Before the crime, before the blood, before the child who would one day fracture gods and balance alike, there was Moonwater.
People rarely realized when they were close to it. Moonwater did not announce itself with walls or warnings. There was no moment where a traveler could say, Here the forest begins. Instead, there was a feeling—subtle at first—that the road had grown longer than it should have. Legs tired too quickly. The sun seemed to move strangely, lingering too long in one place before leaping ahead without warning. A path that had once been straight bent gently, almost kindly, until it circled back on itself.
Most travelers never understood what was happening.
A human merchant might wander for months, convinced he had simply lost his way. A demon scout might feel the resistance sooner, an instinctive pressure pushing against their presence, as if the land itself were considering them and finding them unnecessary. Even lesser divine manifestations slowed near the forest, their forms growing thin, their purpose blurring.
Moonwater never attacked.
It never needed to.
It waited, and time did the rest.
Those who were not meant to enter eventually turned back, certain they had made a mistake long before they ever reached the trees. Those who were allowed through felt the change immediately. The pressure eased. The forest opened. The air cooled and warmed in perfect measure, and urgency slipped away like a thought no longer worth finishing.
At the heart of the forest grew the Moonwater Court.
No one had built it. No hands had raised stone or cut foundations. The city had grown the way a body grows bone—slowly, deliberately, according to patterns decided long before memory.
Massive trees rose upward like pillars in a cathedral, their trunks braided together where bridges were needed, separating again where space was desired. Roots curved into steps. Branches leaned just enough to meet, forming arches that felt intentional without ever looking forced. Leaves shimmered faintly from within, catching moonlight and breaking it into soft, living color.
Water moved everywhere. Clear streams climbed along roots as if gravity were a suggestion rather than a law. Pools hovered in open air, perfectly still, suspended by gentle currents of wind magic. Mist drifted through the Court with quiet awareness, thinning around those who belonged and lingering around those who did not.
There was no rot.
No smell of decay.
Fallen leaves dissolved before they could clutter the ground. Broken branches knitted themselves whole again. Nothing hurried. Nothing aged.
Nothing truly lived.
The elves called this perfection.
They believed they had earned that word. After all, they did not age. When an elf reached maturity, their body chose a moment and stayed there. Skin did not wrinkle. Hair did not thin. Muscles neither weakened nor grew beyond what was desired. Scars faded unless deliberately preserved, etched carefully as memory rather than accident.
Healers explained this calmly, confidently. They spoke of life magic—water, air, plant—the triad that sustained Aerthyra itself. They spoke of balance and harmony, of living in alignment with the world.
What they did not speak of was fear.
The world was vast, far larger than any single people. Continents rose and sank like breathing beasts. Storms erased cities without apology. The elves remembered the Age of Shattering, when demon-fire split landmasses open and oceans boiled until fish fell from the sky as ash. They remembered forests burned so completely they turned to glass. They remembered skies torn apart by moon-aligned magic before the gods had learned restraint.
They survived by refusing to change.
Moonwater was that refusal made real.
Every tree followed patterns recorded thousands of years earlier. When one grew out of alignment, it was guided back, not cut, not punished—corrected. Songs sung at twilight followed ancient harmonics so precise that even the pauses were preserved. Children were praised for accuracy and gently redirected when curiosity strayed too far.
They were not taught discovery.
They were taught preservation.
Time, the elves believed, was not a river.
It was something to be managed.
And so Moonwater became timeless.
The moons seemed to adore it. When Seren, the moon of healing, was full, the forest glowed softly, leaves pulsing with a slow, even breath. When Vael, the moon of memory, ruled the sky, echoes of old conversations drifted near ancient stones, voices preserved so clearly they sounded almost present. When Aurel rose high, the air itself grew heavy with quiet reverence, though no gods were openly worshipped here.
The elves said they were independent of the gods.
That was the first lie Moonwater ever told.
They did not kneel. They did not rebel. They watched, learned, and copied. Where gods imposed order through command, Moonwater achieved it through habit. Where gods enforced balance through punishment, Moonwater prevented imbalance from ever forming.
It did not worship divinity.
It imitated it.
Saelith was born into this stillness beneath a rare convergence of three moons. From the moment she could walk, it was clear she would become a healer. Water answered her touch gently, mending flesh without pain. Plants grew eagerly around her hands, not forced, not bent, simply encouraged.
She was admired. Trusted. Spoken of quietly as someone who would one day guide others.
And yet, even as a child, Saelith noticed what no one spoke of.
Nothing was ever lost.
When a tree fell, it was regrown. When a structure weakened, it was reshaped. When an elf died—through accident or violence—their memory was preserved so perfectly that grief had no room to settle.
Loss was archived.
Saelith could heal bodies easily.
Hearts were harder.
Sometimes she watched humans near the forest's edge—lost traders, broken pilgrims—aging visibly from year to year. They spoke of urgency, of choices made knowing there would not be time for all of them. They lived brightly, briefly, like flame.
Saelith envied that.
She met Rhaezkar far from Moonwater, in lands scarred by ancient demon-fire. He was nothing like the stories. He did not boast. He did not rage. Others followed him not because he demanded it, but because he endured.
They argued often—about time, about power, about truth. When Saelith spoke of preservation, Rhaezkar laughed and told her fire was not something you kept unchanged. You used it, or it burned you when you pretended it was safe.
She told him demons destroyed everything they touched.
He agreed.
"And elves fossilize it."
That honesty unsettled her more than cruelty ever could.
When Saelith returned to Moonwater, she was unchanged to the eye and utterly altered beneath it. She asked questions. She listened longer. She healed without asking whether the injury deserved saving.
The elders noticed.
They always did.
When she began leaving the forest alone, it was recorded as deviation. When she spoke of demons as people, it was recorded as instability. When she fell in love, it was recorded as treason.
Love, to Saelith, was not preservation.
It was acceptance of change.
When she realized she carried Rhaezkar's child, she did not panic. She wept—not from fear, but from grief for the world she knew would never allow this life to exist.
She did not flee.
And Moonwater noticed.
The forest felt it before words were spoken. Water currents shifted. Leaves trembled without wind. Healing pools dulled, uncertain of their purpose. The elders gathered in silence, not to ask if this was allowed, but to decide how quickly it could be undone.
Because to Moonwater, the greatest sin was not destruction.
It was change without permission.
Above, the moons continued their patient dance, and the world leaned closer, curious and tense, waiting.
For the first time in thousands of years, something truly new was about to be born.