Far south, within the continent of Velnethera, hidden beyond the elfs lands and the whispering woods, stretched a forest unlike any other.
Atheria's Forest.
Here, the trees grew in hues of deep sapphire, their bark dark and glossy, oozing green sap that shimmered faintly in the dim light. Mist hung low to the ground, never quite burning away, as if the forest itself preferred to remain hidden.
It was a place most never saw—and even fewer understood.
But tucked within its strange stillness, hidden beneath a knotted web of roots and vines, was a small den. It wasn't wild or crude. Someone had made this place carefully. Lovingly.
The entrance was narrow and shadowed, framed by twisted roots like fingers curling inward. Inside, the stone floor was smoothed by time and padded with worn rugs stitched in pale, crescent symbols. Low shelves held scattered books, each marked with glowing moon crests. Jars filled with softly glowing stones floated in shallow bowls, casting dancing lights on the walls.
And in the far corner, on a bed of tangled grass and moss, slept a little blue fox with two sets of ears.
Arbor.
Arbor was curled tightly on their bed of moss and grass, blue fur puffed out with static tension. Their nose twitched, ears flicking back and forth. A soft whimper escaped their throat. Their tail wiggled once, then again—restless. The dream still clung to them, even in the quiet of the den.
A nightmare.
Outside the den, soft crunches of grass and moss gave way to the clack of hooves on stone.
Then came the voice.
"You were supposed to meet me an hour ago, Arbor."
A knock.
"I specifically remember you saying you'd be able to get up on time for our lessons."
Another knock—sharper now.
The speaker was tall and broad, humanoid in shape but with the unmistakable features of sheep and goat kind. Horns curled back from her head, one cracked near the tip. Her wool-trimmed coat shimmered in the blue light that filtered through the trees. Freya.
Inside the den, the fox in the grass gave a groggy grunt in reply—muffled, high-pitched, and deeply annoyed.
Freya sighed. Loudly.
"You're lucky, you know. Most trainees don't get half this much slack. I should be training new initiates right now, but instead I'm out here, knocking on your mossy little hole of a house."
Another, even more annoyed grumble from Arbor.
"I told you," Freya snapped, "I can't understand you when you're like that!"
Her voice sharpened. "If you don't get up now, I swear I'll give you something to—"
A pulse of magic hit the door. Freya's aura flared.
Inside, Arbor's ears shot straight up. Instinct kicked in.
Poof.
A swirl of blue smoke burst outward, rippling across the den like a wave. Where the fox once lay, a new figure sprawled across the floor.
Humanoid. Slender. Dark-skinned. Blue hair tied up in a messy ponytail, with bangs flopped stubbornly across their forehead. The rest of their body was still tangled in blankets and grass.
They didn't bother moving right away.
"Okay, okay—I'm up!" Arbor groaned, voice muffled by the stone floor. "No need to blast down the door, Freya."
"Finally," Freya muttered from outside. "Hurry up and get dressed—we're already losing daylight."
Arbor didn't argue.
After that frankly terrifying display of power, they didn't have much room to complain. Their heart was still racing a little, truth be told. That door was about five seconds away from becoming ash.
With a grumble and a stretch, Arbor pushed themselves off the floor and shuffled into their morning routine.
First: light.
They reached for a glass jar on the shelf—its surface etched with tiny crescent moons. Inside, a trio of glowing insects stirred lazily.
Lux bugs.
Their soft, shimmering light pulsed in hues of yellow and pale blue, their wings a blur as they zipped free the moment Arbor popped the lid. They circled around the room, dancing briefly before settling into the small wall-lamps scattered throughout the den, casting warm, ambient glows over the stone and moss.
With the den lit, Arbor moved to the closet—though "closet" was a generous word.
It stood at the far end of the room, carved from dark, knotted wood and humming with faint magical energy. Blue runes pulsed along its edges, and the cracks between its doors leaked soft light like breath through parted lips.
Arbor placed a hand on the handle, letting a trickle of their mana feed into it.
Click.
The doors creaked open.
Inside hung a new outfit, fresh and glowing faintly with stored magic. The enchantment always gave the clothes a subtle charge—just enough to be useful, never enough to notice. And as usual, the style didn't seem from anywhere Arbor recognized. Then again, they barely knew anything beyond this forest.
Today's outfit was… interesting.
A short kimono—loose at the sleeves, with a gradient that faded from pale blush at the collar into rich violet at the hem. The fabric was stitched with winding silver branches that shimmered when the light hit just right. The length stopped just above the knees, paired with fitted black leggings tucked into knee-high soft boots. A small silver moon charm rested at the collarbone.
Arbor tilted their head, inspecting it.
"Huh," they muttered. "Kinda cute."
Something Arbor had always found interesting—though not too interesting—was how the magic wardrobe never got their body wrong.
No matter what outfit appeared, it always accounted for their… let's say, unique features. Fox-like legs? Tail? Two sets of ears? The clothes never bunched or pinched. The tail hole was always in the right place, and the collars never flattened their upper ears. It was almost spooky how well it worked.
But honestly?
Magic did what it did. Who was Arbor to question it?
With a shrug, they slipped on the outfit. The fabric hugged in all the right places, the boots fitting like a second skin. Once dressed, they moved over to the low shelf near the door and grabbed their essentials—a small handful of odd-shaped rocks with specks of color or curious cracks.
Arbor held one up, inspecting the shimmer. "Special," they said aloud with mock-seriousness, before carefully tucking it into their belt pouch.
Each stone went into its own little slot in their bag—a collection only they seemed to care about. But to Arbor, they were treasures.
Fully dressed and slightly more awake, Arbor strolled toward the door, scratching idly behind one ear. They gave the inside of the den one last glance—still quiet, still full of flickering bug light—then stepped outside to meet Freya.
Outside, the forest greeted them with its usual blue-tinged glow. Mist drifted lazily between the trees, and dew glistened on thick, curling leaves. The air smelled faintly of wildflowers, moss, and something like… electricity.
Freya sat on a thick, moss-covered log just off the path, one leg crossed over the other. Her gaze was fixed on a small, fluttering light in front of her—a glowing orb with delicate wings. It hovered like a hummingbird, circling her lazily.
Arbor squinted.
A pixie?
They'd only ever read about them in books—tiny, mischievous, and mostly harmless. But also extremely annoying, if the stories were to be believed.
Freya glanced up as Arbor approached, and with a flick of her hand, waved the pixie off. The glowing creature let out a tiny squeak before vanishing into the trees.
"Took you long enough," she said, brushing her coat off. "The locals are getting a bit too friendly."
Arbor rolled their eyes as they stepped closer. "I've been out here for two years and haven't seen a single 'weird forest creature,'" they said. "You show up, and suddenly they're everywhere. Must be all that raw mana you leak like a cracked lantern."
Freya arched a brow. "Please. If anyone's leaking unstable magic, it's you."
Arbor gasped dramatically, placing a hand on their chest. "How dare. I'm refined chaos. Yours smells like scorched stone and storm clouds."
Freya snorted. "Better than whatever yours smells like. Stale dreams and day-old tea?"
Arbor grinned. "You wound me."
Freya turned and started down the path, hooves crunching lightly on moss and broken twigs.
Arbor trailed behind, hands laced behind their head, tail swaying with a lazy rhythm.
They'd walked this route more times than they could count. Same blue-tinted trees. Same strange sap oozing from the bark. Same speeches about "duty" and "potential."
Familiar. Repetitive.
But not… theirs.
Two years.
That was all Arbor remembered.
Around two years ago, they woke up in this forest with no memories. No name. No past. Just the color blue everywhere—sky, trees, even their own hair, like the forest had branded them as one of its own.
The first week, they didn't leave their den. Didn't want to. The world felt too big, too loud, and their magic sparked like broken rune circles. Unstable. Dangerous. They still didn't have full control over it—and honestly, they weren't trying that hard.
Then came Freya.
Stoic, intense, annoyingly responsible Freya. She'd offered Arbor a purpose: serve under the local goddess—Atheria—and train to become part of something called the "Legion."
Arbor hadn't known what that meant. Still didn't, really.
But with no past to cling to, and nowhere else to go, they said yes.
They kind of regretted that decision now. Especially when it meant waking up at dawn and getting zapped into consciousness.
Still... Freya had stuck around. Through all the groaning and magic accidents and half-hearted escape attempts. She was a constant in the blur.
And Arbor, despite all their complaints, was kind of glad for that.
Not that they'd say it out loud.
For what felt like half an hour had passed.
The forest trail stretched on, winding gently through mossy undergrowth and towering blue trees that swayed without wind. The mist was thinner now, the morning light cutting through in pale shafts. Birds—or something like birds—chattered from above in rhythmic bursts.
Arbor walked a few paces behind Freya, occasionally darting off the trail with a sudden gasp of curiosity.
"Oooh."
Another rock.
Smooth. Triangular. A subtle green shimmer in the light.
They inspected it carefully, turning it over in their hand like a gem collector sizing up a rare find. Then, with a satisfied little hum, slipped it into their pouch and rejoined the path.
Five steps later: another rock.
Freya didn't comment anymore. She just kept walking.
Eventually, Arbor stayed in pace—but their hands never stopped moving. A small, sharp-edged stone twirled in their fingers, catching the sun at odd angles. Their tail flicked in slow, distracted loops behind them.
Boredom hit first. Then the sleepiness crept back in.
They groaned.
"Freya," Arbor whined, stretching out the name like it physically pained them. "I feel like every time we do this walk, the training grounds get further away."
Freya didn't slow. "That's because you take forever and get distracted by everything."
"I'm collecting important natural samples," Arbor said, holding up the rock like it had sacred significance.
"That's a pebble."
"It has character."
Freya muttered something under her breath, but Arbor just grinned.
The forest path began to widen.
The dense blue canopy thinned, letting more light through, and the mist started to clear. Up ahead, the trail opened into a vast clearing—a break in the trees that felt almost unnatural, like something had to push the forest back.
And floating above it all… was the training ground.
A colossal stone platform—easily three hundred feet across—hovered twenty feet off the ground, suspended by no visible magic. Its edges were weathered with age, corners chipped and worn, yet it held steady in the air like it had always belonged there.
Vines stretched upward from the forest floor, curling and clinging to the platform's sides as if trying to drag it back down to earth. Some had crept across the surface, threading between the ancient rune-carvings etched into the stone. Despite the overgrowth, faint pulses of mana still flickered through the cracks like veins of light.
And above it all... that moon.
The false moon hung low in the sky, far too large, casting a pale glow that didn't feel like light. Its soft luminescence touched everything—but offered no warmth. No comfort.
Arbor's ears twitched as they looked up at it.
They didn't like that moon.
It always gave them the same feeling: a weight behind their eyes, a prickle along their spine, like something watching.
They scratched the back of their neck and looked away.
"Ugh. Still hate that thing," they muttered.
Freya didn't respond right away. She was already walking toward the base of a ramp carved into a nearby tree trunk, winding upward in spirals toward the floating platform.
"Come on," she called over her shoulder. "Time to see if today's the day you fall off the arena or just set it on fire."
Arbor sighed.