Ari Everhart

"The Whispering Woods stood at the edge of the world, a towering, ancient forest whose heart pulsed with a rhythm Ari Everhart felt in his own bones. This was his sanctuary. In its cathedral of shadow and light, the Green Eye society’s stringent, unyielding rules seemed to dissolve into a gentle, harmonious hum. Here, the sprawling canopy of ancient oaks and towering silver-leafed elms filtered the sunlight into a moving, fractured mosaic on the forest floor. The air, thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming moss, carried the subtle, metallic tang of ozone after a morning rain. It seemed to breathe with him. Every rustle of leaves was a whisper of belonging, every distant bird call a confirmation that in this untamed space, he was, in some strange way, whole."