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The elk prince, born of wild, was born to wane. So his mothers formed a world out of the world where he could care for woods that were gentle—more garden than wilderness—hiding his name even from themselves that none may call. Yet the growing prince felt a pull beyond that chamber.

With the velvet of his horns, he sewed satchels imbued with wild heart. Though many were lost, some came to those of his same untamed will, rendered invaluable. He felt their stories' resonate, heady moments of growth and conflict.

But a grateful few sent their tales through this silent patron's link. Touched in solitude, the prince drew his cloak, molding leather with the leaves of his home into wildness tempered by his realm's touch—a favor for vassals who'd borne his gift with wit, closer than the kin who forged his verdant cell.

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