The forest lay wrapped in an oppressive stillness that seemed to press against Zepp's skin like a living thing. The cacophony of destruction that had raged moments earlier—the screaming winds, the thunder of splintering trees, the crackling roar of red lightning that had torn through reality itself—had faded into a haunting silence that felt more ominous than any storm.
The acrid smell of ozone and charred wood clung to the air, mixing with the rich, loamy scent of earth that had been turned and scorched by forces beyond nature's design. Where ancient oaks had stood for centuries, only blackened stumps remained, their twisted shapes reaching toward the darkening sky like the gnarled fingers of buried giants. The very ground beneath her feet bore the scars of her awakening—deep furrows carved into stone and soil, still warm to the touch and glowing faintly with residual energy.
Zepp stumbled through the devastation she had wrought, each movement a monumental effort against the exhaustion that clung to her like a lead cloak. Her legs trembled with each step, threatening to fold beneath her at any moment, while her breath came in shallow, painful gasps that seemed to burn her throat. The power that had erupted from her—that impossible, terrifying force that had rewritten the landscape around her—still pulsed beneath her skin like a second heartbeat, a fierce reminder that she was no longer the girl who had delivered healing herbs and helped lost cats.
What am I? The question echoed in her mind with each labored step, but no answer came from the ruined forest around her.
Her apprentice robes hung in tatters, the carefully woven fabric that Selva had enchanted with subtle protective charms now reduced to scorched rags that provided little protection against the cold night air. Cuts and scrapes marked her arms and legs where she had crashed through undergrowth in her desperate flight, and mud caked her boots, making each step feel heavier than the last.
But she couldn't stop. Not yet. The memory of those three cloaked figures—their professional calm, their casual discussion of capturing her, their terror when her power had awakened—drove her forward despite the overwhelming weariness that threatened to drag her down into merciful unconsciousness.
She's his blood. That's what counts. The words echoed in her mind, fragments of a conversation that made no sense but carried implications too frightening to fully contemplate. Whose blood? What did they know about her that she didn't know about herself?
The vision she had experienced during her awakening remained burned into her consciousness with painful clarity. That vast battlefield painted in shades of destruction, the reaching hand that had felt so achingly familiar, the voice that had whispered promises of connection across an impossible gulf. It had felt more real than reality, more true than memory, as if she had briefly glimpsed through a window into events that existed beyond the normal flow of time and space.
The cold night air bit at her exposed skin, carrying scents she didn't recognize—not just the familiar forest fragrances of pine and wildflower, but something else, something that spoke of distances greater than the few miles she had traveled from the tower. Magic lingered in the atmosphere like invisible fog, making her newly awakened senses prickle with awareness of forces she couldn't name or understand.
And then, through the chaos of her thoughts and the haze of exhaustion, the forest opened up before her.
A clearing bathed in ethereal silver light spread out like a natural cathedral, its boundaries marked by trees that had somehow escaped the destruction she had unleashed. Moonlight poured down through the canopy with unusual intensity, as if the celestial orb above had focused its attention on this particular patch of earth. The grass beneath that luminous glow appeared almost silver itself, each blade seeming to hold and reflect the light with an otherworldly beauty that made the space feel sacred, separate from the mundane world beyond its borders.
At the edge of this moonlit expanse stood a figure that made Zepp's breath catch in her throat.
A young woman, perhaps only a year or two older than herself, but carrying herself with the poise and presence of someone far more experienced. She stood perfectly still, perfectly balanced, as if she had been waiting in that exact spot for hours—or perhaps years—without showing the slightest sign of impatience or fatigue.
Her attire was unlike anything Zepp had ever seen, even in the illustrated manuscripts that Selva kept in the tower's library. Over a dress of finest white silk that fell to her ankles in graceful folds, she wore armor that seemed to have been crafted by artists rather than common smiths. The breastplate, pauldrons, and vambraces were polished to mirror brightness, their surfaces decorated with intricate engravings that caught the moonlight and threw it back in patterns too complex to follow with the eye. The metalwork was so delicate, so perfectly proportioned, that it enhanced rather than concealed the feminine grace of the figure who wore it.
At her side hung a sword in a scabbard of worked leather and silver, the weapon's presence more ceremonial than threatening. But Zepp could sense the power in it—not the raw, destructive force she had recently experienced, but something refined, controlled, disciplined by years of training and dedication.
Most striking of all was her hair—silver as moonbeams and bound in a short ponytail that moved gently in the soft breeze that whispered through the clearing. The color was too pure, too luminous to be natural, suggesting either magical heritage or some blessing that had transformed her from the ordinary run of humanity. Beneath that cascade of metallic silk, her face held the kind of beauty that belonged in ballads and legends—not soft or delicate, but strong, with high cheekbones and a jawline that spoke of determination tempered by compassion.
Her eyes, when they met Zepp's, were the deep blue-gray of storm clouds, alert and watchful in the way of someone trained to assess potential threats or people in need. There was surprise in that gaze—not shock exactly, but the measured reaction of someone who hadn't expected to encounter a bedraggled, mud-stained girl stumbling out of what appeared to be a devastated forest. Her expression shifted quickly from wariness to concern as she took in Zepp's obvious distress.
For what felt like an eternity, neither of them moved. Zepp stood frozen at the edge of the clearing, her chest tight with exhaustion and the overwhelming confusion of everything that had happened. The knight remained perfectly still, her posture suggesting someone assessing a situation before acting—evaluating whether this stranger represented danger, needed help, or both.
The spell was broken by the knight's voice, clear and measured, carrying the educated accent of the kingdom's nobility but warmed by something more personal than mere courtesy.
"Are you lost?" The question was neither demanding nor urgent, but rather a gentle inquiry offered without expectation of immediate response. The tone suggested someone accustomed to dealing with refugees and wanderers, someone whose duty involved protecting rather than interrogating.
Zepp could only nod, her throat constricted by fear and confusion that went far deeper than her current circumstances. She was lost in ways that had nothing to do with forest paths or geographic landmarks—lost in the fundamental understanding of who and what she was, lost in a world that had suddenly revealed layers of danger and complexity she had never imagined.
The knight studied her for a long moment, those storm-colored eyes taking in the obvious signs of distress—the torn clothing, the exhaustion that sat heavily on her shoulders, the way she swayed slightly on her feet as if struggling to remain upright. Whatever had happened to this girl, it was clear she had been through an ordeal that went beyond simple misfortune.
"You're not from these parts," she observed, the statement carrying gentle curiosity rather than suspicion. Her words flowed with the cultured accent of nobility, but warmed by genuine concern. "And you appear to have had... difficulties."
When she took a step forward, the movement was fluid as silk, lacking any hint of aggression or haste. Even armored as she was, she moved with the natural grace of someone who had been trained in both combat and courtly manners, someone for whom physical elegance was as important as martial skill.
Zepp didn't know what to do. Her heart raced with a complex mixture of fear and something else—something that felt almost like hope. The knight's presence radiated calm authority, the kind of steadiness that spoke of training and discipline, but also compassion. There was something about her bearing that suggested someone who took seriously the duty to protect those in need, regardless of their station or circumstances.
Without a word, the knight took another step forward, her movement careful and non-threatening. The moonlight caught the polished surface of her armor, sending gentle reflections across the silver grass of the clearing.
"Come with me," she said softly, her voice carrying the quiet authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed, but tempered with kindness.
It wasn't a harsh command, but neither was it a mere suggestion. It was the voice of someone who had assessed a situation and determined the appropriate course of action—spoken with the confidence of duty but delivered with compassion. The words carried an implicit promise: that whatever had brought this stranger to such obvious distress, she would not have to face it alone.
Zepp hesitated, still trembling from the aftermath of her awakening, her mind struggling to process everything that had happened in the space of a few catastrophic hours. The morning had begun with simple tasks—delivering herbs, helping with healing, following the comfortable routine that had defined her entire life. Now she stood in the ruins of a forest she had destroyed, facing a stranger whose very presence seemed to promise answers to questions she was afraid to ask.
Yet as she looked into the knight's steady eyes, she felt something she hadn't expected—trust. Not the mystical pull of destiny or fate, but the simpler, more human recognition of someone genuinely trying to help. The knight's bearing spoke of honor and duty, of someone who would extend aid to a stranger without expecting anything in return.
Something within that calm professionalism reassured her, cutting through the tempest of fear and confusion that had dominated her thoughts since the attack. Despite everything—the destruction behind her, the uncertainty ahead, the terrible knowledge that she carried power she couldn't understand or control—she found herself taking tentative steps forward.
And despite the tempest of terror swirling in her mind, she took slow, tentative steps toward the figure, trusting in the simple human decency she saw reflected in those storm-colored eyes more than her overwhelming trepidation. Each footfall on the silver grass felt significant, as if she were crossing more than mere physical distance—as if she were stepping from one version of her life into another entirely.
The knight watched her approach with an expression of patient professionalism, the kind of measured calm that spoke of someone trained to handle refugees and displaced persons. When the distance between them had narrowed to mere feet, Zepp could see additional details that spoke of the woman's experience—the way her armor bore the small scratches and dents of actual training rather than mere ceremony, the calluses on her sword hand that marked her as someone who practiced her craft seriously, the small silver pendant at her throat that might have been a religious symbol or family crest.
"What's your name?" Zepp whispered, her voice barely audible over the gentle susurrus of wind through the surviving trees.
The knight paused, and for a moment something flickered across her features—uncertainty, perhaps, or the consideration of someone weighing protocols against compassion. "I am..." she began, then stopped, tilting her head slightly as if listening to something Zepp couldn't hear. "Perhaps it's better if names wait until we're somewhere safer. These forests can carry voices farther than intended, and you seem to have encountered trouble already."
The response was practical rather than mystical, the kind of caution that spoke of military training rather than magical knowledge. Yet there was something apologetic in her tone, as if she regretted the need for such precautions.
"Where are we going?" she asked instead, accepting the woman's caution while still needing some sense of direction, some anchor point in the chaos her life had become.
"There's a training camp not far from here," came the measured response. "A place where knights gather for field exercises and border patrol duties. It's well-guarded and has provisions for... unexpected situations." The knight's gaze took in Zepp's torn clothing and obvious exhaustion with professional assessment. "You look like you could use medical attention and a safe place to recover. The healers there will know what to do."
The answer was disappointingly mundane after everything Zepp had experienced, but perhaps that was exactly what she needed—simple, practical help from someone who wasn't trying to capture her or unlock mysterious powers. Just basic human kindness from a knight doing her duty.
"You know what I am?" The words tumbled out before Zepp could stop them, driven by desperate hope that someone, anyone, might have answers to the questions that plagued her.
The knight looked genuinely puzzled by the question, her brow furrowing slightly. "You're someone who's had a very difficult day, by the looks of things," she replied carefully. "Beyond that... should I know something more?" There was curiosity in her voice now, the first sign that Zepp's question had sparked genuine interest rather than mere professional concern.
The disappointment must have shown on Zepp's face, because the knight's expression softened with something that might have been sympathy. "I'm sorry," she said gently. "I wish I had answers for you, but I'm not sure what questions you're asking. What I can offer is safety, at least for tonight, and perhaps together we can figure out what's troubling you."
The path ahead remained murky and uncertain, but perhaps that was fitting. Not every meeting was orchestrated by destiny, not every rescue came with cosmic significance. Sometimes help arrived in the simple form of a dutiful knight doing her job, offering practical aid to someone in distress without deeper meaning or mystical connection.
But for the first time since her world had exploded into chaos and red lightning, Zepp felt the stirring of something that might eventually grow into hope—not because she had found someone who understood her mysterious powers, but because she had found someone willing to help without needing to understand.
And with that simple, human beginning, the journey continued. No grand promises hung in the air between them, no destinies waiting to be fulfilled—just the basic decency of one person helping another, which was perhaps more valuable than all the cosmic significance in the world.
The next chapter was waiting to unfold, and perhaps it would be enough that she wouldn't have to face it alone.
Behind them, in the ruins of the forest clearing, traces of red energy still flickered among the charred stumps like dying embers. And far away, in places where the barriers between worlds grew thin, ancient powers took note of the disturbance and began to stir with malevolent interest.
The awakening had only just begun.