A seven-year-old Mika stared through the curtain of thick, ancient buttress roots, her wide emerald eyes locking onto the silhouette of a boy — a few years older — standing just beyond the root-entwined barrier.
The tree that cradled her was massive — primeval — its twisted roots curled like a mouth in a silent scream. They sealed her inside a hollow chamber, more prison than shelter. She had been here for weeks.
Or was it months? Time no longer meant anything.
The boy, aged ten, frowned, brows drawn in irritation and suspicion. His posture was regal despite his youth. Mika, in her filthy, once-white frilled dress, looked away — guilt and shame burning her skin. Mud stained her arms and legs. Her tangled crimson hair hung limp around her small, trembling frame.
He hadn't meant to come this far into the woods. In fact, the whole thing was his friend's fault — a fool who couldn't throw a training ball properly. The ball had sailed deep into the untamed wilds, and of course, it had been him — Shinji Karou — who was sent after it.
Ridiculous. He was no errand boy.
But then he heard it — a whisper. Soft. Feminine. Riding the wind like a forgotten song. It compelled him to walk deeper.
The forest changed as he moved through it. Trees loomed taller. The air thickened. The silence deepened. By the time Shinji realised how far he'd gone, the voice had vanished, leaving him breathless and confused.
Was he... lost? Impossible. The young Lord of the White Wolf Clan did not get lost. Suzumi would have his head otherwise.
Then came the sobbing. He followed the sound until the trees opened into a clearing.
There, tangled in the embrace of the tree's enormous roots, was a child — a girl.
"You," Shinji said sharply before he could stop himself. "Were you the one calling me this whole damn time?"
Mika stared, unblinking. He stepped closer, his sharp gaze scanning the hollow. No food. No water. No tools. And yet—she didn't look starved. Just... hollow. As if something unnatural had preserved her.
Mika, from her side of the prison, studied him as well. He looked noble. Commanding. His deep-forest hair was cropped short, his features sharp despite his young age. A white training suit clung to him, dusted from his journey. But it was his eyes that struck her — eyes far older than his years, touched by pain and cruelty, perhaps even war.
"I asked you a question," he repeated, sterner now. "Answer me."
She flinched. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged. Fear choked her voice.
He exhaled, frustrated, and turned to leave.
"Don't go!"
The cry tore from her throat, raw and desperate. Her arms reached through the roots, fingers trembling. For the first time in forever, sunlight warmed her skin. It stung.
Two ancient words slipped from her tongue — not in Fulainan, but in the Spirit's language.
"Please don't leave me. Don't leave me!"
Shinji froze. His heart stopped. That language — it had been outlawed after the Great War.
A Spirit.
Miracle or omen, he wasn't sure. But instinct moved before logic. He gripped the roots and pulled. With every ounce of strength, he tore at the wooden prison. The roots groaned in protest. Sweat poured from his brow.
At last, the final barrier gave way.
Mika collapsed into his arms.
***
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