Location: The Vale of Shadows, Narn
Year: 6999 NY
The snow had not ceased since morning.
It fell in long, weary flurries, drifting sideways with the wind, gathering upon the shoulders and heads of the three weary travelers who trudged through the vast, silver wilderness. It clung to them with a stubbornness that seemed almost willful, as though Narn itself wished to swallow them in its endless winter. The sky above was a grey vault, heavy with storm, and the horizon—if there was one—was a mere smudge in the endless white.
Adam walked at the front, his paws half-buried in the crunching snow, his cloak billowing behind him like the wing of a slow bird. The wind tugged at it restlessly, whispering strange things through the air, things that had no source and yet seemed to carry memory—echoes of songs, or perhaps laments, from ages long forgotten.
He lowered his head against the gale, fur bristling with frost, but his sky-blue eyes remained focused, searching. Every step forward required a silent act of will. His legs ached, and the cold had worked its way into his bones. Yet it was not the discomfort that weighed on him, but the question that had lingered for days now— Why Trevor? Why now?
Behind him, Kon followed in stoic silence. The tiger Tracient had taken the rear as protector, ever watchful. He was like a sentinel carved from ice, his eyes scanning the blank world around them with quiet suspicion. Since the skirmish at Razik's stronghold, Kon's caution had deepened into something more guarded. He did not trust chance, nor miracles, nor monkey Tracients who came laughing through ancient rivers. He trusted only what could be seen and fought.
And in the middle—neither vanguard nor rear guard—swung Trevor Maymum, with a half-frozen peach in one hand and a smile that persisted against all odds.
"You know," Trevor said, speaking into the wind, "for a cursed wasteland that wants to freeze your eyebrows off, this place's got charm. Needs more banana trees, though. Maybe some hammocks. A monkey could get used to the snow if there was a good hammock."
His voice was cheer, but there was a crack in it—thin as hair, almost invisible, but there. Adam noticed it. And though Kon did not answer, he heard it too.
Trevor hopped over a drift, his tail twitching, and then landed beside Adam, his fur thick with frost. He reached up and shook his head like a wet dog, flinging snow in every direction. "How much farther is this Vale of Shadows place, anyway? Don't get me wrong, I love a good walk, but my toes are considering mutiny."
Adam slowed, exhaling slowly. "We're close," he said, and there was something in his tone that made Trevor fall silent.
Close.
He could feel it—not with his eyes, but in his chest. It was the same feeling he had whenever he passed near the old stones of the Forgotten Temples, or when he stood before the gravemarkers of the Ancients. It was not cold or warmth, not sound or silence—but presence. As though the ground beneath them had memory, and that memory was beginning to stir.
Something old watched them from beneath the snow.
Kon joined them then, pausing beside Adam, his striped fur dusted white. "I can see the ridge," he said, pointing ahead. "Just beyond that rise. If the maps are right, the Vale begins there."
Adam nodded, but his gaze drifted. Snow lashed his face, but he did not blink. He was watching the wind.
Kon noticed it too. The wind had changed. It was no longer cold alone, but curious.
Trevor scratched his head. "You two look like you've just seen a ghost. Don't tell me there are ghosts. Are there ghosts?"
No one answered.
The snow had grown heavier again, almost as though it, too, had become burdened with the same dread that now clung to the air around them. The wind, no longer playful or petulant, screamed as it whirled through the narrowing path ahead. The ground beneath their feet had changed—less snow now, more hard ice, slick and ancient, as though they walked across the bones of something long dead.
Adam was the first to notice it: a blot on the horizon, a disruption in the endless pale. He squinted against the wind, his breath steaming. At first, it was only a smudge of darkness, as if the world had been smudged there by a careless painter. But with each step, it became clearer. Trees. A forest. But not one of life and song.
It loomed like a scar on the landscape, a huddled mass of crooked trunks and skeletal limbs, each one twisted into unnatural shapes—like hands grasping upward, frozen in agony. The branches were bare, stripped of any leaves or color, and coated in thick veils of ice that shimmered like glass in the grey light. No birds. No rustling. No tracks. Not even the snow dared fall too near it.
Adam slowed, something old and cold curling in his gut.
"What is this place?" he asked quietly, more to himself than to the others. His voice was snatched by the wind and carried off like a secret.
Kon stepped forward beside him, his golden eyes sharp with caution. "I don't know…" he said, his words low, taut as bowstring. "But we're not turning back."
And then, to their surprise, Trevor spoke—not with his usual cheer, but with a haunted softness that chilled them more than the storm ever could.
"This place feels… familiar."
He stood still as a statue, his fur bristling. His tail, usually a thing of motion and mischief, was held low and trembling. His eyes searched the trees as if they were remembering him.
Adam glanced at him, then to Kon. Neither of them spoke. There was a strange weight to Trevor's tone—a knowing that did not match his character, as though something ancient and fragile had stirred in him, something even he had forgotten.
They pressed on.
Each step into the forest was like stepping deeper into a memory that did not belong to them. The snow became less, and the ice more. The wind roared louder overhead, circling like a predator in the branches, but the cold did not bite so much as it clung—clinged to fur, to breath, to thought.
The forest had a soul, and that soul was broken.
Even Kon, ever silent, seemed shaken. His eyes moved constantly, not with suspicion, but with something like reverence. There was power here, but it was not alive. It was sleeping. Or worse—mourning.
And all the while, Trevor kept murmuring things to himself. Half-formed sentences, broken thoughts. "This path… I've seen this bend before. That tree… that root was shaped like a sitting cat back home. But it wasn't frozen. None of it was frozen."
Adam watched him from the corner of his eye. The monkey Tracient's face was pale under his fur, his steps slower now, like someone trying to recall a dream they'd long forgotten.
Then—suddenly—the storm ceased.
It did not fade gradually, nor quiet itself like a spent storm. It simply stopped. The wind died. The sound vanished. The trees stood still. And in that terrible, perfect silence, they stepped into the center of the forest.
There, before them, rose the great tree.
Even calling it a tree felt like some great understatement. It was a monolith. A sentinel. A monument to something long passed but never truly gone. Its base was so wide that hundred Tracients hand-in-hand would not have circled it. The roots stretched far and deep, cracking the icy earth beneath them, and its trunk soared higher than sight could follow, vanishing into the low-hanging storm above. Every inch of its bark bore the scars of time—cracks, knots, ancient carvings half-hidden by frost.
It was not merely a tree.
It was a memory that had taken root in the world.
Kon's eyes widened. For once, he said nothing. He didn't need to. Adam felt it too.
But it was Trevor who broke the silence.
He took one staggering step forward, then another, until he stood alone, bathed in the shadow of the colossal tree. His hand reached out—hesitating at first—then touched the bark with trembling fingers.
His voice, when it came, was hoarse with disbelief. "I… I don't believe it."
Adam moved to his side, his breath visible in the cold air. "Trevor?"
The monkey Tracient did not look at him. His orange eyes were fixed on the bark, his whole body taut with emotion.
"This is… the Maymum Great Tree," he whispered. "But it can't be. That tree is back home—in my world. It's sacred. It's where we believe our first ancestors came from. The heart of the canopy. The birthplace of the Maymum Clan."
He turned now, slowly, eyes glassy. "It's exactly the same. Down to the smallest mark. The carvings. The roots. I used to climb this tree as a child. But that tree… that tree is there. Not here."
Kon's brows furrowed. "You're saying it's the same tree? Not similar. The same."
Trevor nodded slowly. "I don't know how. But yes."
Kon's eyes darkened, the golden glow in them dimming as the truth began to coil itself around his thoughts like smoke. He turned to Adam, and in that glance—fleeting but charged—a silent understanding passed between them. Something was wrong. Deeper than the storm. Older than the ice.
The tree, towering before them like a sentinel of ages past, had not been placed here idly. It was a monument, yes—but it was also a door.
And it was open.
They stepped forward slowly, careful not to disturb the unnatural stillness that hung in the air like a breath held too long. The roots rose in arching curves around them, curling like the fingers of giants. Moss and frost clung to the threshold, but there it was, unmistakable: a wide, gaping doorway carved into the base of the tree, its arch lined with sigils that pulsed faintly, as though breathing.
"Looks like we're not the first ones here," Adam murmured, more to the wind than to anyone else. His voice, though soft, echoed faintly in the hush.
Inside, the world changed.
The hollow of the tree was vast—almost impossibly so. It was as if they had entered a place bigger on the inside than out. Great wooden columns soared upward, branching into natural arches that supported a ceiling lost in shadows. Spiral staircases, made of polished root and lined with ancient runes, wound upward into unseen heights. The walls glimmered faintly with age-old varnish, though most of it had peeled. This was no simple shelter. It was a palace. A sanctuary. A cathedral carved by hands long gone, now reclaimed by silence.
But it had not been spared the ruin of war.
The deeper they walked, the clearer it became. Scorch marks scored the walls like claw marks. Great slabs of the floor had given way, and ash pooled in forgotten corners. A chandelier made of woven branches had fallen from above and now lay shattered across the tiles, its vine-wrought candles long extinguished. There were no bodies, yet the weight of the dead lingered—unseen, but not unfelt.
Dust rose with every footfall, disturbed after what may have been centuries of stillness.
Kon moved with a soldier's alertness, hand resting near his side blade. Adam, though quieter, moved as if searching for something familiar—something he couldn't quite name. And Trevor… Trevor was silent.
His eyes were wide, not with wonder, but with recognition.
They entered a circular chamber whose walls curved like the inside of a great fruit pit, layered in stone and bark. All around, delicate script was etched into the walls—lines of words, curling in patterns that spiraled inward, toward a pedestal at the center of the room. It stood untouched, though vines had grown across its base like protective hands.
Adam approached, scanning the carvings. He squinted, running a paw across the lines of script.
"I can't read this… can you, Kon?"
Kon stepped closer, brushing his fingers over the ancient text. "No. It's not like any language I've seen before."
For a moment, they stood puzzled, the mystery thickening around them like fog. But then Trevor, who had been lingering behind, stepped forward slowly. There was a strange calm in his steps—almost reverence. His hand rose, gently brushing the carvings as if touching the cheek of an old friend.
"I can read it."
Adam turned sharply. "You can?"
Trevor nodded. His orange eyes no longer sparkled with mischief, but shone with something deeper: memory.
"Yeah. This is an old monkey Tracient script. I learned some of it from the clan elders, back when they thought history still mattered."
He read in silence for a moment, his lips moving without sound. Then he began to translate.
"'In the age before the frost, before the fall of skies and the swallowing storm, we danced in the branches of the first mother. The tree that birthed all fruit. The root of wisdom. We called her Māy-Mu—shelter of all the tail-born.'"
Trevor's voice cracked.
Adam looked at him. "The tree... is your people's origin?"
Trevor didn't answer right away. He placed both hands on the stone, as though bracing against something too heavy to bear.
"This is Flower Fruit Mountain," Kon said at last, voice thick with meaning. "It wasn't always called the Vale of Shadows. Before the wars, before Razik... this was the homeland of the monkeys and apes. This place was yours, Trevor."
Trevor's eyes went wide. "Flower Fruit Mountain?" he echoed, his voice trembling. "That's the name of my home in my world. That's… impossible."
His gaze moved slowly across the chamber—taking in the words, the markings, the ruins. And then, the truth slammed into him.
He turned to Kon, voice hoarse. "Where are they? My people. If this really is Flower Fruit Mountain—then where are they?"
Kon's eyes lowered.
"They were the first to fall."
The words landed like a blow.
Trevor blinked. "What…?"
Kon's tone softened, but it did not hide the pain behind it. "The Narn Wars began here. When Razik and his minions rose, they feared the monkeys and apes because of their connection to the older magics and their adaptability. The wild songs. The fruit rites. They sent their armies here first. None survived. Not one."
Trevor's tail fell limp. His knees buckled, and before either of them could catch him, he collapsed to the cold stone floor.
"No…" he whispered, the word shattered. "No. That can't be. There were thousands of us, millions. Families. Elders. Younglings learning to climb. We were—"
He broke off, pressing his hands to his face.
Adam stood frozen, heart aching with quiet helplessness. He knew loss—had seen it, lived it—but this was different. This wasn't the grief of something gone. This was the shock of something stolen. He had been in that state. He was in that state.
The moment Adam stepped closer, he knew—something had changed. It wasn't just grief anymore. The sorrow that had buckled Trevor to his knees had transfigured, like fruit rotting too fast beneath a merciless sun, fermenting into something far more volatile. Mana, raw and untamed, surged from the earth around the monkey Tracient like steam rising from a boiling spring in thick crimson-amber hues.
Adam halted, instinct forcing him still. The air thickened—heavy, viscous, alive with violent potential. He could feel the hairs along his arms bristle, his own Mana instinctively pulling inward, shielding itself like a flame from a sudden gust.
This isn't natural, he thought. Mana always carried a trace of its wielder's soul—some pulses were warm, others sharp, some pure and quiet. But this… this was something else entirely. The Mana that rippled from Trevor's form was suffused with loss, with fury, with something ancient and buried being torn up by the roots.
Kon's voice cracked the silence.
"What is this…?" he murmured, stepping back a pace. His hand hovered over his weapon—not drawn, not yet—but his eyes were alert, his body half-turned as if ready to shield Adam at a moment's notice.
Trevor remained kneeling, his head bowed so low it seemed almost as if he were praying—though to what god, Adam couldn't say. His long tail was slack behind him, brushing the stone floor, but his fingers dug into the cracked floor like claws seeking the heart of the earth. A low hum, not heard but felt, rippled outward from him.
Adam swallowed and took another step. "Trevor?" he called gently. "Are you… alright?"
No response.
Instead, the energy surged higher.
A whirling current of Mana gathered like storm clouds just above the boy's shoulders—trembling, flickering, a near-visible aura that coiled and recoiled like a wounded serpent. The chamber responded with a groan—subtle, yet ominous. Tiny cracks formed in the stone under Trevor's knees, spidering outward like veins, as if the very palace could sense the unspoken anguish and was echoing it in kind.
And then, just as suddenly as it had risen—it broke.
The pressure lifted, not in a slow easing, but in a single, shuddering exhale from the world itself. The Mana dissolved into the air like mist into morning light, leaving behind silence and a faint, acrid scent that prickled at Adam's nose.
Trevor raised his head.
There were no flames in his eyes. No gold light. No spectacle. Just one tear trailing silently down his cheek. His face was calm—too calm. That terrible quiet of a heart that had screamed and found no answer.
"I'm alright," he said, and his voice was too steady. It was the kind of voice that knew how to smile when it was breaking. "Don't worry about me."
Adam knelt slowly beside him, lowering himself not as a warrior nor a leader, but as a friend. He didn't speak. Didn't try to comfort with empty promises. He only placed a hand gently on Trevor's shoulder, grounding him.
But inside, he knew—this wasn't over. Not the grief. Not the power. Whatever Trevor had tapped into… it wasn't finished with him yet.