Vivian
Vivian had never seen trees like these.
She knew—academically—that the legendary Blackwoods existed. Massive, ancient giants whose timber was prized across the Empire. But knowing a thing and standing inside it were two very different experiences. She’d never spent time in nature like this. Never climbed anything that felt older than dynasties.
Sad, really, that she had to be running for her life—on a mission important enough to influence the fate of the world—just to finally appreciate it.
The plan was set. It wasn’t a good plan, but it was a plan.
They would head north.
Emily and Elise were building something—something they refused to explain. A technique their oh-so-brilliant brother (and Vivian’s husband) had sketched out long ago while trying to solve “mana consistency problems.” They hadn’t said what kind of consistency problem. They hadn’t said why it existed. They hadn’t said why it was dangerous.
Which meant it was very, very dangerous.
They would use it as a distraction—whatever “it” was—to break past the orc encampments and flee north toward Crescent Hyr, the abandoned fortress of a forgotten city-state. A place nobody had used in a hundred years, maybe more.
In other words: exactly the kind of place that got people killed.
But the real goal wasn’t Crescent Hyr. Their hope was that if they got far enough north, they could finally get a connection through the MageNet. Then they could send a beacon. Or a distress spell. Or anything that would alert the Empire that dozens—hundreds—of orcs were moving in the Havenreach Highlands.
The Princess carried the latest crystal-messaging array. It had a directional recall rune and a tracking subweave. A long shot—but long shots were all they had left.
Vivian climbed.
Up the massive interwoven trunk-paths, circling higher and higher through the Blackwood haven. Her boots dug into cold bark slick with dew. The air was freezing—far colder than it should have been for the season. It wasn’t the cold of altitude. It was the cold of damp air that clung to the skin like wet cloth, stealing heat by sheer persistence.
She pushed on.
Higher. Higher.
Until finally she broke through the upper canopy.
What she found shouldn’t have existed.
A platform—wide, level, suspended among living branches, shaped as if the tree itself had grown a balcony. Not hacked. Not carved. Grown.
Nothing about the Blackwoods looked natural anymore. The havens weren’t “stands of trees.” They were engineered. Cultivated. Grown with purpose. Grown with power.
This platform was just more proof.
A faint wind pushed across the treetops, but it didn’t clear the haze. A dark mist hung here, thick and heavy with moisture, as if the very air had been soaked in shadow. The humidity didn’t cling—it pressed. It felt like walking into a room filled with warm breath and cold sorrow. Dense. Slow. Saturated.
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Vivian rested one hand on the trunk beside her.
Something was wrong with the air.
Not mana—she knew mana. Not chaos—she’d fought chaos storms before.
This was something else. Something older.
Something watching.
She steadied her breath, letting cold-aspect mana slip along her meridians, sharpening her senses, dampening the pulse of exhaustion that had followed her since the last battle.
Below her, she heard faint voices—Emily and Elise arguing in low whispers, Anmei muttering about “deadly fun,” Marissa scolding someone for breathing too loudly, Sophie directing logistics like she was arranging a battlefield.
Up here, it was just her.
Her and the strange mist.
Vivian narrowed her eyes at the horizon. The highlands stretched endlessly, rolling like waves of stone and shadow. In the distance, she could almost feel the pulse of war drums on the wind.
She exhaled. There was a warm pulsing at Vivian’s chest.
She had been trying to ignore it since she climbed into the treetops, but the sensation kept returning—the faint thrum of the Divine Moonsteel resting beneath her cloak. She hadn’t touched it directly. Something about the metal felt wrong to disturb, not dangerous but sacred, as though handling it casually would be a violation of purpose.
She didn’t understand why.
You’re not wrong, a voice said.
Vivian went still.
Her breath eased out in a slow, controlled line. “Of course,” she murmured. “A voice. In my head. Today just keeps getting better.”
You’re not losing your mind, the voice replied. There is truly someone here.
Vivian lifted a brow. “A mythological contract no one bothered to explain?”
There was a pause—and then a soft, unmistakable sound. A laugh. Quiet, warm, almost amused.
She blinked. Was she imagining that?
I can see why Fate chose you, the voice said. You adapt quickly for someone so rigid.
Vivian absorbed that. A goddess—assuming this was a goddess—had apparently just called her rigid. And amused herself in the process.
“I’m not entirely sure that was meant as a compliment,” she said, keeping her tone level.
It was, the voice answered.
Vivian adjusted her stance, palms braced lightly against the rough bark of the canopy platform. “If you’re actually real—and I’m withholding judgment on that—maybe you can help us with the situation we’re in?”
A softer tone followed. I wish I could. My influence is extremely limited right now.
Vivian closed her eyes briefly. “Of course it is. The first time I get a divine whisper, and she tells me she can’t help.”
A gentle warmth pulsed through the Moonsteel, almost like the echo of a sigh.
Mantles and Remit, the voice said. We all have roles we may play, and limits on how we may play them.
“So that’s a no,” Vivian said.
I didn’t say that. Another pulse, steady and calm. Only know this: what you’re doing is right. You and your companions are critical to what comes next.
Vivian stared out over the moonlit highlands, the distant havens rising through mist like ancient monuments. “And if we don’t survive?”
There was a long silence. Long enough that she wondered if she truly had imagined all of this.
Finally, the voice returned—quiet, heavy with something that might have been regret.
If you don’t survive, then none of us will be here to see what follows.
Vivian’s grip tightened on the branch beside her.
She forced her attention back to the treeline. The plains were silver beneath moonlight, the fog drifting in slow waves. She saw no fires or patrols, but she knew the orc groups were out there, somewhere between the ridges and the havens.
“The Divine Moonsteel,” she said. “What is it actually for?”
The voice hesitated.
It is a tool for balance. Something that—if fate allows—may help level the forces that seek to destroy this place.
“That’s cryptic,” Vivian said.
It’s all I can offer for now.
Vivian didn’t know if that was because the voice was withholding information or because it genuinely couldn’t say more.
She stood quietly, watching the distant shadows shift across the highlands.
Then the voice returned, softer than before.
Rest now, Daughter of the Moon. You will need your strength.
Vivian inhaled sharply at the title. “Why would you call me—”
But the presence was gone.
Only the cold air and drifting mist remained.
And Vivian stood alone among the branches, uncertain whether she had spoken with a goddess… or only with the echo of something far older.