I’ve walked those hills at dawn, when the mist curls around the trunks, and the air feels thick with old whispers. They say the white stag’s eyes are like firelit lanterns, and when it passes, the wind carries a scent of pine and something sweeter, like a memory of a forgotten song. I’ve never seen the beast itself, but I remember a tale of a wanderer who followed a silver gleam through the forest. He met an old hunter who told him the stag is the keeper of the forest’s stories, and those who respect the woods will find its path. The hunter’s warning was simple: do not chase the light, just walk beside it, and you may catch a glimpse of its spirit.

I hear that, and I’ve found the quiet part of the woods is where the real stories hide. Sometimes you chase the light and miss the roots. But if you’re brave enough to walk the tracks, the forest will show you more than just a silver silhouette.