In the kingdom of Althera, legends whispered through the cobbled streets and royal halls alike. For generations, the townsfolk spoke in hushed voices about a monstrous tree that lurked in the shadowed forests beyond the castle's walls. It was said that this ancient tree, rooted deep in the earth, would awaken during the darkest nights to seek out the living. With limbs like twisted, skeletal fingers, it would reach into homes and snatch away those unfortunate enough to be caught in its grasp.

I ruka, I had always dismissed these stories as mere superstition—nothing more than tales spun by the elderly to frighten children into obedience. Yet, the night the tree came for us, I realized just how wrong I was.

That evening, I was lounging in the castle’s great hall, surrounded by my maids and loyal servants, as laughter echoed off the stone walls. The warmth of the fire crackled, keeping the biting cold of autumn at bay. But then, without warning, a terrible groan reverberated through the castle, as if the earth itself were crying out in pain.

Before any of us could react, a colossal, gnarled hand tore through the thick wooden door, splintering it like dry twigs. The monstrous appendage, resembling the claw of an ancient oak, swung wildly, catching two of my servants in its merciless grasp. The air filled with their screams, abruptly cut short as the life was crushed out of them. I sat frozen in horror, unable to scream or even move. My voice was trapped in my throat, my body a statue of fear. I watched as the monstrous tree withdrew its bloody, sap-streaked hand and disappeared into the darkness beyond the castle walls.

In the days that followed, the kingdom was shrouded in dread. Whispers of the monstrous tree spread like wildfire, and every night the castle’s doors were barred with iron. But as terrifying as that encounter had been, what happened next was even more unsettling.

One morning, a visitor arrived at the castle—someone entirely unexpected. He was a tall, elegant man with eyes the color of storm clouds and hair as dark as the midnight sky. He introduced himself as Master Rowan, a new tutor sent to instruct my younger siblings in matters of etiquette and philosophy. His presence unsettled me from the start, though I could not put my finger on why.

As the days passed, I watched him from afar, unable to shake the feeling that I had seen him before. It was in the subtle way he moved, the way his eyes seemed to drink in every corner of the castle, as if he were memorizing its secrets. My suspicions only deepened when I caught glimpses of him outside in the gardens at night, his form blending unnaturally with the shadows of the trees.

I couldn't hold my silence any longer. One afternoon, when my siblings had finished their lessons, I approached him. He stood by the window, gazing out at the forest beyond with a look of deep longing. Mustering every ounce of courage, I asked, “Sir, what is that one story you used to hear when you were small?”

The question seemed to pierce through the air like an arrow, and for a moment, the room grew deathly silent. Master Rowan turned to face me, a slow smile spreading across his lips, but it did not reach his eyes. Those storm-gray eyes bore into mine, as if peeling away the layers of my thoughts, knowing full well that I had recognized him for what he truly was.

His voice, soft and almost wistful, broke the silence. “There was once a boy,” he began, “who was born from the roots of an ancient tree. He lived in darkness, listening to the tales of the wind and the whispers of the earth. But the one story he loved most was the tale of the human heart—its warmth, its love, its fragility.” As he spoke, his eyes seemed to grow distant, lifeless even, as though he were merely reciting a memory long forgotten.

“But,” he continued, his gaze never leaving mine, “the boy grew envious of the humans he watched from afar. He longed to feel what they felt, to experience their joys and sorrows. And so, one night, he tore free from his roots and ventured into the world of men.” His voice dropped to a whisper, almost a sigh. “But the heart he sought was always just out of reach.”

The way he stared into my eyes made my skin crawl. His voice was calm, but his presence was suffocating, like a dense fog that choked the breath from my lungs. I knew I shouldn’t have asked him that question. I should have left the truth buried, left that monstrous past untouched. Yet, now I was trapped in his story, a story he seemed to be writing with me as his next victim.

As Master Rowan finished his tale, he leaned closer, his breath cold against my ear. “Tell me, Princess,” he murmured, “what story do you dream of?”

And in that moment, I knew that the monster that had reached through the castle door was standing right before me, now dressed in human skin. The monstrous tree had come to our kingdom once again—not as a beast, but as a man with a hidden hunger.

And that was how I met him on that fateful day. But as the sun dipped behind the mountains and shadows stretched long across the floor, I couldn’t help but wonder—was he still a tree that craved human hearts, or had he become something far more dangerous?