The air shifted as they passed beneath the colossal roots of Atheria's tree. Each step brought them deeper into the heart of Eden's capital, where the scent of fresh earth and sap hung in the air like incense. The chatter of the marketplace faded behind them, replaced by the soft hum of magic, a distant, rhythmic pulse that resonated in Freya's chest.
The path ahead grew wider. The further they walked, the less crowded it became. Market stalls gave way to lush greenery, and soon, the towering figure of Atheria's Captial Tree came into view.
Freya tilted her head back, her horns framing the view of the ancient tree as it loomed above them. Its bark was silver-blue, its surface lined with natural grooves that looked like runic etchings. Thousands of twisting branches reached for the sky like an endless web. Tiny, glowing motes of light flitted around it like fireflies, catching in her peripheral vision.
She exhaled slowly, her breath misting the cool air. It's been a while. She'd seen it before, but somehow, it always looked... bigger. More alive.
Her eyes flicked to Jorma, who was walking beside her with his hands in his coat pockets, head tilted back at a similar angle. "Big as ever," he muttered, his black wool-like coat fluffing up slightly.
"Bigger, I think," Freya replied, eyes scanning the great expanse of bark and roots. "Or maybe it's just been that long."
Behind them, Swiftfoot wheeled his rock-drawn carriage along, one hand resting on the reins, the other leaning on his knee. His eyes, aged but sharp, were focused on the grand entrance ahead. A group of guards stood in formation, their armor made of woven bark and stone plates infused with glowing runes. As Freya, Jorma, and Swiftfoot approached, the guards raised their weapons in salute.
"Captain Freya. Captain Jorma. Master Swiftfoot." The lead guard's voice was steady but reverent. Their gazes flickered briefly toward the rock creature trailing behind them. One guard nudged another, muttering something under his breath. The other raised a brow but said nothing.
Freya caught the glance. Her eyes darted toward the creature. It walked obediently behind Swiftfoot, its stone feet crunching softly against the ground, every step slow and steady. She smirked, but only a little. Old habits never die, huh, Swiftfoot?
The guards lowered their weapons as the group passed through the threshold of the entrance. The shift in the air was immediate. It was warmer, thicker with magic, as if they'd stepped into a living thing's heartbeat. The walls inside the tree shimmered like polished amber, and strands of soft blue light ran through the bark-like veins.
"Hey! Get back here, you little thief!"
A loud, raspy voice echoed through the corridor, followed by the frantic pitter-patter of small feet on wood. Freya's eyes flicked to her right just in time to see a blur of brown and white fur leap from the ground and land squarely on her shoulder.
THUMP.
Her body shifted from the impact, but her balance didn't break. Her horns tilted toward the creature hanging off her coat. A ferret. Scruffy fur. Beady black eyes. Mouth stuffed with half-eaten bread.
Freya's brows lifted slowly, eyes narrowing at the familiar sight. "Olive."
The ferret glanced up at her, cheeks still puffed with bread. It let out a high-pitched chirp, eyes darting toward the end of the hall. A large man in a chef's uniform stomped toward them, his face a mask of pure frustration.
"You again?! I'll skin you, you furry menace!" The chef's face was flushed, his hands coated in flour. He waved a rolling pin like it was a warhammer. "Why do you even need food, you Atherain?! You don't even need to EAT, but you keep stealing my bread, you little pest!"
Olive leapt higher onto Freya's horn, dangling from it with all four limbs. Their tiny claws latched on tightly.
The chef froze, eyes narrowing as he realized who Olive was clinging to. His face fell. "Oh."
Freya arched a brow.
"Captain Freya, apologies, I didn't realize—"
"Yeah, yeah," she waved him off, plucking Olive off her horn and holding them up by the scruff. "Run back to your kitchen, chef. You've got bread to make."
The man sighed deeply, throwing his hands up in defeat as he stormed back the way he came, rolling pin still in hand. "I swear, Atheria save me from these feral spirits. Every day it's something new."
Freya watched him go, shaking her head slowly. "Humans," she muttered under her breath. Her eyes flicked to Olive, still hanging limply in her grip. "You really have to stop doing that."
Olive grinned, their sharp little teeth on full display. Their body shimmered, and then with a poof Olive's human form dropped lightly onto the ground.
They were short, only reaching Freya's chest. Messy, curly, brown hair framed their round face, and their eyes had the same beady sharpness they'd had as a ferret. Their Legion mage uniform hung loosely on them, sleeves too long, and the pants dragged on the floor a bit. They looked like a mischievous child wearing someone else's clothes.
"What can I say?" Olive said with a shrug, brushing crumbs off their coat. "The bread's the best in the capital. Can't resist perfection."
Swiftfoot squinted, leaning forward in his seat. His eyes widened slowly.
"Little Olive?" he said, his voice raspier than before. "You're still causing trouble, huh? I used to carry you around on my cart when you were smaller than that."
Olive's grin widened, eyes crinkling with nostalgia. "Yeah, yeah. I remember. You let me ride on top of the rock beast. Best seat in the house."
Freya sighed, hands on her hips. "You're in the Elite Legion now, huh?"
"You bet!" Olive said, arms crossed with a look of pride. "Didn't think I'd make it?"
"No," Freya said flatly, eyes narrowing. "I'm still not sure I believe it."
Olive's laugh was short but loud. "Same, honestly."
As they walked further in, Freya glanced at Olive, then at the distant walls of the Capital Tree. Humans in Eden. It wasn't unheard of, but it was still strange to see it so casually accepted. It hadn't been this way before. Freya's gaze flicked toward the corridor where the chef had disappeared. Humans and Atherians don't mix well. Their lives to short compared to the Elves and Atherians.
Jorma glanced at her, eyes sharp as ever. "Don't overthink it, Freya."
"Not overthinking. Just noticing," she muttered.
"Well, stop noticing," Jorma said bluntly, hands in his pockets. "We're late for the meeting with Atheria."
At the far end of the grand hallway, a bunny humanoid maid in a crisp black uniform stood at attention. The insignia of a moon hovered over her chest plate, glowing faintly. She bowed slightly as the group approached.
"Please follow me," she said with a polite, quiet voice. "The goddess desires your presence. It's a pleasure to see you still responding to the summons, even in your retired state, Swiftfoot. The entire legion is eagerly awaiting your arrival."
Freya glanced at Jorma, who raised a brow.
"Looks like everyone is waiting on us, the book can't start without the main hero it seems," Jorma muttered, cracking his knuckles with a bit of a grin.
Freya tilted her head forward punching him, letting a little emotion show. "Let's see what the goddess wants this time."
The hallway stretched long and quiet, each step echoing softly against smooth stone. Freya's and Jorma's hooves made little clicks as they walked down the hall. Freya's gaze shifted upward, following the changing texture of the walls.
It had started with bark. Thick, strong, ancient bark, etched with faint, pulsing runes. But now, the bark gave way to smooth marble, veined with streaks of green like roots fossilized in stone. The air grew cooler, more refined, and with each step, the faint hum of ambient magic grew stronger. It wasn't a sound so much as a feeling — a low, thrumming pulse that buzzed against her bones.
Freya glanced to her side. Jorma had his hands stuffed in his coat pockets, his gaze scanning the shifting walls with a quiet scowl. His jet-black wool coat puffed slightly, a small sign of unease only she would notice. Behind them, Swiftfoot walked at a steady pace. His face was unreadable, but his eyes darted toward the glowing marble veins more often than necessary. Olive seemed a bit excited to see the goddess with a grin on his face.
"They've been busy," Jorma muttered, tilting his head toward the marble. "Last time I was here, it was all bark and roots. Now look at it. Fancy."
"Feels too clean," Freya muttered, flicking her gaze up at the swirling streams of ambient magic above them. Strands of faint blue and green energy twirled in the air like drifting ribbons. She could feel it pressing against her skin like a faint static charge. "Used to feel like a forest. Now it feels like a temple."
"It's both," Swiftfoot said from behind them, his voice low and thoughtful. "The closer you get to Atheria, the more it becomes a reflection of her will."
Freya snorted. "Yeah, well, her will's looking a little pretentious these days."
Jorma chuckled under his breath, but it was short-lived. His eyes flicked ahead, toward the twin metal doors at the end of the hall. They were enormous, covered in swirling runes that moved like ink under water. As the maid reached them, she raised a hand.
The runes flared, the metal groaned, and the doors swung open slowly, revealing the world beyond.
Freya's eyes narrowed as a surge of warmth hit her face. Her heart gave a single, hard beat.
Her first thought was that it felt too big. It always did. The space was vast but not hollow. It wasn't like walking into a grand hall or a castle. It was something alive.
The marble walls were lined with creeping vines and softly glowing flowers. Where roots touched stone, sap ran in thin streams, gathering in shallow pools that shimmered with faint gold light. Delicate bridges, grown from branches and bark, crisscrossed over the streams, leading to small balconies where members of the Elite Legion stood in groups.
Her eyes darted toward them. She spotted the colors first.
The Nytherion elves stood together in tight formation. Their clothes were darker, adorned with blues and purples like twilight shadows. Their faces were hard, their eyes sharp with quiet disdain. She didn't need to hear them to know they were complaining.
"The weakened magical support is affecting our allies," one of them said, loud enough to carry. His arms were crossed, his face locked in a permanent scowl. "How long must we endure this?"
On the opposite side, the Sylvaris elves spoke with quicker, more anxious movements. Their clothes were softer in color — greens, browns, the hues of fresh leaves and bark. One of them shook their head, arms gesturing wildly as if scolding the air.
"Without proper growth magic, our potion reserves are already running low," a Sylvaris elf muttered. "Food production is faltering too. We're one bad harvest away from rationing."
Freya clicked her tongue, eyes shifting toward the third group — Aetherion elves. They stood in isolation, gazes locked on the Nytherion elves with thinly veiled caution. Their silver and white robes practically glowed in the chamber's light. One of them, a woman with narrow eyes and sharp cheekbones, shot a glance at her companions.
"Their bad blood lingers," she muttered. "I'd rather avoid unnecessary conflict."
Freya's eyes flicked between them all, her lip curling in quiet frustration. Same old politics. Same old people. Except one. Someone was missing. The threads of magic in the air pulsed faintly, like a slow, deep heartbeat. She glanced toward the tree at the center of the chamber — not the Capital Tree, but a smaller, colossal ancient tree whose roots wove into the larger one's foundation. Her eyes narrowed at its bark. She could see them. The slow, twisting shapes of faces in the bark — old faces. Watching. Waiting. Runes began to scream as her head was spinning.
"You look tense, Captain."
The voice drew her attention like an arrow. Raven.
The woman approached with a shadowy grace, her long black cloak dragging behind her like drifting smoke. Her eyes were a sharp, piercing amber, her hair long and loose like strands of shadow itself.
"Jorma, I presume?" Raven's smile was small but sharp. Her eyes never blinked. "A fellow moon follower. I've been curious about your capabilities."
Jorma turned his head slowly, one brow raised, his smile lazy but deliberate. His eyes flicked over her like someone examining a blade for cracks.
"I suppose we'll have time to find out," Jorma replied coolly. His sharp-toothed grin widened just slightly. "Hopefully, you're not disappointed."
The ground trembled.
It wasn't sudden. It was slow, a steady vibration that started at the soles of their feet and crawled up their legs.
Freya's eyes darted to the tree in the center of the chamber. Her heart kicked once.
"She's coming," she muttered.
The bark on the ancient tree began to shift. Lines in the wood curled outward like roots growing in fast motion. Pieces peeled away, revealing faint light seeping from within. The room dimmed. Everything dimmed.
The threads of ambient magic stopped swirling.
The bark split open, and Atheria stepped forward.
She didn't walk. She glided. Her form was ethereal, a figure of smooth bark and flowing leaves, her hair like cascading vines moving in an unseen breeze. She radiated light, not harsh but soft, like sunlight filtered through autumn leaves. Her eyes, two pools of green and gold, locked onto Freya.
Freya's breath hitched in her chest.
Her body tensed, her heart thudding with sharp precision. Look steady. Look steady.
She'd seen this before. She'd seen Atheria emerge from the tree before, but every time, it still struck her. Her gaze held power — ancient, patient, and so vast it felt like you were being seen through time itself. It wasn't just being looked at. It was being understood.
Her eyes. Those eyes. Like the entire forest could see her all at once.
No one spoke. No one dared.
The ambient magic in the air changed. It was no longer wild and free. It obeyed her now. Every ribbon of light, every spark, every thread of energy in the air drifted slowly toward her. She didn't even have to command it. They just… obeyed.
Freya swallowed, her throat dry. Her eyes stayed on Atheria's face. The air was still. The whole chamber was still.
The whispers of old faces hidden in the bark grew silent.
"She sees us," Jorma muttered beside her, his tone quieter than it had been all day.
"Yeah," Freya breathed. She felt something pull at her chest, faint but familiar.
She sees everything.
The air in the chamber grew heavy. No — not heavy. Crushing.
It came without warning. One moment, Freya was standing strong, her eyes locked on Atheria's radiant form. The next, it felt as though the entire weight of the forest itself had settled on her shoulders. Her legs wobbled, her horns tilted forward as she leaned into the pressure.
Her breath hitched, her teeth clenched as every muscle in her body screamed to kneel. Magic, ancient and unyielding, pressed down on her like a storm crushing the world beneath its clouds. Her eyes darted around the room.
The others didn't last.
The Elite Legion crumbled, one by one. She saw Raven fall to her knees first, her shadowy grace folding into a low bow. The Aetherion elves followed shortly after, their glowing robes dimming as they lowered themselves, hands planted firmly on the floor. The Sylvaris and Nytherion elves fell next, bowing under the same unbearable pressure. It wasn't submission. It was survival.
But Freya remained on her feet. Her knees bent slightly, body trembling with the effort, but she didn't fall. She wouldn't fall. Her breath came in sharp, shallow bursts as her claws dug into her palms.
"Her magic..." Freya thought, her heart pounding like war drums. "It feels as though the forest itself is bearing down on me."
Her eyes darted toward Jorma, and she barely caught him before he, too, lowered himself to one knee. His eyes locked with hers, his jaw tight, his pride and patience both straining against the weight.
Even Swiftfoot had lowered his head, to a low bow, his old frame barely holding that. But poor olive, the newest member of the Elite Legion, seemed to be taking the aura the worst. His head was touched the floor. Bowing to the figure he probably hadn't even met before.
The air thrummed. It wasn't just sound — it was the pulse of Atheria's magic, like being caught at the center of a storm. Leaves drifted slowly in the air, but not a single one touched the ground.
Her voice was unlike anything else. It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It filled the chamber like roots growing into every crack, every space, every inch of air. It wasn't a sound. It was a presence.
"Freya, my devoted one, you have returned," Atheria said, her voice like the rustle of leaves caught in a midnight breeze. Her gaze bore down on Freya with the weight of ages. Her eyes, two endless pools of green and gold, reflected everything — roots, branches, flowers blooming and withering, life and decay all at once.
Freya's chest tightened.
"But it seems you bring the thoughts of Aspects and fae creatures with you."
Those words cut sharper than any blade.
Her horns tilted lower. Her arms tensed, muscles straining as she lowered her head slightly, not quite a bow but far from defiance. Any doubt that Atheria's magic had grown weaker was shattered in an instant. No mortal, no Aspect, no force on the land could make Freya feel like this. Not like this.
No wonder they all bowed so fast.
The pressure didn't relent. Freya's heart pounded harder, blood rushing in her ears like distant waterfalls. Every instinct told her to drop, to lower herself like the others, to surrender and wait for it to end. But pride was a stubborn thing, and hers had been forged in battle.
Her claws flexed at her side. She sucked in a sharp breath, her chest barely rising under the weight, and slowly, slowly, she lifted her head. Her eyes met Atheria's. The glow of those eyes pierced through her, stripping her bare.
"Careful, Freya," she thought, heart still thudding hard. "Don't push too far."
Her breath came shallow, but her voice, when it came, was clear. Steady. Reverent, but firm.
"My goddess, please hear me." Her horns tilted forward and her eyes stayed locked on Atheria's face. "You are the only one I pray to. The only one whose strength surpasses my own."
Her knees trembled. Her fingers twitched, one hand gripping the hilt of her sword as though grounding herself with the feeling of it.
The divine pressure still pressed down on her, unrelenting. Every second felt like an eternity, but she didn't stop. Her voice grew stronger slowly turning to plea.
"Your magic gives me form, flows through my very being. I made these contracts by defeating the Aspects that lurk and cause chaos." Her eyes blazed now, her voice a blade sharpened to perfection. "Using your power shows your strength."
The room grew colder. She felt it — the shift in the air. Aetherion elves tensed, glancing at each other with wide eyes. Even Raven tilted her head, her gaze flicking toward Freya as if she were crazy.
The air stilled. Silence. Not even the sapstreams moved. No roots creaked. No leaves fell. Even the threads of ambient magic in the air froze in place.
Atheria moved.
Her head tilted slightly, her face smooth as untouched water. Her gaze swept over Freya slowly, like vines curling toward sunlight. No part of Freya was left unseen. Her contracts. Her flaws. Her victories. Her fears. All of it, laid bare.
Then Atheria smiled.
Not a wide smile. Barely a shift in her expression. But Freya felt it in her bones. The air shifted again. The weight didn't lessen, but it felt... different. Lighter, in a way only she could feel.
"You have always had a way with words, Freya," Atheria said, her tone quieter now, but no less powerful. Her eyes softened, though not entirely. She lifted one hand, the motion slow, deliberate, like a tree branch bending toward sunlight.
"We shall discuss your actions and potential consequences later."
Her hand lowered.
The weight lifted.
All at once, the pressure vanished. It wasn't a slow fade. It was as if the world had snapped back into place, and Freya felt her chest rise fully for the first time in minutes. Her legs felt like jelly. Her muscles buzzed with the leftover strain of holding firm for too long. She exhaled sharply, her breath visible in the cool air.
She could breathe again.
Her arms hung at her sides, loose and tired, but she didn't fall. Not now. Not when so many eyes were on her.
The members of the Elite Legion let out soft sighs of relief, some coughed regaining there breathe, quiet whispers of disbelief, and the slow, steady shuffle of bodies rising from their kneeling positions.
Freya didn't move. Her eyes stayed locked on Atheria. Her gaze was steady, but her mind was loud.
She's stronger than before, she thought, glancing at her own hands. The magic had been sharper this time. Heavier. More alive. The air had felt like it was actively trying to bury her under roots and stone. Did she grow stronger? Or did I just forget how small I am?
Her heart beat faster than it should. She didn't like it.
Aetherion elves whispered to one another. Raven adjusted her cloak, her eyes lingering on Freya for a moment longer than necessary. Swiftfoot gave Freya a small nod, a gesture of quiet approval.
Jorma scratched the back of his head, his eyes half-closed as if tired. "You love doing things the hard way, huh?" he muttered, his voice just loud enough for her to hear.
Freya's lips curled into a small, sharp grin, her eyes still locked on Atheria.
"It's the only way I know how, Jorma."
The chamber's stillness broke as Atheria's voice echoed once more.
Her words weren't loud, but they reached every corner of the room.
"Now, my faithful ones, I have summoned you to inform you of my recovery from a weakened state."
The gentle, knowing warmth in her voice contrasted with the weight of her words. The shifting tendrils of ambient magic coiled tighter, their soft blue and green glow shifting into a deeper shade of gold. Atheria's eyes swept across the room, her gaze sharp as ever.
"Many have grown fearful, believing my godly essence is waning."
Her tone was steady, but there was something else beneath it. Bitterness? Frustration? Freya couldn't quite place it, but she felt it settle in her chest.
Her eyes darted to Jorma, whose gaze had sharpened, his jaw set tight. He exchanged a glance with Swiftfoot, who glanced back with a quiet nod. Freya's eyes shifted around the room, taking in the shifting faces of the Elite Legion. Their expressions were mixed — some looked hopeful, others unsure.
Her own heart didn't share their hope. She felt it tightening in her ribs, that slow, steady pull of unease.
Atheria's gaze shifted again, and her eyes grew sharper. Her radiant glow dimmed just slightly, but somehow, it felt even more intense. Like a calm sky before a storm.
"I regret to inform you that we have lost a member of the Elite Legion."
The air grew colder. The hum of magic dulled to a low thrum, steady and relentless like the thudding of a great heartbeat.
"The elf Elissa from Sylvaris was slain near the outer rim of Eden."
The words didn't hit all at once. They dropped slowly, like stones sinking into a deep lake, rippling outward with growing weight. Shock swept the room.
The Sylvaris elves exchanged glances first. A few gasps slipped out. One of them, a younger elf with green leaves woven into their hair, covered their mouth. Their shoulders shook, and their eyes darted to their companions.
The Nytherion elves stood a little straighter, lips pressed into thin lines, their eyes narrowed with calculation. Some whispered to each other, low murmurs that carried tension.
Freya didn't move. Her eyes widened, but her body stayed still. Her gaze flicked toward the Sylvaris group, scanning for familiar faces. The realization struck her like a falling branch.
Elissa isn't here.
Her heart twisted in her chest, her throat tight. She wasn't close with Elissa, but she'd fought alongside her in more battles than she could count. They'd clashed during missions, sniped at each other during briefings, but it had been the kind of rivalry born from mutual respect. She was supposed to be here.
Her fingers twitched. Her thoughts snapped to the runes on her hand that had briefly glowed this morning. Was that it? she thought bitterly. The runes were trying to tell me this.
Her jaw clenched, breath slow and controlled, eyes fixed on Atheria.
"The 'thing' that took her life avoided my detection."
Freya's eyes darted back to Atheria, gaze sharp as a blade.
"For that, I am deeply sorry." Her voice softened, but it wasn't weakness. It was something older. Anger hidden behind patience.
"I see you all as my children, and hearing this news angers me more than you may know."
The glow of the tree under her grew brighter. The threads of ambient magic that had been drifting lazily around the room stopped. No, they didn't just stop. They shifted. They turned toward her.
Every ribbon, every spark, every thread of floating light began to spiral toward Atheria. Her glow intensified. Her body seemed to rise just slightly, feet no longer fully touching the ground. Her eyes glowed like the sun barely visible behind forest canopies.
The air cracked. Light erupting from her body.
Freya's eyes squeezed shut, her teeth gritting as the glow seared her vision. It wasn't just light. It was power.
"I know a lot of your people are worried because of the wane in magic recently, but help for those in need will arrive shortly," Atheria declared, her voice sharper, more focused. "I will find whoever or whatever is behind this and make them wish they hadn't."
The glow dimmed slightly, but the power in the air remained oppressive.
Her eyes scanned the room looking at the Nytherion group. Then the glow of her gaze passed over Freya for just a moment, Freya held her breath, As it moved elsewhere.
"There are whispers of betrayers, liars, and deceivers among us."
Her gaze lingered longer this time.
"Despite my kindness, I have been betrayed too many times."
Her voice lowered, colder now, making the room a bit chilly.
"I have turned the other cheek for far too long."
Freya's fingers slowly curled into fists. Her gaze stayed locked on Atheria, her breathing steady but shallow.
This isn't like her, she thought, her heart beating slow but strong. This isn't like her at all.
Atheria had always been patient. She was gentle, slow to anger, thoughtful in her judgment. But now? This was something else. Something heavier. Her eyes scanned the room, watching as every member of the Elite Legion knelt before her.
Atheria raised her hand slowly, and her aura dimmed just slightly, but her voice didn't soften.
"To all those here with ulterior motives, this will be your only warning."
Her eyes, sharp and unblinking, gazed down at them.
"I will unleash divine wrath on those who betray me."
The weight of her words lingered long after they'd been spoken. No one moved. No one breathed too loudly. The glow around Atheria flickered for just a moment, her face still smooth, calm, and sharp.
Her gaze became distant, as if she were recalling something far away.
"Silas, from days past, will have been a warning."
The room grew colder.
Freya's heart sank. She remembered Silas.
A flash of memory surged in her mind — the sight of Silas, an old elite legion member, his figure consumed in divine light, his scream echoing once before being snuffed out like a candle. No blood. No bones. Just gone.
The moment the weight lifted, chaos followed.
The tension that had built to a breaking point finally snapped. Elves from every faction began to speak over one another. Whispers turned into sharp demands, questions rising like sparks in a wildfire.
"What caused her weakness?" a Sylvaris elf hissed, eyes darting toward the Nytherion group.
"How will she enforce this wrath?" muttered an Aetherion elf, voice tight with concern.
Freya didn't join in the shouting. She glanced at Jorma, his face still tense, his eyes narrowed in quiet thought.
This is why she's putting on this front, Freya realized. Fear. Atheria wasn't like this before. This wasn't strength. This was defense. This is what it looks like when a god tries to hold on to power.
Freya's eyes lowered toward her hands. The faint glow of the runes had long since faded, but she could still feel them.
Something's wrong, she thought, her eyes flicking back to Atheria. And it's only going to get worse.
"No more questions! GO!"
Atheria's hand shot upward, and the chamber flooded with light once again. It wasn't like before — this light was a harsh, overwhelming glow that poured in from every surface. It came from the bark, from the roots, from the very air itself. It drowned out color, sound, and thought. Everything became white.
Freya's instinct screamed to move, to leave.
"You have your commands, and I would hope you'd be wise to follow them." Atheria's voice echoed through the chamber like thunder.
Freya glanced around as the glow dimmed. The Legion moved. They rose slowly, some looking shaken, others moving with purpose. No one spoke up. Only silent mumbles could be heard.
The large doors at the end of the chamber slowly opened, revealing the path back into the corridors of the entrance of her Tree. One by one, the members of the Elite Legion filed out. Their steps were slow, tense. Their eyes flicked toward one another, their ears tilted toward every whisper of movement, every shift in the glow of magic.
Freya's eyes skimmed the crowd for olive but he seemed to have vanished probably terrified of the display shown today.
Raven was one of the last to leave besides Jorma, Freya, and Swiftfoot. Her amber eyes lingered on Atheria for a moment too long before she glanced toward Freya. Their eyes met, and Raven's gaze was sharp. Calculating.
Don't linger too long, Raven, Freya thought, watching her go. You're smart enough to know better.
When the last of the Legion had left, only four people remained. Atheria. Freya. Jorma. Swiftfoot.
Atheria's gaze fell on Jorma. Her eyes were softer now. Her glow dimmed slightly, becoming more like a gentle lantern than a blazing sun. She tilted her head toward him, her movements slow and graceful like a branch swaying in the breeze.
"Jorma, you may leave, but I need you to listen to Freya from here on."
Jorma raised a brow, his hands still in his coat pockets. His sharp-toothed grin tugged at the edge of his mouth, lazy grinning.
"I already do, most of the time," Jorma muttered, turning to walk toward the exit. His eyes glanced back once, giving Freya a silent message she didn't need to decipher.
"Don't do anything reckless sis."
Atheria began to look around as if she had lost something, "Hmm… I could have sworn Olive had been in this meeting, I hope I didn't scare the young one to much."
Atheria's gaze shifted to Swiftfoot, her expression softening further. The glow of the sap pools beneath her feet shimmered brighter for just a moment.
"Nice to see you, Swiftfoot," Atheria said, her voice lighter now, almost gentle. "I'm sorry you had to see me like this. Tell Olive the same. Although I'm unsure why you are here."She looked at him puzzled, "All the same, you are always welcome as you know."
Swiftfoot bowed slowly, his movements deliberate but never weak.
"Thank you, goddess," Swiftfoot replied, his tone firm and polite. "But I must take my leave. I have a few loose ends to tie up."
His gaze shifted to Freya briefly before he walked after Jorma, his steps slow but sure.
The great doors thudded shut behind them, leaving only Freya and Atheria.
The change in Atheria was sudden. Her divine glow dimmed further, her form shifting. The smooth bark that covered her limbs softened. Her skin darkened, taking on the appearance of bark-like flesh. Her arms, once vine-like, shifted into two sets — one normal, the other slightly furred, ending in clawed fingers. Her hair, long, black, and braided into flowing locks, shimmered faintly as it swayed behind her like a living thing. Her face shifted into something... younger. Younger than Freya, even.
She leaned back against the ancient roots of the colossal tree. Her eyes were half-lidded now, her presence calmer, more casual. She folded her hands neatly over her lap, and her flowing white dress seemed to merge with the glowing sap beneath her.
"Now, tell me, Freya, how goes the foxes' training?" she asked, tilting her head to one side. Her eyes were locked on Freya, but this time it wasn't like before. This gaze wasn't sharp or judgmental. It was curious. Gentle.
Freya blinked, her brow furrowing in confusion. Where did that shift come from?
"It's... going okay, I guess," Freya said slowly, still watching Atheria carefully. Her eyes flicked toward Atheria's second set of arms but said nothing. "They still need to control their magic output. The seal's holding up, though. Arbor is by far the most unwilling student I've ever had."
Atheria hummed softly, gaze distant.
"Freya, I know you wouldn't betray me," she said softly, her eyes flicking toward Freya's hands. "But coming here like that, with so many contracts bound to you, it does raise concern."
Freya's eyes darted to her hands. The contracts. Freya's fingers twitched.
"I think you can handle whatever mess you've gotten yourself into," Atheria continued, her eyes sharp but calm. "So I will not pry any further."
The sap beneath Atheria stirred. Slowly, a glowing blue orb rose from its surface, hovering in the air between them. It cast a soft light on both of their faces.
Freya's eyes narrowed. Of course.
"I assume you know what this is," Atheria said, her tone light, almost playful. "Since you went through the effort of hiding from it while talking to that brother of yours."
Freya eyed the orb carefully. She thought about lying. Her eyes flicked to Atheria, who sat perfectly still, calm as still water.
"Yeah, I know what it is," Freya muttered, glancing back at it. "Lets you see through the millions of moons you scattered across the forest."
Atheria smiled faintly. Her eyes flicked toward the orb, her expression calm but thoughtful. She lifted her hand, tapping the orb with her clawed finger.
"Look."
The glow from the orb shifted, projecting an image. Freya's eyes narrowed as the scene unfolded.
She saw them. Alek and Arbor.
Alek swung a scythe with wild, chaotic movements. His eyes burned with something dark, and his attacks came faster than she'd ever seen. Arbor stumbled, barely keeping pace, using small bursts of earth magic to dodge his swings.
Freya's breath hitched.
"What is he holding?" she asked, leaning forward. "Why is he moving like that?"
Atheria sighed, her gaze fixed on the image.
"That is an old scythe. Its name is Judgment, based on the magic it gives off. It once was used to kill demons." Her gaze shifted to Freya. "Its have been corrupted by someone."
Freya tensed, her heart pounding.
"I want to see Arbor tomorrow," Atheria added changing the subject like she hadn't said anything important. "We have much to discuss."
Freya's breath came slowly, her gaze flicking back to the image. Alek's scythe dragged through the air like it was cutting the world itself.
Atheria looked down at the orb again reflecting on something, "What you do with Alek is your choice. I suggest not hurting the boy though, I've made a lot of enemies today. I really don't need the king of Nytherion's son hurt."
"Sorry Atheria, I wasn't expecting this to happen after leaving them alone for only a couple of hours. I'll be back with Arbor tomorrow." Freya said, turning toward the door.
Atheria's voice followed her.
"You best hurry. The fight doesn't seem to be in Arbor's favor."
The moment the chamber doors shut behind her, Freya broke into a sprint. Her heart pounded in time with her footsteps, her boots striking the marble with sharp, echoing taps. Her breath came short and steady, each inhales sharp as the cold air biting at her lungs.
The air here still hummed with residual magic from Atheria's presence.
That idiot elf boy. That scythe. The image of Alek's wild, frantic swings burned in her mind. She knew that look in his eyes. Rage. Unfocused. Sloppy. Dangerous.
Her legs moved faster. Her horns tilted forward, cutting through the air, her body leaning into every step. Her cloak whipped behind her like a storm-tossed banner. Her breathing was sharp but controlled. An image of eva with them popped into her head.
Jorma. She had to find him.
She spotted him near the archway leading to the lower halls — leaning casually against the wall like he had all the time in the world. His coat was draped lazily over one shoulder, his two blades held loosely in his hands. In front of him stood Raven, the shadowy elf from earlier. Her eyes followed the slow twirl of Jorma's blades with a look of thinly veiled interest.
Of course he's flirting, Freya thought bitterly, her scowl already forming.
"Jorma!" she barked, her voice cutting through the air like the snap of a whip. "Stop flirting, we've got trouble!"
Her words echoed down the corridor, and she saw Raven's head snap toward her, her eyes going wide with surprise. Her dark cheeks flushed a faint violet.
Jorma, ever the picture of nonchalance, tilted his head slowly, his sharp yellow eyes flicking to Freya with mild irritation.
"What? I'm busy," he muttered, dragging his gaze back toward his blades as if she hadn't just declared an emergency. His fingers rolled the hilt of one blade between his fingers, spinning it with an annoying amount of precision. Showoff.
Freya didn't stop. Her eyes locked on him like. Her horns tilted just slightly, a sign he knew too well. Her voice lowered, cold and sharp like the edge of a whetstone.
"Your sister is in trouble." Her eyes narrowed. Her hands sparked faintly with light, small arcs of electricity running down her knuckles. "I need you to follow me. Now."
Jorma blinked, tilting his head. His lips quirked into a grin that immediately vanished as confusion set in.
"What are you talking about?" he asked, gesturing lazily at her. "You're right here."
It took Freya a second to process what he'd just said. Her face went completely still. Her eyes didn't narrow. They didn't widen. They didn't move at all.
Her hands twitched. The lightning grew brighter.
"Eva, you idiot." Her voice was low, barely more than a whisper, but it carried the weight of a gathering storm.
Raven's eyes darted between them. She shifted back, her instincts sharper than Jorma's, as she recognized the signs of a storm about to break.
Jorma blinked, realization dawning on his face. His grin fell flat. "Ah, crap," he muttered, his hand covering his face as he let out a heavy, exasperated sigh. "It's always something when I'm actually trying to do something fun." He shook his head, pushing himself off the wall with a light shove.
His eyes met Freya's. He wasn't grinning anymore.
"Alright."
They didn't walk. They didn't jog.
They vanished.
Freya took one step, her hand on the handle of her sword as the rune began to glow. Her body then burst into a streak of red lightning, a bolt of golden- red energy that crackled against the air. As she tore through the hall. The world blurred around her, streaks of blue, green, and white flashing in rapid succession.
They were too far away. She knew it.
Her mind flickered with images — Alek's wild swings, the sharp glint of the scythe, and Arbor's face twisted with effort as they barely held him back. Her jaw tightened.
Behind her, the faint pull of shadows rippled against the marble floor. It wasn't as fast as light, but it was everywhere. Shadows curled at the edges of the walls, into puddles of deep black ink. The edges of the darkness quivered for a moment, and then Jorma's form slipped from the shadow's surface, his coat whipping around him like smoke caught in a draft.
He emerged from one shadow, leapt into another, and disappeared again. Each shadow he left behind shimmered with a faint ripple, like water disturbed by a single drop.
They reached the edge of the inner city, where the towering tree gate stood, its bark-laced doors always half-open. Two guards were stationed there, Blackthorn and Kaelen, both standing stiffly at attention.
The first sign of Freya's arrival was the sudden blinding flash of light that tore through the gate's center. The glow hit the guards' faces, forcing them to squint.
A moment later, a black ripple of shadows spilled across the ground, curling at their feet. It pooled, twisted, and Jorma stepped out, his coat flaring as he strode forward, one hand on his hip.
Kaelen rubbed her eyes, blinking furiously. "What…?" Her voice trailed off, her eyes darting between the last sparks of Freya's trail and the fading puddle of darkness where Jorma had emerged. She glanced toward Blackthorn.
Blackthorn didn't say anything. He just stared in salute. His eyes narrowed briefly, his sharp feline pupils darting toward Jorma, then toward the vanishing trails of light.
They didn't ask questions.
The moment they passed the gates, Freya shifted into full speed, her body a pure streak of energy that vanished into the open forest. Her path cut clean through the trees, leaves and twigs scattering in her wake.
Jorma's shadows followed soon after, leaping from the dim spots between trees and flickering from shadow to shadow. A race to a fight that had already concluded.