Location: Great Maymum Tree, Vale of Shadows, Narn
Year: 6999 NY
The chamber of the old tree was alive with silence—a strange, weighty thing that seemed to breathe on its own, thick with ancient memory. Shadows spilled like ink across the wooden walls, curling in quiet folds as the last wisps of fading mana dissolved into the still air. The light within the hollow came not from any lamp or torch but from the lingering glow of runes faintly pulsing against the bark—residues of old power stirred anew.
Three figures stood within.
Trevor was the first to break from the trance. His chest rose and fell with deliberate calm, as though he were forcing the rhythm back into his body. But the truth was simpler, and far stranger—something in him had been stirred, something long-dormant or long-denied. The monkey Tracient's body bore no signs of strain, yet his soul trembled like a bell that had just been struck. He blinked once, slowly, as if trying to separate the world of the seen from something else, something just beneath the surface.
Kon, meanwhile, stood frozen—arms slightly raised, lips parted, eyes hard with unspoken questions. What had he seen just now? That energy—raw, ancient, wild—it had burst from Trevor like a crack in the earth. He'd felt it. No, more than that—he had feared it. And that disturbed him.
It disturbed him deeply.
Since when do I fear? the tiger Tracient asked himself. The thought scratched at his pride. Not even Razik made my bones feel like ice…
Adam watched them both, his gaze flickering between the two like a lantern in a storm. He stood nearest to Trevor, and when he reached out with a tentative smile to bridge the stillness, Trevor had already begun slipping back into his usual irreverent charm. It was like watching a mask reform—cracks closing, shadows swallowed.
"Did I scare you, stripes?" Trevor grinned, his tail twitching lazily from side to side. His voice had returned to its usual teasing rhythm. "I thought nothing fazed the great Kon Kaplan!"
The name was mockingly drawn out, like the introduction to a pompous play. But beneath the words, something else stirred—relief. It was subtle, almost invisible, but Adam caught it. Trevor needed to be the jester again. He needed to feel like himself.
Kon's narrowed eyes burned with indignation, but it wasn't anger. It was displacement—an unwillingness to admit what had happened inside him, even to himself.
"You—!" Kon lunged with the swift grace of a predator, claws not bared, but close.
Trevor leapt up and away in an instant, tail curling with joy as he swung effortlessly from a curved root overhead, dodging between hanging vines and broken rafters with acrobatic flair. The room, once quiet as a tomb, erupted into motion.
Adam chuckled despite himself. For a moment, just a moment, the fear loosened its grip on his chest. He stood there watching two young souls—one beast, one trickster—act like squabbling children in the ruins of a forgotten world. And strangely, that felt right.
This is how we survive, Adam thought. By pretending everything is fine. By making jokes, by chasing shadows, by laughing when the darkness claws at our heels.
He didn't judge them. He understood.
The chase ended when Trevor, ever the performer, leapt down from a beam with a theatrical thud, landing beside the ancient wall etched in curling, rune-bound script. His back was straight, tail flicked once with finality, and his face—no longer grinning—was touched by something else. Reverence, perhaps. Or memory.
"Alright, alright, enough messing around," he said, brushing dust from the brown tufts of his fur. His voice was lighter than before, but not carefree. It carried the tone of someone returning from a dream. "We've got a job to do, remember?"
Kon and Adam exchanged glances. A moment earlier, Trevor had been laughing. Now he looked like he was standing before a grave.
They joined him, quietly.
The wall they faced was unlike the others in the chamber. Where most surfaces in the Vale of Shadows were gnarled and overgrown, this one had been cared for—preserved, perhaps by enchantment or the sheer stubbornness of history. The carvings were angular but elegant, each line carrying both form and fluidity, like the dance of water over stone.
Trevor raised a hand and pressed his fingertips to the inscriptions.
And the wall breathed.
Not with air, but with presence. A shimmer passed across the runes like ripples on a pond. Trevor's eyes widened a fraction. His fingers trembled slightly—not from fear, but recognition. As though the wall had called him by name in a voice only he could hear.
He closed his eyes.
And there, in the quiet that followed, he listened.
What am I remembering? he wondered.
The warmth of the mana curled around his thoughts—not harsh or chaotic like the burst earlier, but ancient and slow. A whispering kind of magic, filled with the scent of old earth and the sound of pages turning. There was sorrow here, and hope. A tale waiting to be told.
Or perhaps to be remembered.
He drew in a slow breath.
"Why do I feel like this matters to me?" the question formed unbidden. "Why does this wall feel like... a door?"
Behind him, Kon crossed his arms, keeping one eye on the wall and the other on Trevor. He wanted to speak, to say something bracing—something to shake the mood back into order. But words failed him. Something about Trevor's posture, the way he stood now—silent, still, listening—reminded Kon of the elders from when he was younger, the ones who could read the winds, or sense the turning of the ages.
Maybe I don't know him at all, Kon admitted reluctantly. Maybe none of us do.
Adam placed a hand on the wall next to Trevor's. He didn't expect to feel anything. And yet...
A pulse. A faint one.
Like the last heartbeat of a sleeping god.
He shivered.
"Trevor," he said softly, "what is this place?"
Trevor didn't answer at first. His eyes were still closed, his hand still pressed to the stone.
Then, quietly: "It's memory. Written magic. A story etched in the bones of the world."
Adam's brow furrowed. "What kind of story?"
Trevor opened his eyes, and for the first time in many years, there was no joke waiting on his lips.
"A sad one," he said. "But not hopeless."
And in the silence that followed, the chamber no longer felt cold.
It felt waiting.
"There's still some magic in this..." Trevor's voice was almost a whisper, half to himself, half to the room—as if the words might wake something slumbering within the wood.
His orange eyes glinted, sharp as firelight in a dark cavern, and something in them shifted. Not just curiosity this time—but reverence. He leaned closer to the inscriptions, the air around his fingertips seeming to hum with recognition.
"Let me read this aloud."
As he began to speak, the chamber responded. The runes along the wall flared to life, glowing with soft golden light. The patterns unwound, dissolving into the air and re-forming as drifting shapes—ghostly figures, radiant and silent—hovering like smoke caught in slow motion. The dimness in the room deepened, but not with darkness; it was more like the hush of a theatre, the anticipation before a great tale unfolds.
Adam and Kon both took an unconscious step back, eyes wide. They were no longer in the presence of a relic. This was not just memory.
This was living story.
"In the beginning, there was nothing but void," Trevor read. His voice had changed—clearer, fuller. Not theatrical, but solemn, as if something old were speaking through him. "A vast emptiness that stretched beyond comprehension, where neither light nor shadow held sway. It was a place devoid of time and space, where the concept of existence had yet to take root."
As the words left his mouth, the images followed suit. Swirling shadows cloaked the air, a vision of pure nothingness stretching infinitely in every direction. It was haunting, beautiful in its absolute stillness. But even that silence began to crack.
A sound rose from the air around them—soft, delicate, and impossibly distant. A melody. Just a few notes at first, as if played on a string not made by hands.
"But then," Trevor went on, voice hushed now, "from the depths of this void, a sound emerged—a hymn, soft and sweet, carried on the voice of a being."
A beam of light pierced the gloom, single and gentle, drifting through the black like starlight in a cave. The song was clearer now, not loud but persistent, weaving through the air like a thread of gold. It made Adam's breath catch in his throat.
He could feel it.
That note—it wasn't just music. It was meaning.
Trevor's voice softened further. "This song, pure and gentle, began to weave itself into the fabric of nothingness, creating something from the void. The song was more than mere sound—it was a force, a call that resonated with everything it touched."
As he read, the space before them came alive. Light began to bloom, small sparks that swirled and danced like fireflies. From these sparks came new voices, each one distinct yet harmonizing with the first. They shimmered in the air like stars forming from a painter's brush.
"In response to this song, many other voices rose up and sang along."
Adam could hardly blink. The sparks were stars, living and radiant. He felt a warmth spread through his chest, not heat, but something deeper—remembrance. Like hearing a lullaby his mother might've sung when he was too young to understand the words.
The voices—the Stars—were beautiful. Serene.
But Trevor's tone shifted as he continued. "For those with hearts untainted by malice, the melody brought peace, wrapping them in a sense of calm that could soothe even the most troubled soul."
The chamber swelled with light and gentle sound.
"But for those with darkness in their hearts," Trevor's voice darkened slightly, "it stirred feelings of uncertainty, anger, and deep resentment."
And just as swiftly, a shadow moved through the harmony—a coldness, like wind passing through cracked stone. The harmony faltered, and the light dimmed just enough to remind them that even beauty, when misunderstood, can be feared.
Kon's brow furrowed. His claws flexed without him realizing it.
The images continued to shift, faster now, telling a story older than war or peace. The great light rose—a sun, brilliant and fierce, radiating golden fire across a forming world. Hills and rivers bloomed beneath it, forests erupted in waves of green and gold, oceans churned to life with liquid silver. A world was awakening.
Adam broke the silence. "This is the same tale my guardian told me as a child," he whispered. "The story of how the world was created by the Great Lion."
Trevor's gaze flickered to him, but his voice didn't pause.
"The Great Lion's song went on to create everything that is known to exist," he read. "But sensing a great evil lurking in the still-young world, the Great Lion took action. He channeled the essence of the world into five core concepts—Creation, Destruction, Derision, Evolution, and Emotion—each meant to balance the forces of reality."
The light in the room shimmered as five glowing symbols appeared, orbiting one another in slow harmony. Each one pulsed with a different energy—one radiant like sunrise, another crackling with volatile flame, one twisting in odd, distorted patterns, one alive with blooming fractals, and one gently glowing with waves of color that pulsed like a heartbeat.
"To safeguard these forces," Trevor continued, "he placed them into six pieces of jewelry, which would become known as the Aryas."
The moment the word Arya left Trevor's mouth, a new image took form. Jewels—each distinct—hovered in the air. They pulsed with latent power. They were not gemstones to be admired. They were keystones—alive with purpose.
And the room shifted again.
Each Arya appeared in the hands of a different Tracient—towering figures clad in light and power.
"The Arya of Creation was given to a wolf Tracient."
A blue furred wolf, strong and noble, raised a brilliant white-blue gem high above a newborn field.
"The Arya of Destruction was entrusted to a tiger Tracient."
Kon stiffened. His eyes darted to Trevor, then to the ring on his finger. It was warm. Almost buzzing.
His thumb absently grazed its edge. He had heard that It had always been passed down in his family, until it disappeared during the Great war. Always a symbol, never explained. Until now.
Trevor didn't notice. His eyes were glued to the glowing text.
"The Arya of Derision was given to a monkey Tracient."
And there it was—the image of a familiar figure. Lithe, clever, eyes sharp with mischief. Holding an Arya shaped like a twisting spiral. Trevor's breath caught. His tail stopped moving.
Was that... him?
He didn't speak.
"The Arya of Evolution was entrusted to a bull Tracient, and the final Arya, the Arya of Emotion, was given to a white fox Tracient."
The fox's figure was different from the others—slender, almost ethereal. It held the Arya like it was part of it—an extension of spirit rather than power.
Trevor's voice dipped lower, caught between awe and disbelief. "Together, they fought against the great evil that threatened the world and defeated it. But their descendants were tasked with protecting the Aryas, and each generation was to continue the battle, fighting against the evil in all its forms until the end of time."
The chamber grew quiet as the last scene materialized—a solemn painting etched in light: the first monkey Tracient standing tall, Arya wrapped around his arm, eyes cast to the horizon.
The glow faded. Slowly. As if reluctant to leave.
Trevor's hand dropped to his side. His lips parted, but he said nothing. He just stared, as if something within him had been unlocked and left ajar.
Adam's voice was soft, as if afraid to break the spell. "Trevor… are you alright?"
But Trevor didn't answer. His gaze was locked on the ancient image—the figure of the monkey Tracient. It wasn't that he saw himself in it.
It was that something in him knew it.
Silence lingered in the hollow like morning mist, curling in the corners, wrapping itself around their thoughts. The images on the wall had faded, but the echoes of their truth still hung in the air—dense, unshakable. It was as if the story itself had left behind a residue in the heart, heavier than time, deeper than memory.
After a long pause, it was Adam who spoke first. His voice was soft, but each word carried a weight he hadn't known he was holding. "It all makes sense now. The Aryas… they were created to keep the balance."
His brow furrowed as he stared at the now-dim wall, as if searching for an answer hidden in its cracks.
"But…" he hesitated, the word trailing like a thread left hanging.
Kon shifted beside him, arms crossed tightly over his chest. The tiger Tracient had been unnaturally quiet since the story ended. But now, something stirred—irritation, confusion, suspicion—whatever it was, it finally pushed its way to the surface.
"What is this 'great evil'?" Kon said. His voice was low and rough, like the slow grind of stone. "And why does it matter now? Narn is already under Razik's control. His generals have spread across every region, choking the last scraps of resistance. What does some ancient shadow have to do with the Aryas now?"
His tail flicked once, sharply. "And what happened to the other Aryas—the ones not in our hands? The Arya of Creation. Derision. Evolution. Where are they?"
There was tension in his voice, but beneath it was something else: fear, tightly caged and wearing the mask of skepticism.
Adam glanced at him, then returned his gaze to the faded runes. "My guardian told me something, years ago," he said slowly. "A name that the elders never spoke in the open. The true mastermind behind the Great Narn War. Not Razik. Not the generals. A fox Tracient… the one they called The Shadow."
Both Kon and Trevor turned their eyes to him now.
Adam's next words were barely above a whisper. "He controls the Arya of Emotion—the Arya of the White Fox."
Something shifted in the air.
Kon's expression hardened. He didn't speak for a moment, but his jaw clenched visibly. When he did respond, it was through grit teeth. "So we've already lost one."
His gaze dropped briefly to his own hand. The ring shimmered faintly, as if reacting to the mention of its sibling.
"And if he has the Arya of the White Fox…" Kon trailed off. He didn't finish the thought. He didn't need to.
Adam nodded. "Then our only chance is to find the others—Creation, Derision, and Evolution." He stepped away from the wall, pacing slightly as his mind worked through the pieces. "But we don't know their exact locations. Not anymore. If there's any hope of finding them, we'll have to look beyond Narn."
His voice took on a quiet resolve.
"Archen Land."
Trevor tilted his head, ears twitching. "The neighboring kingdom?"
Adam gave a small nod. "It's the only place that didn't fall during the war. The Aryas may have been scattered when Narn fell. If the resistance survived anywhere, it would be there."
Kon crossed his arms again, tail lashing once behind him. "A wild guess," he muttered, though not dismissively. "But it's all we've got."
Adam opened his mouth to speak, but paused. His eyes flicked to the far end of the chamber.
Trevor was no longer beside them.
He stood alone at the edge of the room, back turned, gaze locked on a painting that none of them had noticed before—a massive mural, etched with darker lines, more jagged than the others. It took up nearly an entire wall, and in its center was a creature unlike any depicted so far.
A red beast, towering and feral, surrounded by violent purple flames that licked and twisted across its frame like living shadow. Its eyes glowed with hunger—not for food, but for ruin. For unmaking.
Trevor stared at it without blinking. His posture was rigid, his shoulders drawn tight. Even his tail had gone still.
Adam and Kon moved to his side, drawn not just by concern but by the dread that coiled from the painting like a scent of smoke before fire.
There was something about the image—something that made the air feel heavier, like standing before a great chasm and knowing the ground beneath you is hollow.
The creature depicted didn't just represent destruction.
It was destruction.
Kon's breath caught in his throat. His claws curled instinctively, though he made no move. Adam stepped closer, placing a hand on the edge of the mural, fingers brushing its rough outline as though trying to determine whether it was real.
Trevor spoke before either of them could.
"I'm staying."
His voice was calm. Too calm. Like a storm that had passed through him and left only clarity in its wake.
Adam blinked, turning toward him. "Trevor…?"
Trevor turned to face them, his usual bravado gone. There was no grin, no smirk, no exaggerated shrug. Just a steady gaze that shimmered faintly—not with magic, but with conviction.
"I understand now," he said. "Whatever brought me here… it wasn't an accident. That energy I felt earlier, the reaction to the wall, the stories—they weren't random."
He looked back at the mural, expression hardening slightly.
"I won't go home. Not until Narn is free from the clutches of this evil."
Kon's brow lifted. He looked Trevor up and down, searching for the sarcasm he usually wore like armor. But there was none. Just sincerity.
After a pause, he gave a small, amused scoff. "Maybe you're not so bad after all, monkey."
Trevor raised a brow, his lips twitching. "Careful, stripes. If you keep being nice, I might think you like me."
Adam stepped forward, placing a hand on Trevor's shoulder. His smile was warm, but more than that—it was welcoming.
"You're with us now," he said. "You're part of the family."
For a moment, Trevor didn't respond. He just stared at Adam, blinking once, then looking down, as though the words had hit him somewhere he hadn't expected. Somewhere deeper.
His cheeks turned faintly pink beneath his fur, and his tail moved in slow, small sways—no performance, no flair. Just nervous energy he didn't know how to place.
"Thanks," he mumbled. "I'm… glad I can help."
It was the first time Trevor had said something earnest without immediately cloaking it in humor. And somehow, that made it more real than anything else he'd done since they met.
The three of them stood in silence for a long moment, shoulder to shoulder before the image of the red beast—no longer just comrades, but something more.
And somewhere in the quiet heart of the Vale of Shadows, something ancient watched them and remembered.
The story wasn't over.
It had only just begun.