Long after moonlight carved its spiral into the ancient oak, a small pulse of leftover magic curled beneath the bark. It wasn’t a creature yet — just a quiet shimmer resting in the warmth where moonlight slept.

One night, the Oak felt a tremor of unease ripple through the Hollow. The shimmer stirred.

It brightened. It warmed. It lifted.

A tiny blue glow drifted from the bark, blinking in a slow, steady rhythm — a language born from moonlight itself. Soft blinks that soothed. Gentle pulses that calmed. A whisper made of light.

The Hollow settled. The tremor faded. And Lumie understood his purpose.

He wasn’t meant to speak with words. He was meant to heal with light.

From that night on, whenever a creature’s breath tightened or their courage wavered, Lumie’s calming blinks would guide them — a small piece of moonlight magic drifting through Moon Hollow.