow. And if one day the truth is known, Enid will not seek thanks. Only silence. Only peace. Only knowing she lived.
 

Home is a Direction, Not a Place

Enid roams still. Sanctums call. Forests beckon. Myths unfold. She dances under stars, her wings catching the sky’s breath. She listens to the forest in her dreams. She kills when she must. Disappears before the blood cools. She is not a hero. She is not healed. She is real. And in the still hush of untouched groves, she is learning, perhaps real is enough.