The groaning of the silver-barked tree broke the silence like a fissure in glass—long and slow, a creeping, unnaturalness. The kind of sound that woke some ancient part of the soul, as if the very bones of the earth were being reset. Once kind of sound that didn't belong where there should be breath and heat. The wail of something old—older than names, older than wood, older than the breathing of universe.
Kael's hand tightened around his sword. His knuckles were white, but the trembling in his hands was not from fear—but reverence. His senses screamed warning, but his soul… stilled. Something sacred awakened within, and he dared not blink.
The trunk of the tree swelled.
It was no gentle shift. No illusion of wind or shadow. It throbbed—once—like something living breathed within.
Liora let out a stifled gasp, collapsing back against the shadow of Kael, her hands around the edge of his cloak like a child for warmth in a bad dream.
"Elara…" she panted. "What is this?"
But Elara did not answer. Her mouth had opened just so, her eyes open wide—not with terror, but something more exotic. Her entire posture was amazed, as if to see the slow, deliberate step of a queen long-considered legend.
The bark of the tree began to split—not wood creaking, but flesh splitting.
It tore not in jagged lines, but in a silent, beautiful seam—dead center down the length of its torso. The lines deepened, revealing no sap, no woodgrain—nothing but emptiness. A darkness darker than shadow, deeper than the abyss. The split proceeded down the trunk, then stopped, as though holding back for leave to continue.
Then… two hands.
Slender. Blemish-free. Almost too perfect.
They protruded outward, cleaving the tree's ribcage with a chilling beauty, as though the tree had been nothing but a husk—to be discarded.
No blood. No struggle.
The hands shone—skin bathed in moonlight, glowing softly in the blackness, every tendon and curve etched by a fragile, ethereal light. Fingertips dusted with what appeared to be silver ash, reflecting the waning light like dying stars.
Kael couldn't speak.
Couldn't move.
Something had burst in his chest, a sensation he couldn't put into words. Awe… fear… wonder… perhaps all three, spun into one thread pulled taut within him.
From the tree's trunk, she emerged.
A girl—no, a vision draped in the guise of flesh.
She stepped into existence not like something approaching, but as if she'd existed all along, only waiting for the right breath of twilight to usher her forth.
Her skin radiated an iridescent paleness, as though starlight had been distilled into human skin. There was no blemish, no scar, no trace of injury on any inch of her—she seemed untouched by the world and yet older than the bones.
Her locks fell in cascades of silver-white silk, moonlight snow, down to her waist in soft undulations, fluttering with the air despite the fact that the forest was immobile. A strand was not out of place.
And her physique… barely attired.
She was clothed in barely more than the tatters of what had perhaps once been ceremonial robes, now frayed and worn, so most of her body was exposed—curves that would reduce statues to their knees in envy, cut in the geometry of divine harmony. Each step she took was art—effortless, flowing, hypnotic.
And nothing about her was mortal.
Even in nudity, there was no shame. No temptation. She was not trying to be seen.
She just was.
Liora's mouth dropped, immobile. Her breath dangled between lip and lung.
She should envy. Or have been afraid. Or be amazed. But what stuck in her chest instead was a dark, animalish wrongness—like this child had been from some where names were irrelevant, where cowardice itself would not even bother to look too hard.
Kael could feel Liora shiver against him. He wanted to talk—to soothe her, to shield her, to understand what he was seeing—but his own mind had turned into a tangle of words and images that refused to come apart.
Because the girl's eyes stayed shut.
Not concealed in sleep—but as if opening them would unravel the world.
And yet, still, she moved. Barefoot. slow. Silent.
Her steps left no trace. Her step made no sound. And yet every leaf turned toward her. Every wind curled around her branches like a homing lover.
Elara gasped. "No."
Kael spun back to her, shocked by the strength of her reaction. "What's wrong?"
Elara's voice was husky. "She's not… meant to come awake. Not yet."
"What are you talking about?"
But Elara did not answer.
The girl walked on—until she was standing in front of them, inches from the wall between storm and silence.
And then.
In the beat of a heart, she was gone.
No blur. No movement.
She was yards away, stood silhouetted in the stillness of the silver-ringed glade—and then she was standing there.
Facing Liora.
So close, their breaths should have mixed together.
Kael's sword half-drawn before instinct caught up to warn him: Too late.
He hadn't even seen her move.
Elara stood frozen, hand half-way up with wisps of wind piling in her hand—but her spell would not take form.
Liora stared into the girl's face. Her lips parted slightly in surprise. She couldn't breathe.
But the girl's eyes were still shut.
And then, quietly, almost inquiring… the girl raised one hand.
She did not reach for a blade. She did not speak. She did not threaten.
She simply lifted her thin fingers, the tips of them rounded in tender silver light, and placed a single fingertip beneath Liora's chin.
The contact was as gentle as a feather.
But it hit Liora like a shiver in her chest.
Her knees nearly buckled, her breath caught—because at that moment, her own mind was not her own. Images—strange, old, searing—broke in her mind like a unleashed river.
Snapshots of a city in moonlight.
A crystal tower ablaze with melodies no lips remembered.
Eyes—dozens, hundreds—looking from an ocean of stars.
And a name.
A name that had no place in this world.
The girl's lips curled ever so slightly. Not a smile. Not quite.
But something between recognition and loss.
Then her eyes began to open.