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.