The summons reached Saelith before she reached the heart of Moonwater.
It did not arrive as words. Elven law had never relied on language when the forest itself was more precise.
The path beneath her feet narrowed, not abruptly, but with intention. Branches leaned inward, their leaves overlapping just enough to guide her steps. Streams that once crossed her way shifted their flow, curving so that every crossing drew her deeper rather than away. Bridges of living wood tightened their arcs, subtly discouraging detours. Moonwater did not seize her. It did not drag or threaten.
It guided.
With the patience of something that had never known urgency.
Saelith felt the pull immediately. She understood it for what it was and did not resist. Resistance would have been futile. Worse than futile—it would have been remembered. The forest recorded such things, not with malice, but with perfect clarity.
She walked on.
Above her, arches of living wood curved overhead, their leaves glowing faintly with Seren's soft light. In other moments, that glow brought her comfort. It had always felt like home, like a steady hand at her back. Now it felt like walking through a memory that refused to change no matter how often it was replayed.
Every step echoed with familiarity.
Every step reminded her that Moonwater did not forget.
The clearing opened without warning.
The Eternal Court was not a room, nor a hall, nor anything that could be enclosed. It was a convergence—a place where the forest's deepest currents met beneath the vast roots of the Living Tree. Saelith felt it as soon as she crossed the threshold, a quiet pressure settling into her bones, as if the world itself had leaned closer to listen.
The Living Tree rose at the center, immense beyond scale, its trunk older than any record Saelith had ever studied. Its bark was etched with symbols that shifted slowly, never repeating in quite the same way, recording judgments and precedents not in ink, but in growth. Every ruling made here became part of the forest's structure. Law, memory, and nature were indistinguishable.
Around it stood the elders.
There were fewer of them than outsiders imagined. Elven leadership was intentionally sparse. Too many voices invited divergence. Too few allowed stagnation. Moonwater prided itself on balance, though Saelith had begun to understand that balance here always leaned toward the past.
They were luminous, ageless, their forms untouched by time. Robes grown from bark-silk and moon-vines draped over bodies that had not changed in centuries. Some had taught Saelith as a child. Others had observed her from a distance, the way one observed a promising tree—healthy, useful, expected to grow in approved directions.
At the center stood Elarion.
Speaker of the Court. Keeper of Continuity.
His face was calm.
That frightened her more than anger ever could.
"Saelith of the Moonwater Court," he said, his voice carried softly by air magic, reaching every root and leaf without effort. "You are summoned to answer a deviation."
Not crime.
Deviation.
Saelith inclined her head, the formal acknowledgment of authority. Her movements were precise, controlled, exactly as she had been taught.
"I am present."
The Living Tree pulsed once. A deep, resonant movement that passed through the ground and into her feet.
Truth-binding settled around her like a second skin.
Elven courts did not forbid lies because they were immoral. They forbade them because lies complicated records.
"You have left Moonwater without escort," Elarion said.
"Yes."
"You have done so repeatedly."
"Yes."
"You have entered territories under demon control."
"Yes."
"You have spoken with Rhaezkar of the Obsidian Depths."
"Yes."
Each answer landed cleanly, without hesitation. The Court did not react with outrage. Outrage was inefficient. Instead, Saelith felt the subtle shift of calculation, the way one adjusted weights on a scale.
Elarion continued, his voice unchanged.
"And you carry a life not sanctioned by elven continuity."
The air thickened.
Saelith's hand moved to her abdomen before she could stop it. The gesture was instinctive, protective, and unmistakable.
"Yes."
The word echoed longer than the others, as if the forest itself needed extra time to absorb it.
An elder to Elarion's left spoke, her voice cool and measured.
"Do you deny the corruption of this act?"
Saelith lifted her head. Her heart pounded, but her voice did not shake.
"I deny that love is corruption."
This time, the murmur that followed was sharper. Not loud, not chaotic—but edged.
"You bind demon entropy to elven eternity," another elder said. "You threaten stability."
"Stability," Saelith replied, "is not the same as life."
The Living Tree pulsed again. The truth-binding held. No contradiction registered.
Elarion studied her for a long moment. His gaze was not cruel. It was assessing.
"You speak as though you understand life better than the forest that has sustained us for millennia."
Saelith met his eyes.
"I speak as someone who has watched us stop growing."
Something shifted then.
Not visibly. Not dramatically.
But decisively.
Elves did not punish dissent.
They contained it.
"How would you resolve this?" Elarion asked, his tone almost gentle.
It was not an invitation.
It was a test.
Saelith inhaled slowly, steadying herself.
"I would let the child live," she said. "I would raise it beyond Moonwater if necessary. I would ensure it harms no one."
Several elders turned away. Not in grief. In dismissal.
"You ask us to permit uncertainty," one said. "We do not."
"Uncertainty already exists," Saelith replied. "You simply refuse to name it."
Elarion raised a hand. Silence fell instantly, as if the forest itself had been commanded to still.
"The Court has deliberated," he said.
The words were ritual. The decision had been made long before Saelith spoke them aloud.
"The child cannot remain," Elarion continued calmly. "Nor can it be allowed to exist beyond Moonwater's influence."
Cold spread through Saelith's chest, slow and numbing.
"You will kill it," she said.
"No," Elarion replied. "We will prevent it."
He gestured toward the Living Tree, and Saelith felt its presence deepen, roots shifting beneath her feet.
"Elven life returns to the forest," he said. "Essence is absorbed, redistributed, preserved. Your body will nourish Moonwater. The anomaly will dissolve before it can imprint upon reality."
Saelith stared at him.
"You call that mercy."
"I call it responsibility."
The word struck deeper than any blade.
Around them, the forest listened.
And Saelith understood, fully and finally, what Moonwater served.
Not life.
Continuity.
Life that did not conform was excess.
She felt them then.
Not a presence in the clearing, not voices in the air—but a pressure beyond sensation, a conceptual weight pressing inward. The gods were not here. They did not need to be. Their will moved through alignment, through moons and belief and the gentle encouragement of decisions already inclined toward control.
Elarion's gaze flicked briefly upward, toward the canopy where moonlight filtered through leaves.
"All cycles agree," he said softly. "This child will unmake more than it creates."
Saelith laughed.
Just once.
A sound broken and sharp.
"You don't know that."
"No," Elarion replied. "But we know it might."
That was enough.
Elven justice did not require certainty.
Only risk.
"Saelith of the Moonwater Court," Elarion intoned, his voice resonating with the Living Tree, "you are bound to the Tree at the next convergence. Your essence will be returned. The deviation will be corrected."
The ground shifted.
Silver-root chains rose from the soil, living metal grown from alchemically altered vines. They wrapped around her wrists and ankles gently, warmly, impossibly strong.
Saelith did not struggle.
Struggle would be remembered.
Instead, she asked one question.
"What of Rhaezkar?"
Elarion's expression did not change.
"The gods will attend to him."
Fear finally broke through her composure then. Not for herself.
For him.
For the child who had not yet drawn breath.
The elders withdrew, dissolving into paths of light and leaves, their presence fading back into the forest as if they had never stood there at all. Saelith was left bound at the base of the Living Tree, the clearing quiet once more.
Roots shifted subtly beneath her, tightening their hold. Leaves whispered—not comfort, but record.
She felt the truth-binding loosen just enough. Not enough to lie.
Enough to act.
Saelith lowered her head and pressed her forehead against the bark of the Living Tree. The surface was warm, alive with centuries of judgment and memory.
For the first time in her life, she did not ask the forest for permission.
She asked it for forgiveness.
And deep within Moonwater—beneath law, beneath tradition, beneath the gods' quiet approval—something ancient stirred.
The forest remembered what it had been before elves shaped it.
Before preservation replaced growth.
Before choice became something to fear.
Saelith closed her eyes.
She had lost the argument.
But the world had not yet heard her answer.