The
veil between worlds shimmered as two elves, Freya, and her husband, Magnus,
stumbled out of a shifting light. The chill of approaching winter hung heavy in
the air as the soon-to-be mother, swollen with the promise of five new souls,
lumbered toward the mystical Forest of Souls. Beckoning them, the Forest of
Souls appeared both luminous and shadowed. Crossing its threshold, they left
the light behind as the forest closed around them like a living entity. Tall,
gnarled trees stretched overhead, their branches twisting into a canopy so
thick it blotted out the sun. Leaves shimmered in blues and purples, casting an
ethereal glow in the dim air. It was solstice eve, and Freya, her legs
trembling with exhaustion, reached for a gnarled, vibrant tree. She pressed
against its cool bark, a momentary relief for her burning shins.
The
forest pulsed with unseen life. Curious eyes peered from the shadows—animals
with a strange intelligence. Trees whispered, their leaves rustling in silent
exchanges, while others swayed as if playful spirits lived within them.
Everything here thrummed with magic, far beyond the ordinary.
"Freya,
are you alright?" Magnus rushed to her, his face tight with concern. She
managed a wan smile. Freya's emerald eyes gleamed in the dim forest
light—feline in shape, with vertical pupils that narrowed and widened as if
they responded not to light, but to emotion.
"Just
a little weary," she admitted. "These little ones seem determined to greet the
world before we reach the Circle." For days, they had walked, following the
cryptic instructions of the Aevum Faerie emissary. At least she had pointed
them to a portal, cutting down some of their travel time. The Circle, a locus
of ancient magic deep within the forest, was their destination, the predicted
birthplace for their extraordinary quintuplets. Searing pain ripped through
Freya's abdomen. A fierce contraction tightened her body, and she screamed,
doubling over, clutching her belly.
"Magnus,
I can't make it to the Circle. It's happening now—ahh!" Freya cried out,
clutching her stomach as she collapsed to her knees.
"Our
daughters are coming!" Her voice broke as she saw the trees begin to shift
around them. The bioluminescent path that they had been told not to leave shifted.
Creating a new path as the trees moved to frame a foliage archway. Just beyond
the newly formed path was a circular clearing, bordered with tall stones etched
with strange markings.
"Look!
That must be the Circle. Come on, we are almost there, love," Magnus offered
with as much encouragement as he could muster. Magnus guided Freya the last few
steps to the Circle, where she collapsed against one of the stones. Power
radiated from the monoliths, the air thick with magic—a tangible force pressing
down on them from all sides. Freya, too exhausted to think, pushed—and her
first daughter moved. At the clearing's edge, a figure hovered. Not solid, but
fluid. The towering humanoid figure stepped into the Circle, its entire form
cascading water, rippling and churning like a river. Light from the forest
refracted through its body, casting kaleidoscope patterns in every direction.
The
figure drew closer, and Magnus could only stare, mouth agape. A watery tendril
wrapped around the baby's shoulder, gently pulling. With a wet smack, the child
came free, cradled in the elemental's gurgling arms. Magnus approached his
firstborn, pinched her bottom, and she let out a cry.
Freya's
breaths came in ragged bursts, her chest heaving. Her hand, clenched around
Magnus's, trembled—not just from the pain, but from the realization that their
extraordinary children were entering the world. Another wave of agony swallowed
her, and she squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on the coolness of Magnus's skin,
the steady comfort of his presence.
"Stay
with me," Magnus whispered, his voice strained. Freya heard the fear beneath
his words—he was terrified, but trying to stay strong for her. She squeezed his
hand harder. A guttural heave escaped her lips, the effort momentarily draining
the vibrant green from her Elven eyes.
An
orange glow appeared at the edge of the Circle, hovering. On second glance,
Magnus saw that crackling flames and glowing embers fueled the composition. Flames
coiled like twisting tongues formed its arms, and swirling fire formed its
legs, scorching the ground as it approached. The fiery entity wrapped its wisps
around the second child as she slid out, flames gently licking her skin. The
crimson glow caressed her without heat—bizarre, yet strangely comforting.
Magnus lifted Freya's head, offering her a cool drink from his canteen. She
drank deeply; the water soothing her from the inside. But as she caught her
breath, another wave of pain hit. Gritting her teeth, she pushed again—this
time, it was harder.
"Magnus,"
she gasped. "Something's wrong. The baby's stuck." Desperation twisted Magnus's
face as he leaned down. What he saw defied logic—a head and an elbow, but in a
twisted, unnatural position. Panic clawed at him; the baby wasn't coming
easily. Magnus murmured an apology as he gently pushed the crown back in. Freya
cried out as pain ripped through her, then collapsed against the stone,
unconscious. Magnus carefully tried turning the baby, but something still felt
wrong, twisted. He cursed and tried to pull.
Three
arms and a head popped out. Magnus recoiled in shock. As he struggled to turn
the baby, icy dread coiled in his gut—something was terribly wrong, twisted
beyond nature. Cursing under his breath, he tried again, but the child wouldn't
budge. Something held fast. Suddenly, the clearing came alive. Thick green
vines snaked around the child, their leafy tendrils aiding the agonizing birth.
Magnus spun, his breath catching. Before him stood a being unlike anything he'd
ever seen.
The
creature was a tapestry of life—thick vines twisted into muscular limbs, its
torso a massive oak's trunk covered in vibrant moss. Flowers bloomed across its
shoulders like bright epaulettes, and roots snaked from its feet, anchoring it
to the earth. This elemental, this embodiment of nature, moved with terrifying
grace. With a flourish of branches, the figure made precise cuts, freeing
tangled limbs. There were two—twins, fused at the back, facing opposite
directions. One twin wailed, its cries sharp and broken as the figure slowly
tore apart their shared flesh. The other remained silent, curled in on itself,
unmoving—as if it had already accepted the pain. With practiced ease, the elemental
used leaves to staunch the wounds, leaving behind a soft green glow. Magnus let
out a heavy sigh, exhausted but relieved. But the relief was short-lived—one
more remained! He gently shook Freya, her eyelids fluttering open, heavy with
exhaustion and the shock of childbirth.
"Is it
… over?" she rasped, barely above a whisper. Magnus shook his head, his voice
thick with growing fear.
"Just
one more, my love." As if in answer, a contraction seized Freya, and a scream
tore from her throat. A shiver ran down Magnus's spine. At the edge of his
vision, the air shimmered, distorting the forest's glow. A swirling vortex of
darkness formed, its black tendrils reaching out like claws. Hints of purple
and inky blue flickered within, suggesting unfathomable depths. Tiny specks of
light, like trapped fireflies, pulsed faintly—perhaps remnants of a soul
consumed. The entity hissed, an indistinct sound that sent shivers down Magnus's
spine. It wasn't breath—it was the rustle of unseen fabric. Faint, unsettling
whispers seemed to rise from every direction as the shadow drifted closer, a
chill following it that made Magnus want to huddle closer to Freya. With
unnatural grace, the shadow swooped down, rippling like a shroud as it reached
for the last child.
Exhaustion
weighed on Freya's face, her emerald eyes drooping like wilted petals. A wan
smile flickered as she clung to Magnus, her strength fading with every breath.
Then, like a final farewell, a mournful cry echoed through the Circle. Magnus,
his body aching for rest, whipped his head around. Every eye—elf and
elemental—turned toward the sound. Beyond the hallowed ground, a swirling
vortex of air took form—a whirlwind defying gravity. It pulsed and writhed like
a living storm, vaguely humanoid in its shifting shape. The edges shimmered
with a translucent blur, bending light as it passed. An air elemental.
The
wail rose again, a keening cry filled with an emptiness that gnawed at Magnus's
soul. Although the creature clearly desired something, nothing remained to
give. The elemental wailed again—a heartbreaking sound of indecipherable
yearning. Then, with a sigh, it dissipated. Wisps of air lingered briefly, a
ghostly echo of its presence, before fading into nothing. Confusion battled
with anxiety as Magnus stared at the empty space, his heart heavy with an
unfamiliar sense of loss.
A
cacophony of rustling leaves jolted Magnus from his sleep. He sat up, heart
pounding in his chest. Beside him, Freya stirred, muttering a sleepy curse. The
commotion wasn't from a predator or a rogue breeze—it was a tree. Not just any
tree—a titan among its kin, its ancient boughs stretching toward the sky like
gnarled fingers. Moments ago, there had only been a bare clearing, but now a
colossal oak towered above Magnus and Freya. As Magnus blinked away the last
traces of sleep, the impossible happened—the tree bowed. Its massive trunk
dipped slowly, a deliberate, silent welcome.
"Sacred
inferno!" Magnus exclaimed. He nudged Freya awake, her groan turning into a
startled gasp as her emerald eyes met the arboreal giant. At the Circle's edge,
the elementals stood sentinel, each cradling a sleeping babe, as though holding
the future itself. Then the forest spoke. The air vibrated with a voice made of
a thousand whispers, a symphony of rustling leaves and crackling branches. It
wrapped around them like a mossy cloak, earthy and warm, carrying ancient
wisdom.
"Elves
of the Shattered Lands," it boomed, the voice resonating deep within Magnus's
chest, "you have come at a time of great need." Magnus straightened,
trepidation and defiance hardening his features.
"Who
speaks?" he called, his voice echoing through the silent woods. A chuckle, like
wind through a thousand branches, filled the air.
"I
speak for the Forest of Souls," the voice replied, slow and deliberate. "This
land, this haven, needs a guardian."
"What?
Us?" Freya asked, her voice laced with wonder.
"You
shall be king and queen, protectors of this sacred place. In return, we will
bless your children and provide shelter," the forest's voice rang with
unsettling clarity.
"What
is our part in this?" Magnus asked, voicing the unspoken question.
"Keep
the forest safe. Keep intruders out," the voice boomed, powerful and resolute.
The weight of responsibility settled over them—both thrilling and terrifying.
Without hesitation, they agreed, locking eyes in a silent vow. Thus began their
reign—not as conquerors, but as protectors, bound to the forest by a pact
sealed in whispers and magic. But as Magnus peered into the shadows of the
forest, something stirred. A faint rustle—too deliberate for the wind, too soft
for an animal.
His
breath caught.
"Did
you hear that?" he whispered to Freya, but she was already asleep, her body
drained by the day's trials. He stared into the woods, heart pounding.
Something—or someone—was watching. Icy tendrils of fear wrapped around him.
Magnus swallowed hard and pulled his cloak tighter. Whatever it was, it could
wait until morning. But the forest felt different now—older, darker, as if
something ancient had woken alongside their newborn daughters.
The
forest, however, kept its promise. A magnificent acropolis—a jewel of amethyst
woven with living branches and vibrant flowers—rose at the forest's edge. It
became a barrier, a shimmering line between the shifting world and their
newfound haven. News of their sanctuary spread like wind through leaves. Elves,
lost in the chaos of fractured timelines, found their way to the Forest of
Souls. Under the watchful eyes of their king and queen, their shattered elfdom
slowly began to heal.
The
years flowed by like a babbling brook, each sunrise revealing new wonders in
the quintuplets. Freya's extraordinary daughters blossomed into vibrant young
women, but with each season, unsettling changes crept in. Azura was the first.
She developed a shimmering, translucent blue hue, her movements echoing the
fluidity of water. One day, toddler Azura wandered too close to the stream.
Freya watched from a distance, her heart in her throat. But instead of slipping
into the rushing water, Azura stood at the edge, staring into the swirling
current with an eerie stillness. Freya's breath caught as she saw the
impossible. The water bent toward her daughter, rising from the stream as
though drawn to her tiny hands. For a moment, it danced around Azura's fingers
like playful ribbons, reflecting her wide-eyed wonder. Then, just as suddenly,
the water crashed back into the stream, leaving Azura giggling as if nothing
unusual had happened. She's not ordinary, Freya thought, a mix of pride and
fear stirring within her. None of them are.
Skarlyt,
fiery in both temperament and appearance, had a mane of auburn hair that
mirrored her reddening skin. She craved warmth, her tiny fingers constantly
reaching for flickering candles or the crackling hearth. The first sign came
when Freya tried to braid Skarlyt's hair. The toddler had always been a
handful, her fiery red locks matching her explosive temperament. But today,
Freya was determined to tame the wild strands.
"Sit
still, Skarlyt," Freya coaxed, holding the brush carefully. Skarlyt squirmed in
her lap, her tiny hands clenched into fists.
"It's
hot!" she whined, squirming harder.
"It's
not that bad, love, just—" Freya stopped short. The temperature spiked, and the
air shimmered with heat. She gasped as the wooden brush in her hand smoldered.
"Skarlyt!"
Freya cried, pulling her daughter off her lap and patting the smoldering brush
against the stone floor. But Skarlyt wasn't afraid. The tips of her fingers
glowed red, small embers dancing harmlessly across her skin. The heat in the
room intensified, and suddenly, a small flame leaped from her palm.
"Mama,
look!" Skarlyt exclaimed, giggled as the flame danced. But Freya's heart
pounded in her chest. She rushed to her daughter's side, carefully wrapping a
damp cloth around her small fingers, but the fire didn't hurt her. It was a
part of her.
Flora
and Fawna, the eternally entwined sisters, developed an unsettling greenish
hue, their bond with the natural world, deepening over time. One day, Freya
stood at the edge of the palace garden, watching her daughters play. Flora
knelt by a patch of flowers, her small hands brushing the petals. As she
touched them, the plants responded, blooming more vibrantly, their colors deepening
with life. Nearby, Fawna crouched by the pond, her fingers trailing in the mud.
Freya watched as Flora hummed, the flowers reacting to the sound. Fawna joined
her sister, and together they watched as the plants began to bud and bloom at
their touch. The sisters exchanged a quiet smile, as though the world around
them was part of their unspoken language. Freya's heart swelled with pride and
unease. They're more connected to this world than I ever imagined.
Onyx,
the youngest, was an enigma. Her skin took on a cool, deathly gray—stark
against her sister's vibrant hues. She could appear and disappear like a
phantom, leaving startled gasps in her wake. Onyx had always favored shadows.
They were quiet, comforting, like a cloak she could wrap around herself. The
others didn't understand her solitude, but Onyx didn't mind. She could
disappear, and no one noticed.
One
evening, while the others played outside, Onyx slipped into the cool, dark
corridors of the palace. She found her favorite hiding spot—a small alcove
where the light barely reached—and curled up, knees to her chest. But tonight
felt different. The shadows moved with her, shifting and swirling as if they
were alive. Onyx frowned and reached out, curious. To her surprise, the shadows
followed, wrapping around her fingers and sliding up her arm. She gasped and
pulled her hand back, but the shadows clung to her like a second skin. Onyx
gasped as she realized she could no longer see her hand—the darkness had
swallowed it whole.
Heart
pounding, she stood, staring down at her legs. They, too, were vanishing,
dissolving into the inky blackness. Panic surged, but a part of her—the part
that loved the shadows—whispered she was safe. She stepped forward, her foot
landing silently on the stone floor. The hallway lanterns flickered, and she
moved without a sound, her form barely visible in the dim light. Onyx smiled,
her fear fading. The shadows weren't consuming her—they were hiding her,
protecting her. She was the darkness.
Freya,
desperate for normalcy, clung to the hope that these were just childhood
oddities. But denial could only hold for so long. With her daughters in tow,
she went to see Sempai, an elven healer. He and his twin brother, strangers
from another realm, had arrived shortly after the Palace of Souls rose from the
forest floor. After a meticulous examination, he pronounced them perfectly
healthy—a fact that did little to ease Freya's anxiety.
"Then
why the strange skin tones?" she pressed, her voice trembling in the silence.
"It
seems to be part of the gifts bestowed on them at birth," he said, stroking his
beard thoughtfully.
"So,
they're some kind of… freaks?" Freya whispered, fear twisting in her gut.
"By
the Horned Goddess, no! Quite the opposite. They are harbingers of a new
era—the first whispers of a power previously unseen. They have the potential to
be extraordinary. Besides, where I come from, most elves have 'strange skin
tones,' as you say." Freya crinkled her nose, blushing at the unintended
offense. She only wanted her children to be healthy, loved, and ordinary. It
seemed she'd have to settle for two out of three. Extraordinary couldn't be
that bad.
"Thank
you, Sempai," she said, her voice firm. "I'll still bring them by regularly,
though."
"Of
course, Your Majesty," Sempai replied, a hint of amusement twinkling in his
rheumy eyes. These were not ordinary children, and their future held the
promise of untold possibilities.
Freya's
world became a kaleidoscope of colors after that visit to Sempai. Her
daughters, once rosy-hued, were rapidly transforming into living embodiments of
the elements. Even some villagers who spent time with them showed subtle shifts
in their own appearances.
By
the cusp of womanhood, Azura resembled the deep ocean—her skin a mesmerizing
cerulean, her eyes like polished sapphires. Water obeyed her every whim, and
she spent hours lost in its cool embrace. Skarlyt's crimson skin gleamed, and
she had a knack for conjuring playful sparks that Azura often had to
extinguish. Flora and Fawna, inseparable as ever, became living tapestries of
the forest—Flora a vibrant emerald, Fawna a sea-foam whisper. And then there
was Onyx. Her skin was like charcoal, flecked with stars in her shimmering
silver eyes. She moved through the darkness with unnerving ease, a master of
the unseen.
Normalcy,
Freya conceded with a sigh, was a distant dream. Instead, she sought the finest
magic tutors in the land, hoping to teach her daughters some control over their
growing powers. Sempai and his brother, Gambi, took on the immense task.
Arriving from a fractured timeline, they both had dark red hair, sun-kissed
skin, and tribal markings that danced across their faces. Though identical in
appearance, their personalities were as different as night and day. Sempai,
older by mere minutes, was calm and practical. Gambi, his boisterous twin, was
a whirlwind of impulsive energy.
Sempai
naturally took on the more challenging students—Onyx, whose mischievousness
rivaled the shadows, and Skarlyt, whose fiery spirit had a mind of its own. For
Azura, everything flowed effortlessly, her serene focus a stark contrast to
Onyx's constant stumbles. Skarlyt, though powerful, lacked restraint—a simple
request to light a candle often turned into an entire table ablaze.
His
twin, Gambi, on the other hand, thrived in his chaos-fueled lessons with the
twins. Flora and Fawna, with their deep connection to the living world, were a
joy to teach. Guiding the life that breathed and had its own language was far
easier than wrestling with formless elements. Gambi thrived in the
unpredictable, and the twins, with their shared spark and untamed connection to
the forest, were the perfect students for his unorthodox methods.
One
summer day, Onyx lay sprawled on her back, staring skyward as tears clouded her
vision. The training field blurred above her, and her sisters seemed to have no
trouble mastering their powers. Another burst of uncontrolled shadow had thrown
her from the target range, and she was starting to think she never would. Her
shadow powers, once a playful dance, now felt like tangled knots choking her.
While contemplating her rapidly diminishing dignity, a small, round face with
too large obsidian eyes materialized a hand's breadth above. A mischievous grin
stretched impossibly wide across it.
Onyx
blinked away her tears, bracing for taunts. After her spectacular display of
ineptitude, how could anyone resist mocking her? But the laughter never came.
Instead, the owner of the grin offered a hand. Still dazed, Onyx frowned in confusion,
but took it anyway.
"My
name is Xara. Orphan extraordinaire, courtesy of a wonky timeline hiccup.
What's your name?" the face—which was attached to a girl—politely said as she
pulled Onyx into a standing position.
"Onyx,"
she said, swatting clumps of grass from her clothes.
"Well,
Onyx, how about I help you wrangle those shadows? I've got a knack for black
fire, and it shares a few dark cousins with your magic." A flicker of hope
sparked in Onyx's chest. Maybe, just maybe, this strange girl with mismatched
socks and a mischievous glint in her eyes could actually help.
"Alright," Onyx finally breathed. "Show me."
Xara's grin widened even further.
"Right
then, so try hold your stance like this when casting," Xara stood with her feet
apart and staggered with one further back firmly planted. Onyx, still grappling
with her undignified tumble, could only manage a curt nod. And so, amidst the
chaos of training mishaps and misplaced shadows, bloomed an unlikely
friendship. One forged in shadows and the shared experience of being a little
out of place.
A
spark of camaraderie had flickered for Skarlyt as well. Unlike her frustrating
lessons on control, a different kind of magic unfolded during her free time. It
involved another orphan, a boy named Mythias. His wild, fire-red hair mirrored
the chaos that seemed to eternally follow him. He possessed a curious grace as
he dodged Skarlyt's playful blasts of flame, nimble as a fox despite his bare
feet and perpetual shirt shortage.
Though
fire danced in his eyes, Mythias couldn't conjure it himself. But that didn't
stop him from reveling in its warmth, his laughter echoing through the training
grounds as he danced a chaotic ballet around Skarlyt's fiery displays.
The
training halls had fallen silent, the air crackling with anticipation. Years of
focused study and playful skirmishes had led to this moment. Freya and Magnus,
their faces filled with pride and a hint of melancholy, stood at the brink of
letting go, surveying their daughters. Their shifting skin pigments had
settled, each girl now a living testament to her elemental bond.
The
ceremony began in the grand hall, bathed in the warm glow of Elven lanterns. Purple
light pulsed faintly within the walls. The sisters, standing shoulder to
shoulder with their chosen companions, shimmered in ceremonial gowns that
reflected the hues of their powers. Azura, the firstborn, stepped forward with
her companion. Her gown flowed like a cascading waterfall, woven from
iridescent fabric that shimmered like a pearl. It was a mesmerizing blend of
blues and greens, deepening and lightening with every movement, rippling like
an unseen current. The gown pooled at her feet as she knelt before the king and
queen, then rose with quiet dignity.
"I,
Azura, firstborn of the Queen and of the Lunar Elves, claim the oceans and all
vast bodies of water as my domain, to protect and defend until my final breath.
By my side, I name Luciana as my second." A ripple of approval swept through
the hall as Freya and Magnus exchanged a proud nod. Next, Skarlyt stepped
forward with her companion.
Skarlyt
didn't wear flowing gowns—fire demanded a different kind of elegance. Her
attire, stark against Azura's, featured intricate patterns of glowing red
cracks snaking across the midsection, as if volcanic heat pulsed beneath. The
base shimmered infernal red, fading into scorching oranges. The dress split
high on her thighs, revealing black leather knee-high boots.
"I,
Skarlyt, second-born of the Queen and firstborn of the Ember Elves, claim the
burning deserts as my domain, to protect and defend until my final breath. And,"
she added with a mischievous grin, "I choose Mythias as my second—so long as he
promises not to catch on fire." Laughter rippled through the hall, breaking the
tension. Once again, Freya and Magnus offered a smile of approval, their hearts
brimming with a mixture of pride and amusement. The twins stepped forward with
their companions—a faun and an elf with shimmering silver hair—and spoke in
unison.
Flora's
gown featured delicate vines, embroidered in shimmering forest green, that
climbed across the bodice, culminating in a single, sculpted white flower on
her shoulder. The dress shimmered in subtle emerald, deepening to mossy jade at
the bodice. Fawna's ceremonial gown was more practical—a sturdy tunic rather
than delicate finery. Crafted from thick, earthy brown leather with green
accents, it had no cumbersome sleeves, and the hem stopped just above her
knees, allowing for freedom of movement. Despite the stark contrast, Fawna
carried herself with a confident, earthy grace, a wild beauty
"We,
Flora and Fawna, daughters of the Queen and firstborn of the Elves of Gaia,
claim all wooded lands as our domain. Together, we will guard and protect every
rustling leaf and vibrant bloom until our final breath. As our seconds, we
choose Zephyr and Hogrun to stand with us in this sacred oath." A murmur of
approval rippled through the crowd before the last daughter abruptly silenced
it. Onyx darted forward, almost tripping over her own feet. Onyx didn't wear a
gown—it was a swirling vortex of midnight. Wisps of inky fabric, woven from
starlight swallowed by a black hole, clung to her like a living shadow. The
edges flickered and danced, defying gravity and shimmering with a faint,
unsettling glow. Where it touched her skin, there was no clear line. The
shadows seemed to seep into her, hinting at a deeper connection to the darkness
she commanded. The gown, if you could call it that, had no embellishments. Its
beauty, or perhaps more accurately, its menace, lay in its stark simplicity. It
was a living embodiment of the shadows themselves.
"I,
Onyx, lastborn of the Queen and firstborn of the Shadow Elves, claim dominion
over all places of shadow—the caverns below, the hidden nooks in the mountains,
and the deep dark of night. Until my last breath, I will defend and protect
them. I name Xara as my devoted second." All heads turned toward the back of
the room, where a figure stood, her smirk mirroring Onyx's. A murmur of
surprise and unease rippled through the crowd. Sensing the shift, King Magnus
stepped forward, his voice booming with authority.
"So
it shall be!" he declared, silencing the murmurs. "My daughters have spoken,
and their domains are theirs to protect. Let us rejoice in the naming of these
new guardians, defenders of the elements, and champions of the realm! Now go
forth, and may your legacies be etched in the annals of time!" As the King
raised his arms in a grand gesture, a thunderous roar of approval erupted from
the crowd. The air crackled with a mix of excitement and apprehension, for a
new era had dawned. The daughters
departed for their respective regions, serving as ambassadors to their parents
and protectors of their domains.
A biting
autumn breeze wind swept through the high windows of the royal chambers, sharp
with the scent of frost and faded leaves. It heralded the third equinox since
the declaration ceremony.
A
brown falcon landed on the edge of the King's balcony, its talons clinking
softly against stone. Tied to its leg was a scroll, sealed in crimson wax. The
King unfastened it with practiced fingers, but as he read the tight, urgent
script, a shadow passed across his expression. The words settled over him like
storm clouds—ominous, inescapable.
"Oh,
Gehenna," he muttered.
Villagers
in the north—those closest to the wilds under Flora's stewardship—had begun to
vanish without trace. Not a simple wolf attack or poor harvest. This was
something darker. Older.
He
turned back to the falcon, intending to send a reply—only to falter.The bird
was no longer a falcon.
A
black raven now sat in its place, unblinking, its feathers slick as ink. The
King stared, his breath catching for a moment. Had he been mistaken? Was it the
same bird? Or had something… changed?
After
a long pause, he reattached the scroll and sent the creature into the wind,
aiming it toward Flora's outpost. His heart was heavy, though he didn't yet
know why.
This
would be the first true test of any of his daughters.
And
it would not be the last.