Silent God of the Wilds

“He does not speak. But he sees everything.”

Before men carved symbols into stone, before the first fire touched bark, there were gods made of shadow, moss, and bone. One of them walked the forest without name, without altar, without song. The animals did not fear him — they fled. Even the trees bent away when he passed.

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They say he was born from the last breath of the earth itself. Horned like the stag, still as snowfall, eyes blacker than the roots that never see sun. He was neither life nor death, but the pause between. And in that pause, judgment lived.

Once, a warband tried to hunt him. They entered the forest with iron and pride. None came back. Days later, only their blades returned — hanging from trees, rusted through, humming in the wind.

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The Silent God does not punish. He erases. You do not worship him. You remember him — with caution.

With quiet. With breath held.

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Some say he still walks the deep woods when the fog is thick and time forgets to move. If you see him, do not speak. Do not run. Just lower your eyes.

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And pray the forest forgets you too.