Elias Fernwell POV
"Hey there, little guy. Looks like you're thirsty," I murmur, pouring exactly seventy degrees Fahrenheit water into one of my prized sunflowers. The liquid disappears into the soil, sinking through that perfect 6.5 pH mix I've spent years perfecting. Down, down, down—
"Stop that line of thought, Elias," I mutter, shaking my head.
Six years of school. A bachelor's in agricultural science, a master's in horticulture, and still no stable job market in Nebraska. At least my plants don't judge.
"Sorry you had to hear that," I sigh, rubbing a thumb along a sunflower's petal. "You guys get me, right?"
It's silly, but plants do respond to vibrations. Maybe they grow faster because they know I'm just as rooted and trapped as they are.
I move toward the peas next, frowning. One's drooping, its leaves discolored. "Ah, poor thing." I lift the pot gently, grab my shears, and snip away the sick leaves. "There we go—clean cut."
I checked the ventilation panel above, and it's still dead. "Didn't I turn you on?" I grumble, dragging over my step stool. As I twist the knob, the stool shifts.
"Whoa!" I flail, somehow catching myself on the edge of the counter. My heart hammers in my chest. "That's… one way to prune myself out of existence."
I step down carefully—and freeze. A rake lies right where I was about to put my foot. The metal teeth gleam up at me like a cartoon trap.
I let out a nervous laugh. "What's next, a falling anvil?"
Clang!
An empty pot crashes from the shelf above, shattering inches from my head. I stumble back, adrenaline spiking. The air in the greenhouse feels wrong—thicker somehow, humming low like a distant generator.
Then the floor trembles. The glass panes rattle. A deep groan rolls beneath me.
"Earthquake?" I shout, ducking instinctively. Pots swing on their hooks. Tools clatter to the floor.
I try to run for the doorway, but something grabs me. No—pulls me. My right leg sinks into the floor like it's turned to liquid. The ground below isn't just wood anymore—it's black.
"What the hell?!" I yank at my leg, panic flooding my veins. The suction grows stronger, cold and relentless.
I grab a metal shelf, knocking over rows of pea plants and sunflowers in my struggle. The air reeks of damp earth and ozone. My other leg slips in next.
"No, no, no—come on!" I scream, pulling with everything I have. The metal shelf creaks, bending under my weight.
The vortex churns violently now, a swirling hole of Vantablack swallowing everything nearby. Pots tumble in and vanish without a sound.
Tears sting my eyes as I fight to keep my grip. My left arm is caught—dragged downward like the earth itself wants me gone.
The greenhouse lights flicker, glass panes cracking overhead. I can't even scream anymore; the pressure steals the air from my lungs.
Just before the darkness takes me, I hear it—a voice, low and almost amused, whispering from the void:
"Fucking finally."
XXX
Blake Bellladonna POV
Sand.
Everywhere. Endless dunes stretching under the cold shimmer of a shattered moon.
A few hours ago, the Kuo Kuana defense guard spotted a Grimm surge racing across this wasteland—away from something. Not toward the city, but fleeing in the opposite direction. Grimm doesn't run. They're drawn to fear, not driven by it. That's why Sienna sent me to investigate.
Standing here, with the chill desert wind creeping into my coatless arms, the Grimm had the right idea.
I scan the horizon, ears twitching, tail flicking against the sand. The air tastes dry, dead. Not even a Beowolf's growl or a Deathstalker's skitter breaks the silence.
"Come on, Blake," I mutter, breath frosting in the night air. "It's just a bit of scouting. A bit of cold. Totally fine."
My voice sounds small in the empty expanse.
"…Oum, damn it, I should've brought my coat."
Or a book. Anything to pass the time between every unsettling gust of wind.
Then—a shift.
It's faint at first—a pressure change that prickles your skin before a storm. My ears flatten instinctively as the breeze stiffens, sand hissing across the dunes.
The wind grows teeth—howling, clawing, swirling faster. I glance up, heart hammering, as the air above me twists into a spiraling column.
"What the—?!"
The words barely leave my mouth before I slam Gamble Shroud into grappling form, firing the ribbon hook toward a jagged outcrop. The wire catches, and I dig my heels into the sand just as the gale roars to life.
Sand lashes my face like glass shards. The night sky itself seems to warp—the shattered moon's glow twisting into the vortex until all that remains is an obsidian whirl of inky blackness devouring the stars.
I grit my teeth, muscles burning as I cling to the rock. The howl drowns out every thought until, suddenly, something breaks through the dark.
At first, I thought it was debris. Then I realized it was moving too deliberately—falling, not flying. It was a silhouette—a human.
The vortex collapses as fast as it formed, the screaming winds dying into silence. Only the faint whistle of descent remains before—
THUD!
The impact shakes the dune. A wave of sand sprays out, stinging my skin. I release the grappling line, landing lightly, staring at the crater forming in the dim light.
There, half-buried in the golden dust, lies a body.
A man.
And for one impossible, breathless second… I swear the air still hums with whatever brought him here.
I disconnect Gamble Shroud from the rock and sprint across the dunes toward the impact site. My boots sink into the soft sand, each step carrying me closer to the crater.
The smell of scorched ozone lingers in the air. The wind has died completely—unnatural, like the world is holding its breath.
Inside the crater, half-buried in fine dust, lies a figure. Alone. Still.
I slide down the slope, landing in a crouch beside him. My eyes narrow. He's dressed… strangely.
Overalls. A red T-shirt. A straw hat was still clinging to his head despite the fall. A green watering can with a painted flower dangles from his belt beside a shovel with a red handle—tools, not weapons. His gloves are scuffed leather, patched with green.
He looks like he came straight from a farm, not out of the sky.
Cautiously, I move closer, stepping lightly so my boots barely disturb the sand. I kneel beside him, ears twitching at every slight sound. His chest—does it move?
I hover my hand over his mouth. Warm air brushes my palm—shallow, but steady.
He's breathing.
My fingers press against his neck next. Pulse. Faint, but alive.
I lean closer, brushing a few grains of sand from his cheek. Human. No Faunus traits—no ears, tail, scales, nothing.
"Wait…" I whisper. "A human? Here?"
My stomach knots. The words barely make sense even as I say them.
"How did a human get to Menagerie? And that vortex—no semblance, no Dust could… no, that's impossible."
My thoughts spiral faster than the winds that brought him here. All I can do for a second is stare—half expecting him to dissolve into dust or wake up swinging.
But his face is… pained. Frightened, even in unconsciousness. Whatever brought him here wasn't gentle.
I exhale, shaking off the unease curling in my chest. "Sorry for the rough treatment," I mutter, sliding my arms under his shoulders. He's heavier than he looks—solid muscle under the farmer's getup.
With a grunt, I hoist him up, adjusting his weight until he rests securely against me. My tail flicks irritably as I start the long trek back toward Kuo Kuana, the desert stretching silent and cold behind me.
"Let's hope Mom and Dad know what to do with you," I murmur. "Because I sure don't."
The stars watch quietly as I disappear into the dunes—one more mystery trailing in the wake of the shattered moon.
The Next Morning
Elias Fernwell POV
Pain.
That's the first thing that hits me. Not confusion. Not fear. Just pain. My head pounds like I got kicked by a mule, my back feels like it's been used as a sandbag, and my muscles ache as if I'd been farming nonstop for days. Breathing's not much better—every inhale feels heavy, like I'm pulling dust through my lungs.
I don't even open my eyes yet; I already know this isn't my bed.
When I finally force them open, I'm greeted not by my greenhouse ceiling or even a hospital light… but a shack. The walls are rough-hewn, made from dark tropical wood. The roof is thatch—woven reeds that rustle faintly with the wind.
The air smells of salt and sun-warmed timber. Wherever I am, it's not Nebraska.
"…Okay. So that wasn't a dream," I mutter, voice dry and hoarse.
I try to sit up, only to feel the cold bite of metal around my wrist. A chain rattles, tight and unyielding. I stare at it in disbelief. Shackled. To a bed.
"Oh, come on," I groan, tugging weakly at the restraint. "What is this, medieval hospitality?"
Before I can test the chain again, I hear footsteps. Light, deliberate, getting closer.
I freeze, heart thumping.
The door slides open.
Standing there is a girl—no, a woman—with long black hair that shimmers like obsidian in the morning light. Her amber eyes catch mine, sharp and focused yet not unkind. She's dressed in black and white—something between combat gear and a fashion statement—but what grabs my attention aren't her clothes.
It's the ears.
Two on her head—cat-like, flicking with each sound—and another pair, Human, where they should be. And behind her… a tail, swishing lazily, as if this is all perfectly normal.
I blink. Once. Twice.
Nope. Still there.
My jaw hangs half-open before words finally stumble out. "What—what the hell? Why do you have—are those cat ears?"
She crosses her arms, unimpressed. "What, you've never seen a Faunus before?"
Her tone has bite, like I've offended her by existing.
"Fau…nus?" I repeat, tasting the word like it's foreign. "I don't know what's happening, but please let me go. I haven't done anything!"
For a moment, her expression stays guarded. Then her eyes soften, curiosity overtaking irritation. "You really have no idea, do you?"
I shake my head slowly. "None."
She studies me—really studies me—as if trying to decide whether I'm lying, insane, or both.
"Then tell me something," she says, stepping closer. "Why were you falling out of a vortex in the middle of the desert last night?"
I blink again, dumbfounded. "A… vortex?"
She nods. "Big one. Black as night. Dropped you like a sack of potatoes."
Her description jolts my memory. My chest tightens as images flood back—my greenhouse shaking, the floor turning to liquid shadow, the pull, the fear—
"The last thing I remember," I say quietly, "I was tending to my plants. The ground started to quake—I thought it was an earthquake—but my leg sank into something. Like… a hole made of darkness. I tried to pull free, but it swallowed me whole."
She frowns, tail flicking thoughtfully. "That… doesn't sound like anything I've ever heard of. No semblance, no Dust effect, nothing."
"Yeah, well," I sigh, slumping back against the pillow, "I'm just as confused as you are."
Her gaze lingers on me a moment longer before softening again. "Maybe I came on a little strong earlier," she admits, scratching her head awkwardly. "Let's start over. I'm Blake. Blake Belladonna."
"Elias Fernwell," I reply automatically, though my brain's still spinning.
"Fernwell, huh?" she repeats, almost testing it. "Alright, Elias. You're lucky to be alive. You fell from the sky, after all."
I give a weak chuckle. "Guess that explains the back pain."
She doesn't smile—but the corner of her mouth twitches like she almost did.
"Wait—Dust? As in… the stuff you clean off shelves? And what the hell's a semblance?" I blurt out, trying to make sense of Blake's earlier words.
Her amber eyes widen, genuine surprise flashing across her face—before she can respond, a heavy thud, thud, thud of boots echoes from the doorway.
Then—steel gleams.
A blade nearly as long as I am tall stops an inch from my throat. My breath catches, eyes focusing on the figure behind it.
"HUMAN!"
The voice is a growl—female, furious, and commanding enough to freeze the blood in my veins.
She's tall and towering compared to Blake and has long crimson hair that ripples like firelight. Twin horns curve from her temples—polished, powerful, real. A white mask with red markings hides most of her face, but the intensity behind it burns through regardless. Her asymmetrical coat, trimmed with scarlet, hangs open just enough to expose her toned midriff and more than a bit of cleavage of her generous bust.
Behind her, a cow's tail tipped in red lashes the air like a whip.
I don't need to be told she's dangerous—how she grips her sword tells me all I need to know. If I make one wrong move, I'll be fertilizer.
"Eve, wait!" Blake snaps, stepping in between us, hand raised. "Don't!"
"Why not?" Eve barks, her voice dripping venom. "He's a human, Blake! A spy, a plant, maybe worse!" She presses the tip of her sword closer—so close I can feel the cold kiss of steel against my neck.
"If I could see her eyes right now," I think, "they'd be burning holes through me."
Blake moves quickly, positioning herself between me and the blade, palms open in a calming gesture. "Eve, listen to me. He's confused—he doesn't even know what Dust or semblances are. Whatever brought him here, he's not our enemy."
Eve's shoulders tense, her tail flicking sharply. "We can't guarantee that, Blake. We can't risk Menagerie for some stranger! Remember what the humans did to us!"
The raw pain in her voice cuts through the air, heavy with memory.
Blake's gaze softens, but her words don't waver. "If we condemn him just for existing, then we're no better than those who tried to cage us. I won't become what they made me hate, Eve. And I don't want you to either. Who will be in control, the faunus or the monster?"
Silence.
Eve's grip tightens on her sword hilt… then loosens. She lets out a long, frustrated sigh and steps back, blade lowering.
"Blake," she says at last, voice quieter now, "you really need to stop quoting from your books." A slight, begrudging smirk crosses her lips beneath the mask. "But fine."
Blake exhales in relief. "That's all I can ask for."
Meanwhile, I'm still sitting there chained to a bed, watching what feels suspiciously like a lovers' quarrel that just saved my life.
Eve—mask glinting in the morning light—turns her attention back to me. Her warmth from a moment ago is gone, replaced by ice.
"Human," she says coldly, voice cutting through the quiet. "Get up. Sienna will decide your fate."
She reaches into her coat, fishing out a minor silver key—no, from her cleavage, of course—and slides it into the shackle's lock.
Click.
The chain falls away, and freedom has never felt so fragile.
XXX
Eve's hand never leaves the hilt of her sword as she leads me out of the wooden shack. The sunlight hits like a hammer—hot, blinding, and merciless. When my eyes adjust, the sight before me turns my stomach.
Rows of weather-beaten shacks stretch toward the shoreline, each one barely standing. Rusted sheet metal and warped planks are lashed together with tarps, ropes, and scraps of netting. Fishing poles lean against cracked walls, their lines tangled and forgotten. The air smells of salt, sweat, and decay.
People move through the narrow paths between homes—men, women, even children. Their clothes hang loose from malnourished bodies. Dust clings to their skin, and their eyes look hollow, like the fight to survive has become their only rhythm.
A few pause to stare at me. Some whisper. Others just glare, silent and burning with unspoken hatred.
It's a place held together not by comfort but sheer, stubborn will.
Eve gestures toward the shantytown, her voice sharp with resentment. "This is what your people did to us. Forced us onto this island. Out of the cities and the world—left to rot here while you pretend we don't exist."
Her words cut deep, not because I caused this—but because, looking at them, I can't deny the truth in her anger.
"I… I don't know why other humans did this," I say quietly, my throat dry. "But up until I woke up here, I thought animal people were just myths—stories. I didn't even know Faunus existed."
Eve turns her head slightly, her tail flicking once in irritation. "So you're not cruel. Just stupid. Got it."
Blake pinches her side before I can even respond. "Eve."
"Hey!" I protest weakly, half-indignant. "I'll have you know I've got a master's degree. Six years of hard work."
Eve gives a low chuckle, sharp and disbelieving. "Oh yeah? In what? Farming?"
"Agricultural science, thank you very much," I say, crossing my arms despite the situation.
For a moment, there's an almost human silence between us—then Blake's voice cuts through, softer, but wary. "Not many humans come to Menagerie anymore. The last ones… weren't exactly peaceful."
Her gaze drifts to a distant memory, and I can see the faint tension in her jaw.
I follow her eyes back to the people watching us. They don't see a lost traveler or a stranger. They see a ghost of old enemies.
"Oh," I murmur, suddenly feeling very small. "Yeah… that makes sense."
Eve huffs, starting forward again. "Let's hope you can keep that humble tone when Sienna asks you what you're doing here."
Blake glances back at me, and for just a second, I see something in her eyes—sympathy, maybe. Or curiosity.
Either way, I keep walking. The air feels heavier with every step.
We're halfway down the dirt path when a voice calls out from one of the nearby shacks.
"Cream, don't—!"
Too late. I feel a slight tug at my pant leg.
Looking down, I see her—a tiny girl, maybe six or seven, staring up at me with wide, curious green eyes. Her skin is pale under a layer of dust, and her clothes—if you could even call them that—are torn rags stitched together from scraps of old fabric. Two long rabbit ears hang low from her head, twitching occasionally.
She looks fragile, but her smile… her smile could melt stone.
"Who are you, mister?" she asks, voice innocent and bright, like she hasn't noticed the despair around her.
Caught off guard, I manage an awkward chuckle. "Uh—Elias. My name's Elias. What's yours, little one?"
"Hi, I'm Cream!" she says proudly, as if the name itself were a badge of honor. Then her head tilts. "Where are your ears? Or your tail?"
I blink, momentarily at a loss. "Oh, uh, I don't have any. I'm human. But… honestly, I don't think that makes much difference."
She blinks up at me, thoughtful. "Momma says humans are bad," she says simply. "But you don't seem like a bad person."
I can't help it—I laugh softly. "Well, I'd hope not. And right now," I nod toward Blake and Eve, both watching with mixed expressions, "these two are helping me figure things out."
Cream nods sagely, as if that explains everything. "Okay."
Then her stomach growls. Loudly.
The sound cuts right through me.
I look at her—really look at her. The thin frame, the hollow cheeks, the faint tremble in her voice. This isn't just poverty—it's hunger. Starvation.
Something twists in my chest.
I pat my pockets, half out of instinct, until my fingers brush against something round and firm. I pull out a small handful of dried but clean peas, each a tiny remnant of my old life.
"It's not much," I say, crouching to her level, "but a growing kid like you needs food to grow big and strong. Here."
I place five little peas into her open hand.
She stares at them like I've given her gemstones. Then, carefully, she pops three into her mouth, chewing with pure, unfiltered joy.
"Thank you, mister!" she beams, grinning so wide I almost forget where I am.
"You're welcome, Cream," I manage softly. "Take care of your mom, alright?"
She nods vigorously, then scampers back toward the doorway where her mother—tired eyes, worn hands—waits in silent disbelief.
When I turn back, Blake and Eve stare at me, slack-jawed.
"What?" I ask, straightening my overalls.
"Nothing," Blake says quickly, though her tone is faintly warm. Eve, for once, stays silent, her expression unreadable behind the mask.
"Come on," Blake finally says, motioning forward. "Sienna's waiting."
As we continue down the road, I can still hear Cream's faint laughter in the distance.
And for a fleeting moment, despite everything—the fear, the confusion, the chains—I almost feel human again.
As we walk through the settlement's narrow streets, the air shifts. The ramshackle homes give way to sturdier structures—stone foundations, reinforced wood, signs of authority. Up ahead stands a large building draped with deep red banners fluttering in the sea breeze. The symbol on them—a stylized claw mark—bleeds against the sun-bleached fabric.
A voice called out from the crowd before I could even ask who lived there.
"Blake! Blake, there you are!"
I turn just as a woman steps into view—and for a split second, my brain short-circuits.
She's gorgeous. Graceful in a way that makes the sand and wind move around her instead of against her. Her hair, shorter and more elegantly styled than Blake's, shines like polished ink in the sunlight. Golden earrings sway gently as she walks, and her amber eyes—like Blake's—carry warmth and wit in equal measure.
Without thinking, I blurt, "I didn't know you had a sister."
Blake freezes mid-step, color flooding her cheeks. "S–Sister?!"
"...Cousin?" I try, holding up my hands in surrender.
The woman laughs—a soft, melodic sound that instantly disarms the tension. "Blake, relax. It's just a sweet gesture." She steps closer, smiling kindly at me. "I'm her mother, Kali Belladonna."
Oh. Oh, that explains it.
I straighten up fast, giving what I hope passes as a respectful nod. "Elias Fernwell. A pleasure, ma'am."
Her smile falters as her gaze lingers on me—studying, weighing, understanding far more than I'm comfortable with.
"Mom, what's wrong?" Blake asks, noticing the shift immediately.
Kali's expression softens, but there's something new behind it now—sadness, maybe. Or worry. Her tail flicks once before she exhales slowly.
"… Let's just head inside," she says at last. The warmth from a moment ago drains from her tone, replaced by something colder. Resigned.
Blake frowns but doesn't push. Eve remains silent, her mask hiding whatever reaction she has.
I can't shake the chill crawling down my spine as I follow them toward the building.
Whatever waits inside—this Sienna Blake mentioned—feels less like a meeting and more like a trial.
XXX
In stark contrast to the crumbling shantytown outside, this building radiates discipline. Every beam of lumber is polished, and every slab of stone is fitted with care. The structure feels less like a hall and more like a fortress—a declaration that order still exists here, even if the world beyond its walls has collapsed.
Thick rugs cover the stone floor, their crimson and black patterns muted by age. Lanterns and torches burn from wrought-iron sconces, casting a steady amber glow. Yet, despite the firelight, the air feels cold. The darkness here isn't from lack of light—it's something heavier. Something that settles in your chest and refuses to leave.
A throne sits at the far end of the hall, raised on a platform of carved obsidian wood. And on that throne, reclined like a patient predator, is the woman Blake called Sienna Khan.
Her skin is dark and patterned with faint stripes that catch the torchlight like ink across silk. Her eyes—sharp, golden, unflinching—pin me in place the moment I step into view. I've seen big cats at the zoo that looked at their meals with less scrutiny.
Sienna Khan isn't beautiful in the fragile way some people are; she's gorgeous the way a storm is—terrifying, inevitable, alive. She has muscular shoulders, long legs, and a body carved by years of command and combat. Even seated, she radiates control.
Before her stands a tall, broad man—easily as imposing as Eve—with black feline ears twitching in agitation. His tail flicks sharply behind him as he speaks, his voice raised but steady. There's something familiar in his presence—protective and resolute. I can't help but wonder if this is Blake's father.
All around us, masked Faunus stand in disciplined silence. Their cloaks are trimmed with fur, weapons strapped across their backs, and the air around them is thick with restrained hostility. The only sound is the crackle of torches and the murmur of the sea outside.
"Sienna, we can't keep doing this," the man says, his voice edged with urgency. "The next shipment won't even make it to Vale. We're barely sustaining the trade routes as is."
He takes a step forward, tail lashing. "We can't keep rationing off the scraps we have. Grimm is overrunning the northern fields, and our food stores—"
"Enough."
Sienna's voice slices through his words, low and cool as steel. "The White Fang's power is stretched thin. You know this as well as I do. Every squad we send north weakens our defense here. Every shipment we escort means another patrol left unmanned."
Her tone doesn't rise. It doesn't need to. The command in it alone could stop armies.
The man growls low in his throat. "Then what do you plan to do, Leader, when our people starve before the next tide? Tell me how vigilance feeds a hungry child."
The hall goes still.
Even the masked guards shift uneasily. Hunger is written in every hollow cheek, every trembling hand gripping a spear. Desperation hums in the air like the tension before a storm.
Sienna's eyes narrow, tail curling lazily behind her as she leans forward. For a moment, I swear the temperature drops.
And in that silence, one truth becomes painfully clear:
This isn't just a conversation.
It's the sound of a nation balancing on the edge of collapse.
The heavy doors barely finish creaking shut behind us when the room pivots toward our little procession. Conversation dies like a flame snuffed by a wet palm.
"Enough, Ghira. We shall speak of this later," Sienna says, final and cold as winter glass.
Two guards step forward with mechanical precision and flank me, their fingers on spear shafts, boot heels whispering over the rugs as they guide me toward the throne. Up close, I can see the discipline carved into their faces—no hesitation, no pity. I suddenly feel tiny.
"Speak, Blake. Tell me what you discovered," Sienna intones, and Blake moves forward at the beckon, shoulders squared, though her tail flicks with tension. She leans in, whispering rapid, low words I can't catch. The guards' posture tightens; hushed chatter rips through the crowd and then drops away like someone cut a chorus short.
Sienna turns all of her attention on me. Her fingers rest on the arm of the throne—knuckles white as if she's holding herself in check—and her amber eyes narrow into slits that seem to measure me for weight and threat. The room hums with expectation.
"Mr. Elias Fernwell," she says, voice a blade wrapped in silk.
"Ah—y-yes?" My throat is dry. My knees want to buckle.
She leans forward, slow and deliberate. "I hope you understand that you are being held here for the safety of Menagerie and its people." Her tone is clinical, rehearsed—an executioner reading a sentence. "An unknown and unannounced human appears on our shores under mysterious circumstances. Such events demand scrutiny. We have survived as we have because we remain vigilant. We do not leave mysteries unattended."
Her logic is cold, and it bites. I have nothing to offer but truth and confusion; those are flimsy shields against the weight of history in this room. Still, I force myself to nod. "I completely understand," I say, the words coming too quickly. Cooperation is the only coat I can wear.
Sienna inclines her head the merest degree, and for a heartbeat, I think—hope—she'll relent. Then her voice drops so low that the torches seem to lean away from it. "Then I do hope you understand," she says, venom threaded through the politeness, "why we must dispose of you."
The words hang like a physical thing in the air for a second. I blink; I'm sure I misheard.
"I'm sorry—what?" I say, because my brain can't shape that sentence into anything but a grotesque error.
"You will be eliminated." Each syllable is steady, final, like a bell tolling the end of something fragile. The meaning lands, and my breath stops.
"No—wait—what? You can't—" I stumble back, palms up in desperate pleading as I press against the two guards. Their faces remain impassive; the spears do not waver.
"SIENNA!" A voice cuts through the chamber—Ghira, stepping forward with raw, paternal fury in his stance. "This man is innocent. We have no proof he harbors malice. He gave a child food with no gain to himself. You would condemn him for merely existing?"
Sienna's eyes flick toward Ghira for the briefest moment—no softness, only the cold calculus of a leader tasked with protecting a people. "He is a trespasser," she answers without heat, but with iron certainty. "One who brought chaos into our home." Her gaze sweeps the hall. "Our laws are clear, Ghira."
The crowd exhales as one—some with relief, others with renewed dread. Blake's hand finds her arm; I see a tremor in her jaw for the first time. Eve stands rigid, mask unreadable, but I can see her fingers flex on the hilt of her sword. Kali watches me with that sudden, sinking worry that mothers wear like armor.
I taste iron at the back of my throat. The word eliminated echoes, a promise that this meeting is not merely administrative but a reckoning.
This can't be happening.
I can't die like this.
The words loop through my head, frantic and useless. My heart is pounding out of rhythm, my lungs burning like they've forgotten how to breathe. I twist, trying to run, but the guards shove me forward. My knees slam into the cold stone floor.
Tears spill freely before I can stop them. The world blurs. I don't care about dignity anymore. I'm choking on my own breath, whispering to no one.
Someone, please. I don't want to die. I don't want to die here.
And somewhere, somehow—someone hears me.
Sienna Khan POV
I signal the guards.
They raise their spears, moving with practiced precision, their tips angling toward the trembling human's back. It was a single strike—clean and efficient.
I exhale through my nose, forcing calm into my tone, though a faint tremor lives beneath it. "Do it quickly. Painlessly."
My chest tightens. I hate this.
If he had arrived under different circumstances—when our people weren't one bad harvest away from collapse—I would have confined him, questioned him, found another way. But weakness, real or perceived, is a luxury I can't afford.
Still, seeing him like this… a grown man reduced to tears, shaking and broken, it twists something in me I thought long buried.
I look away, unwilling to watch the moment the light leaves his eyes.
And then—
SHIINNEE!
A flash detonates beneath him—pure, blinding light floods the hall. The guards stagger back, spears clattering against the floor as the brilliance sears across the stone.
I'm on my feet instantly, every muscle taut. "Hold!" I bark, shielding my eyes. "Form perimeter!"
When the glare dims, what greets me is not an attack—but life.
Elias sits on the ground, wide-eyed, unharmed. The tears still cling to his cheeks, but now his expression is pure disbelief. Beneath him, the stone floor begins to crack.
From those cracks, roots emerge—thin at first, then thick and pulsing with green light. They writhe across the ground like veins of living wood before separating into two distinct growths.
One root climbs upward, curling into a spiral. It swells and unfurls into a massive bloom—a sunflower, yet not quite. Its petals shimmer gold like molten glass, and at its center, a dark patch stitches itself into a face. Two eyes blink open. A mouth curves into an impossible grin. The plant sways gently, as if listening to some unheard melody.
The second root thrusts upward in tandem, coiling around itself until it forms a sturdy, barrel-like stalk. Two leaves twist out from its sides—arms—and a single leaf sprouts atop its head, bobbing as it scans the room with curious, almost soldier-like movements.
For a heartbeat, no one speaks.
The only sounds are the low hum of life and the crackle of torches reflecting on the polished leaves.
I step forward slowly, every instinct telling me this shouldn't exist. "What… is this?" I whisper.
Elias looks just as bewildered as we do—his hands trembling, eyes darting between the living plants that now stand guard before him.
The sunflower turns toward me, its petals fluttering like it's laughing.
And in that moment, I know two things for sure:
This man is no ordinary human—
and whatever force answered his cry… did so with power older than dust and far beyond my understanding.
Elias Fernwood POV
"What the hell…"
The words slip out before I even realize I'm speaking. My voice is raw, cracking between leftover sobs and disbelief. My eyes sting, vision still blurred from tears and the afterimage of that blinding light.
When it fades, two… things remain.
The first stands tall and bright, its yellow petals gleaming like gold under the torchlight. It is a sunflower—if sunflowers had faces. Its dark center blinks open to reveal two cheerful eyes and a wide, stitched grin, swaying lazily side to side like it's enjoying music no one else can hear.
Beside it, the second creature is shorter and rounder, its bulbous, green head perched atop a thick, muscular stem. Its leaves twitch like restless fingers, and if plants could have expressions, its expression feels alert—watchful.
Both of them turn their gaze toward me. Expectant.
Like they're waiting for something.
I can't think. I can't breathe. My brain is screaming this shouldn't be possible, while my heart's still trying to remember how to beat properly after nearly being executed.
Behind me, I hear the shuffle of boots—the scrape of metal. One of the guards, regaining his nerve, advances with a spear raised.
"Wait, don't—!" I start to say, but the words are drowned out by a sharp pop.
Phoomph!
A green blur launches from the bulb-headed plant's mouth—a perfect cannonball of compressed mass that slams into the guard's face with bone-rattling force.
The man doesn't even have time to shout. The impact lifts him clear off the floor; his body spins twice in the air before crashing onto his back with a heavy thud.
A splatter of bright green residue paints the stone.
The entire hall goes dead silent.
Dozens of eyes stare at the tiny creature now puffing out its cheeks, "Ruerue Roodoodoo!" it says, sounding almost like a kazoo.
I just… stare. My thoughts are a blur of disbelief and exhaustion. Somewhere in the haze, a connection forms.
A sunflower… and a pea plant. The same two species I tended to before everything went to hell. My hands shake.
The realization barely has time to settle before the world tilts sideways.
My body feels weightless, my mind foggy. The surreal calm that follows adrenaline hits me like a brick wall.
"Not again…" I mumble weakly as the sunflower leans over me, face still grinning, petals rustling like laughter.
And then, mercifully, everything goes dark.
Blake Belladonna POV
Everything went sideways like—full-on, can't-explain-it, physics-in-retreat sideways. For a long, awful second, the hall freezes: guards mid-step, cloaked figures staring, torches guttering like they couldn't decide whether to burn or watch.
My legs move before my brain catches up. I push through the hush and crouch beside the guard who took the hit. He's breathing, ragged and stunned, but breathing. Relief is a hot, useless thing in my chest—until I see the green sticky mess on his face and how everyone's staring like we've all been taught a new sacred animal.
I scrape a smear of the residue off his cheek with my nail and hold it under my nose. It's green and earthy, like a garden after a summer rain, like the first pull of peas from their pod. The scent grounds me in a world that still makes sense.
"Dad, come here for a minute," I call without looking up.
Ghira walks over, deliberate as always—big footsteps that belong to someone who's earned them. I shove my hand under his nose like an idiot. He inhales once, then frowns, picking at the residue with two fingers before popping a dab into his mouth. For a heartbeat, I think he's mad, then he swallows.
"It's peas," he says, almost bored. "Definitely peas."
If you've never seen a room shift its tone on a single word, you've never been in a White Fang council. The tension that hung like a blanket gets sliced. People exchange looks—fear tilting toward calculation. Sienna moves like a shadow becoming a spear: smooth, immediate, and absolute.
"Stay the execution," she orders. Her voice folds through the hall, and everything obeys. "Ghira, to my chamber. Blake, take him back to the holding. Rest him. We will reassess."
My heart stutters—relief and alarm skittering together. "Yes," I say, because yes is all my voice can manage. I look down at Elias: he's pale, slumped, still. Even unconscious, there's that same farmer silhouette—overalls, straw hat a little askew, hands curled like a man used to carrying things that grow. The sunflower leans toward him like a mother watching its child breathe; the bulb-thing puffs quietly, its leaves trembling as if embarrassed to have made a scene.
I gather him gently. He's heavier than he looks—solid muscle under the cloth—but not unmanageable. There's mud in the hems of his pants, and the faint smell of greenhouse earth on him, like home. Carrying him feels both strange and terribly natural.
Eve falls into step at my shoulder, blade sheathed but fingers still restless on the hilt. Kali hangs back near the throne, watching with that small, worried crease at her brow. Ghira gives me a look—one part command, one part father—and then he's swept toward the inner rooms with Sienna.
As we move through the hall, whispers chase us like wind through reeds. Some sound like prayers, others like warnings. A few eyes track the sunflower and the pea-creature as if they are minor gods. I haven't decided if that scares me or comforts me more.
I half expect Sienna to have a plan—some immediate, cold strategy—but the orders were clear: pause, learn, and then leverage. For the first time since we found him, I'm not certain which side of the ledger Elias will fall on. Protector. Threat. Miracle. Weapon.
I set him down in a low cot in the holding room. The guards close the door softly, not slamming it—they are still people beneath their masks. I remove his hat and smooth a few grains of sand from his brow, then pause, thumb hovering over the faint scrape on his temple. He breathes, slow and even, like a man suspended between stories.
"Stay," I tell the sunflower in my head, more aloud than I mean to. The flower leans in as if it understands, and the smaller green thing tucks a leaf close like it's folding its arms.
Outside, the world of Menagerie continues in mute, stubborn life. Inside, choices are being counted like beads. And somewhere not far from here, Sienna's mind is already measuring the future we suddenly have in our hands.