The air shifted as they passed beneath the colossal roots of Atheria’s tree. The chatter of the marketplace faded behind them, replaced by the soft hum of magic. It wasn’t loud. This close to the goddess’s domain, the air itself felt aware.

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, the ancient tree as it loomed above them. Its bark was silver-blue, its surface lined with natural grooves that had runic etchings. Thousands of twisting branches reached for the sky. Tiny, glowing motes of light flitted around it like fireflies.

She exhaled slowly. It’s been a while. She’d seen it before, but somehow, it always looked... bigger.

Her eyes flicked to Jorma, who was walking beside her with his hands in his coat pockets. “Big as ever,” he muttered, his black wool-like coat fluffing up slightly.

“Bigger, I think,” Freya replied. “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. 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. 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. Swiftfoot decided to leave the rock and the carriage with them.

The guards seemed to be pleased and 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 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. 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 eye narrowed 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 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. Her eyes flicked to Olive, still hanging limply in her grip. “You really have to stop doing that.”

Olive grinned. 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. “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. “Yeah, yeah. I remember. You let me ride on top of the rock beast. Best seat in the house.”

Freya sighed. “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. “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. “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. 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, 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. His eyes flicked over examining.

“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.