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Deep in the oldest part of the forest, where the light turns green and the air tastes like moss and honey, Flora finally let her true form breathe.

The antlers rose from her hair like living branches. Her wings shimmered with the soft green of new leaves. The only clothing she wore was woven from the forest itself — delicate leaf-bra and matching panties that clung to every curve, shifting slightly with every breath. A single daisy hung between her breasts, the only pure white against all that golden skin and living green.

She knelt in the soft grass, sunlight painting stripes across her thighs, and smiled the slow, knowing smile of something that has watched the seasons change for longer than most people live. The forest doesn’t ask her to hide. Out here, the dryad doesn’t need to.

She is the bloom. And right now, she is in full heat.

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