"Keep moving," one of the Verdant guards ordered, his voice muffled and strange behind a mask woven of leaves and living roots. The mask seemed less like something worn and more like something grown, clinging to his skin as if it had chosen him.
Kael's hand pressed firmly against Joss's back, guiding him forward. The boy's steps faltered with every uneven patch of ground, and Kael leaned in close. "Don't stumble," he whispered, voice low and edged with urgency. "They'll think you're weak if you do."
"I'm not weak," Joss whispered back, though his voice quavered. His lip trembled as his eyes darted to the towering walls of foliage hemming them in. "I just—this place—"
"Yeah," Bram muttered, unable to hold his tongue. His neck craned back, gaze climbing higher and higher. "It's different, all right. Look up. You ever seen trees like that? Whole roofs hanging in the sky."
And they were—colossal trunks as wide as entire houses stretched upward, disappearing into a vaulted canopy of green. Platforms spiraled around them, layered one above the next like stacked terraces of some living fortress. Wooden bridges swayed gently in the air, lashed with ropes and vines, threading across the heights in dizzying arcs.
Sunlight filtered down through the leaves in wavering shafts, gilding faces and shoulders in shifting patterns. From above drifted the sounds of a life unlike anything the children had ever known—light, carefree laughter as children raced across narrow walkways, fearless, certain that the living vines would catch them if they slipped.
Lyra drew in a breath that seemed to loosen something hard inside her. Her sharp features softened, eyes shining as she whispered, "It's… alive. All of it. The air. The wood. Even the light feels alive here."
Dagan gave a snort, harsh and dismissive. "Alive, chained—same difference. This is still a cage, no matter how pretty it looks."
Amara tilted her head, her gaze sharper than the rest, noting how vines curled respectfully back from the Verdant guards' boots with every step. "No," she murmured. "It listens to them. The red fire in Pytharis consumed, always taking, always burning. This…" she spread her hand toward the living walls, "…breathes. It bends because it chooses to."
Kael slowed for a heartbeat, his jaw working. His voice was low, almost reluctant. "They told us red was the only magic. That green was useless. Dead. But this—"
"Looks a lot more alive than home," Bram cut in, smirking even as awe widened his eyes. "Maybe they lied. Wouldn't be the first time."
A guard swung a hand against Bram's shoulder, shoving him forward. "Silence."
Bram stumbled, catching himself with a sharp grin. He rolled his shoulders and glanced at Kael. "Guess I hit a nerve."
---
They moved deeper into the settlement until the pathways opened into a great clearing. At its center rose a structure that seemed half temple, half tree—its roots braided together into sweeping arches, its walls carved from both living wood and stone. Sunlight pooled like liquid gold across its face, catching upon carvings of orbs framed by curling leaves.
Strange sigils pulsed faintly across the pillars—shapes etched into bark and stone alike, humming as though the forest itself breathed through them.
Kael slowed despite the guards' prodding, his eyes locking on the symbols. A pressure stirred at the back of his mind, like a door half-open in the dark. "Those marks…" he whispered.
Lyra turned her head toward him. "What about them?"
"I've seen them before," Kael murmured, brows knitting tight. "In Pytharis. I can't remember where, but—I swear I did."
Bram groaned. "Don't start with curses and visions. We just got here. I'd like one meal before the world ends again."
The bell tolled then, ringing clear and resonant, a sound that seemed to pass through their very bones. Villagers poured into the square—men and women clad in green and gold cloaks, children weaving garlands of flowers into their hair. Their whispers swelled like wind in tall grass, hushed but fervent, their eyes fixed on the strangers.
From within the shrine emerged a tall figure, his robe a cascade of sunlight hues embroidered with intricate vines. In his hand gleamed a staff topped with a radiant emblem of the sun.
His voice, when it came, was warm but commanding enough to still the murmurs. "Elder Thalos. My old friend."
The children froze as though struck.
"Old friend?" Bram hissed, incredulous. "Since when does our quiet elder have friends in glowing robes?"
Elder Thalos bowed, the motion deliberate, reverent. "Serath. Time has not dimmed your light."
The robed figure smiled faintly, lifting his staff toward the villagers. "Behold! The wanderer returns. Once he fought beside us. Once he was our comrade."
Gasps rippled across the crowd. Faces leaned close, voices whispered, and the children of Pytharis exchanged glances sharp with confusion.
"Thalos?" Lyra whispered. "He never told us—"
"Of course he didn't," Bram muttered darkly. "Figures."
Dagan's fists clenched at his sides. "So he hid things. More secrets. Always more."
Amara's calm voice softened the tension, though her eyes never left Thalos. "Secrets keep children alive. Maybe that was reason enough."
The two elders—Thalos and Serath—moved together toward the temple doors, old comrades bound by something none of the children understood. Before stepping inside, Serath turned once more, staff raised. "These children are under our protection. They are guests of the Verdant Kingdom."
At his words, the villagers bowed in unison, their voices falling silent as reverence blanketed the square.
---
The strangers were led soon after to long wooden tables set beneath an open pavilion. Baskets overflowed with food—soft bread still steaming, fruits gleaming with dew, fragrant stews bubbling in clay bowls. The sheer abundance was dizzying.
Bram's eyes widened as if he might burst. "Tell me I'm not dreaming." He lunged forward, tearing into a loaf with greedy hands, crumbs scattering down his tunic.
Kael watched for a moment, half cautious, half tempted. Then hunger won. He reached for a handful of berries, and the first bite sent sweetness flooding across his tongue. It was so sudden, so pure, he almost staggered.
Lyra, cheeks flushed, broke a loaf of bread and placed the first piece into Joss's hands before eating herself. "This," she whispered, wonder threading her voice, "this is what eating should feel like. Not choking down ash and gruel. Not swallowing only enough to survive."
Joss nibbled slowly, wide-eyed. "It's too good. Like… like it's wrong to have so much when—" He cut himself short, guilt pinching his face.
"Don't overthink it," Bram said around a mouthful, voice muffled but brash. "Stuff your face before they change their minds."
Even Dagan ate, tearing chunks of bread as though the food itself was his enemy, jaw working furiously.
Amara smiled faintly at the sight, her composure unbroken. "See? Even you're quiet when your mouth is full."
Laughter broke then, sudden and real, spilling out from the children like water over stones. For the first time in longer than any of them could remember, the sound was unguarded. For a heartbeat, they were not fugitives, not orphans of fire, but only children at a table, fed and safe.
---
Later, drawn by curiosity, they wandered to the village's edge. Verdant children played freely, climbing vines as easily as ladders. One boy swung from a branch and dropped into a net of green cords that seemed to weave themselves to catch him. His laughter soared, bright as birdsong.
Bram shook his head, almost disbelieving. "Didn't know life could be like this."
"Neither did I," Lyra admitted softly. She looped an arm around Joss's shoulders, pulling him close. "No chains. No whips. Just—freedom."
Dagan's eyes narrowed, voice hard as stone. "It's soft. All of it. Makes people forget. Makes them weak. The world out there doesn't care about joy. It'll burn this place the same as it burned ours."
"Not weakness," Amara countered gently. She crouched, fingertips brushing the grass as though to prove her point. "This is life as it should be. Maybe we should stop arguing long enough to feel it."
Her words quieted them. One by one, they sat upon the soft earth, the grass bending cool beneath them. Above, the sky flared with gold as the sun sank low. For once, silence wrapped them not in fear but in peace.
Kael leaned back on his elbows, gaze wandering. His eyes caught again on one of the carved pillars nearby. Its surface bore the same sigils he had noticed earlier—lines spiraling, interwoven. But one symbol arrested him.
A serpent. Twined in a perfect circle, its body encasing a sun within a sun.
Kael's breath hitched. He could not look away. For in that moment, the carving moved. The serpent's eyes lit with faint sparks, twin flames that bore straight into him.
His chest clenched. He lurched forward, blinking hard—
The carving was still. Only wood. Only symbol.
Bram noticed his start and nudged him with a raised brow. "What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing," Kael muttered too quickly, though his pulse thundered in his ears. "I just—thought I saw—"
He stopped, unable to finish. His eyes lingered, unwilling, on the serpent sigil.
Did it move? Or had the Serpent's shadow already stretched past the Wall itself?
---