Location: Razik's Fortress, Narn. Year – 6999 NY
The silence in the chamber was unlike any silence in the natural world. It was not simply the absence of sound, but the muting of something deeper—like a hush pressed down upon the very soul of the fortress. The great stone walls of Razik's inner sanctum seemed to lean in, brooding and ancient, their cold surfaces lit only by the dull flicker of bluish-purple flame. The firelight did not warm the room, nor did it dance playfully. It pulsed, slowly and rhythmically, as though breathing—alive, but without joy.
Razik stood alone in this gloom, a towering shadow among older shadows. The thick folds of his dark green cloak dragged behind him, silent on the stone floor. His steps were measured, cautious, almost reverent—as though the very space he entered now was sacred in a way no chapel would ever be. His lips, usually curled in a cruel sneer or twisted smirk, were now pressed into a line. The feral gleam in his eyes, which in battle burned so wildly, had dulled to something more solemn. Even he, Razik the Butcher of Narn, hesitated here.
He approached the center of the chamber. There, etched into the floor with silver-black resin, was a symbol as old as memory itself. The circle sprawled outward in five great arms, each adorned with runes and sigils too ancient for mortal tongues to pronounce. It pulsed faintly with energy that wasn't light—but something far more intimate, more primal. The language of the void, perhaps. Or the echo of something that had once whispered to the stars.
Razik exhaled slowly. His chest rose and fell, each breath deliberate, controlled. He could feel his heartbeat—normally as fierce as a war drum—now steady and cold. There was no room here for the ego that ruled his conquests, no place for pride. Not now. Not in the presence of this power.
He stepped into the edge of the sigil and raised his arms. His claws, once soaked in the blood of warriors, now traced the air with reverence. His voice, when it came, was barely above a growl—but its tone was deeper, darker, woven with an old magic that he did not command, only borrowed.
"Ek'thal seviran... Throsk el'dur'an..."
The incantation filled the chamber like smoke, wrapping around the stone and fire alike. The flames dimmed further, trembling as though afraid. The room began to pulse—not with sound, but with weight. Each beat of the spell was a pressure on the chest, a hush in the mind, as if time itself were holding its breath.
"Sorn el thevenar... Aetherion nar vosh."
The symbol flared to life. Light—no, not light, but something like it—bloomed from the runes. A pale, silver-blue luminance, cold and unnatural, rose from the sigil and coiled upward like mist caught in a windless place. The shadows retreated from it, slinking back into the walls, as though even they dared not stand near what was coming.
And then it happened.
With a rush like a void inhaling, the center of the symbol split open—not physically, but metaphysically. A rent in thought. From that rift emerged a figure, not with sound or shape, but with presence.
He was not there. And yet he was there more than anything else had ever been.
The projection of a white fox Tracient shimmered into form. His body was tall and slender, wrapped in a mantle of flowing fur that caught the dim light and turned it pale. His eyes—twin glacial stars—burned with a stillness that chilled deeper than ice. They saw everything, but gave away nothing.
He did not speak. He did not need to. His presence spoke for him—a gravity that bent the very atmosphere around him, pressing down on Razik like a mountain of thought and judgment.
Razik dropped to his knees.
It was not a choice, not a calculation, but a primal response—like kneeling before a thunderstorm, or bowing your head when the stars fell. His arms hung limply at his sides, his head bowed so low it nearly touched the ground. Not even when the High Generals of the Old Narn Empire had crowned him Warlord had Razik bent like this.
Only he could do this. Only The Shadow.
The room was utterly silent now, save for the slow, careful breath of Razik, and the impossible weight of the being standing before him.
He could feel it—that old fear, that bone-deep reverence that all Tracients carried somewhere in their blood, whether they admitted it or not. This was not a king. Not a god. It was something between those things, and beyond them.
Razik's lips trembled, the first whisper of his report caught in his throat. But for now, he remained bowed, his mind racing with what he would say—and what he would dare not say—in the presence of the White Fox.
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The voice that broke the silence was deceptively soft—like snow falling on dry leaves, gentle in tone yet laden with authority that carried the power to freeze blood in its veins.
"Razik."
The name lingered in the air like a verdict. The Shadow's voice was not raised, not sharp, yet it pressed in from all directions, echoing unnaturally across the chamber, as though the walls themselves listened.
"Why have you summoned me like this?" the White Fox asked. "The Mind Summon is not a toy. It is used only in emergencies."
Though his words were calm, each syllable reverberated with danger, like a sword drawn slowly from its scabbard—measured and quiet, yet unmistakable in intent. It was the kind of voice that preceded storms and calamities, made all the more terrifying by its composure.
Razik remained bowed, the cold stone biting at his forehead. A tremor ran down his back, the weight of those eyes pinning him down as surely as chains.
"F-Forgive me… Lord Shadow," Razik stammered, his voice cracking, despite his best efforts. "This… this is an emergency."
He hated how small he sounded. Razik—conqueror of cities, slayer of lords—now quivered like a cornered beast before a presence far greater than himself. It bruised his pride, but he would never dare let that show here. Not before him.
The Shadow did not blink, did not breathe. His eyes narrowed just slightly. Even that smallest motion was terrifyingly deliberate.
"Speak, then."
A pause. A warning.
"But it had better be worth this intrusion."
Razik swallowed hard. He could feel the room waiting with him, silent and holding breath.
"There's… been a disturbance in Narn," he said, forcing each word through a clenched throat. "The Wolf Tracient. Adam Kurt. He's alive. And he's not alone. They've acquired the Aryas."
The effect was instantaneous.
The bluish-purple flames that had danced quietly until now erupted—not just rising but exploding outward in pillars of furious light. The chamber, once quiet and reverent, was suddenly aflame with wrath. Razik cried out, shielding his face with his arms, even though the flames did not burn his flesh. No, they seared something deeper—his will, his composure.
Through the torrent of fire and pressure, The Shadow's voice came, colder than ever.
"Do you understand the price of lying to me, Razik?"
It wasn't a question. It was a noose.
The fox's cold, unblinking eyes glowed brighter, twin stars in a frozen sky.
"If what you say is untrue…"
A pause—lethal.
"You will beg for death before the end."
Razik pressed his body flatter to the stone floor. He had faced death before. He had danced with it on many battlefields, mocking it with laughter and fire. But this was no death he could fight. This was oblivion wearing the shape of judgment.
"I swear it, my lord!" he gasped, throat raw with panic. "I would never lie to you! I've seen it with my own eyes. The Arya of Destruction—Kon wears it. The Arya of Derision… the monkey, Trevor. It's true. They're real. They live. And they are heading for Archen Land."
Then came silence.
It was not a silence that offered relief—it was the silence of deep calculation, of some vast intellect turning over thoughts behind those frozen eyes. Razik dared not look up. He felt as though even his heartbeat was too loud.
At last, The Shadow spoke again, his voice sheathed in iron now.
"If what you say is true… then you know what must be done."
Razik nodded furiously, face still pressed to the ground. "Yes, my lord. I will stop them. I will not let them reach King Darius."
"You will do more than stop them." The Shadow's tone sharpened. "You will destroy them. You will crush their hope before it reaches full flame."
Another moment passed. Then the final command.
"Bring the Aryas to me."
A pause—sharp as the edge of a blade.
"There is no margin for failure, Razik. Not this time."
Razik could only nod again, too shaken to speak.
And then, as if a great breath were drawn in reverse, The Shadow vanished. The projection blinked out of existence, the flames collapsing inward into mere flickers once more. The eerie silence returned, not peaceful but hollow—like the echo of something ancient that had just departed.
Razik remained motionless, the cold stone beneath him suddenly all too real again. His breath came in short gasps. He could feel the sweat clinging to his fur despite the chill. Every inch of his body ached with tension, but still he did not rise—not until the last trace of The Shadow's presence had faded entirely from the room.
At last, slowly, he pushed himself upright.
The fear lingered, clinging to him like smoke. But beneath it… was something harder. Anger. Resolve.
He could not afford to fail. Not now. Not when the tides of fate were turning. Not when they had risen against him.
His fists clenched at his sides. He would find the boy. The monkey. The tiger. He would find them—and he would end this prophecy before it truly began.
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Elsewhere, in a Snow-Covered Clearing in Narn
Year - 6999 NY
The forest stood in an early hush, the kind that arrives only after the wind has stopped whispering and the light has not yet fully woken the world. Each tree—tall, ancient, and cloaked in white—watched in silence as two figures moved playfully across the clearing. Their breath rose in clouds, trailing behind them like fading laughter.
The snow beneath their feet, crisp and untouched, now bore the marks of their passage—scuffs and leaps and the occasional faceprint from a less-than-successful tree swing.
"You've got to loosen up, Adam!" Trevor's voice rang out, light and impish, as he arced effortlessly through the lower branches like a thread weaving between needles.
Adam, trudging below in feet half-submerged in snow, gave a low grunt. "I'm not exactly built for tree-swinging, you know."
He tried to mask the hint of frustration in his voice with dry humor, but it clung to the edges. His wolf tail bristled with each awkward pull upward, flailing for balance in a way that only seemed to draw attention to his struggle. Each branch he reached for seemed just slightly out of place, each grip slightly less confident than the last.
Trevor twisted mid-air, landing beside him with the lightness of a falling leaf. "You're doing alright, wolf-boy," he said with a smirk, brushing the snow off Adam's shoulder in a mock show of condescension. "I've seen worse."
Adam chuckled, though his pride was quietly licking its wounds. "You just make it look easy."
"It is easy," Trevor grinned, swinging back into the trees with practiced grace. "But only if you're born for it."
From below, Adam watched him—his form spinning like a dancer's silhouette between white branches. There was something magnetic about it. Not just the movement, but the freedom in it. The ease. Trevor belonged to the air the way Adam belonged to the ground. It stirred something wordless in him—a mixture of envy, admiration… and something gentler.
"I'm born to run," Adam muttered to himself. "You're born to fly."
He launched himself toward the nearest branch with fresh resolve. It wobbled under his weight, but he gritted his teeth and clung to it. For a moment, the world seemed to pause—and then gravity, as it always did, had its say.
Adam fell with a soft thud into the snow, limbs tangled in his cloak and pride dented once again.
Trevor landed beside him moments later, crouching beside his friend with a theatrical shake of his head. "You're getting better," he said, eyes sparkling.
Adam blinked snow from his lashes, sighing with mock defeat. "You're a terrible liar."
They both laughed, the sound echoing lightly through the clearing like a memory of childhood. The cold no longer mattered. Their journey, their burdens, even the looming war—none of it mattered for a breathless second. They were simply two souls beneath the trees, sharing the oldest kind of magic: joy.
Eventually, Adam managed to catch a branch and haul himself up with enough coordination to not immediately fall. He even managed to swing forward—albeit awkwardly—before slipping and colliding with Trevor, who had climbed up beside him to cheer him on. The two of them tumbled together into a snowbank, landing in a heap of tangled limbs and surprised laughter.
Trevor lay back, breathless from the fall, the frozen world around him spinning slightly with each chuckle. Adam beside him groaned but was smiling too, brushing snow from his face with a paw.
"You're improving," Trevor said between gasps, "I'd give it a solid three-point-five out of ten."
"I'll take it," Adam grinned, chest rising and falling as he stared up at the pale sky. The light filtered through the trees in lazy shafts, catching on the snowflakes that danced down like feathers.
Their laughter faded. In the stillness that followed, something shifted. Subtle, but unmistakable.
They were close—closer than they'd been since this journey had begun. Their bodies just barely touched, but the warmth between them was unmistakable. Trevor's smile faltered, a sudden weight falling into his chest. His orange eyes flicked to Adam's—clear, steady, and just inches away.
For a flicker of a moment, the air between them held its breath.
Trevor looked away abruptly, cheeks flushed beneath his fur. He sat up quickly, brushing snow from his shorts with more enthusiasm than necessary. "We should… probably get back to the path."
Adam nodded, slower, still watching him. "Yeah. Probably."
He rose too, shaking off the last traces of snow. But as he stood, he couldn't help but glance back at Trevor—catching the way the monkey Tracient's ears still twitched faintly, a telltale sign of lingering nerves.
They said nothing more. But between the quiet looks and the unspoken thoughts, something had been exchanged.
They were still brushing themselves off when the faint crunch of approaching footsteps reached their ears. The sound was deliberate—slow, but steady—carving through the snow like a whisper that knew it was being overheard.
Adam froze, his ears perking instinctively. Trevor, mid-laugh, cut off abruptly, his playful demeanor shifting to alertness in an instant.
The trees stood tall and silent, a cathedral of frozen sentinels watching over the world. The hush that had crept over the forest after the mysterious footsteps was soon broken—not by threat, but by familiarity.
Kon emerged from between two snow-laden trunks like a shadow given form, his coat dusted with fine powder, his breath visible in the morning air. His golden eyes flicked toward Adam and Trevor, his voice level as ever.
"Are you two done messing around?"
There was no edge to his tone—no reprimand, only the gentle prod of someone who bore responsibility like armor.
Adam straightened quickly, brushing the last flecks of snow from his shoulders. "Right. Let's go."
Trevor landed beside him with the soundless grace of falling fruit. He tried to keep his tone breezy. "Lead the way, Captain," he quipped, but the usual mischief in his voice had softened, as though wrapped in a layer of unspoken thought.
They moved forward together, their feets crunching against the thinning snow. As the trio passed beneath a canopy of long dead evergreens, the storm that had long dogged their heels finally began to recede. The light came through in cautious beams, casting long shadows between the trees. Each breath they took came out as smoke from their lips, curling and vanishing into the wind.
Trevor, never one to let silence linger too long, piped up again. "So," he began, brushing snow from his shoulder, "what do you guys think this King of Archen Land is like? All noble and stiff? Or do you think he's secretly got a treehouse somewhere and paints birds with his feet like a wild forest sage?"
Adam gave a quiet laugh. It came easily, a balm over the weariness in his bones. "Knowing Archen Land's history, I doubt he's had time for bird paintings."
"They've been surviving more than ruling," Kon added, not breaking stride. "They weren't involved in the war until the last quarter. That wasn't weakness—it was strategy. They bided their time. Darius is no fool."
Trevor swung up into the lower branches of a pine, climbing as easily as if he had grown from the tree himself. "Just saying, not every king's a stuck-up robe-wearer with a voice like stale bread. You can be powerful and not be… boring."
He paused on a branch overhead, legs swinging as he looked down at Adam. "I mean… just look at me."
Adam shook his head with a chuckle. "You are definitely not boring."
Trevor grinned, but something in Adam's smile lingered in his thoughts—something sincere that struck deeper than his usual banter. He dropped down to the snow again with a soft thud, landing beside them. His eyes remained on Adam for a second longer before flicking back to the path ahead.
"You know," he said after a pause, "I get why we're going. I get that we need him. But if this Darius guy has the Arya of Evolution… how do we know he'll even want to join us?"
"Because he'll have no choice," Kon answered, his voice quiet but certain. "If he's a true Grand Lord, he'll feel the call of the prophecy, same as we did. He'll know."
As they pressed deeper into the forest, the wintry cloak of Narn began to loosen its grip. Snow gave way to patches of hard, frost-dusted soil, and tufts of brown grass peeked through the white as though testing the world for warmth. The wind had lost its teeth; the cold had not vanished, but it no longer bit—it whispered.
Trevor, of course, was the first to fill the silence, his voice as buoyant as ever. Swinging from one low branch to another, he glanced down at the others, eyes sparkling with curiosity. "So," he began, legs kicking lazily as he dangled upside down, "what happens when we find this King Darius? Do we just ask nicely for the Arya and hope he hands it over with a royal bow and some tea?"
Adam didn't answer right away. His eyes were fixed on the shifting sky, where sunlight pierced the grey in narrow beams like spears of hope. Actual Sunlight. Narn hadn't seen sunlight for over a thousand sand years. When he did speak, his voice carried a thoughtful weight. "It's not that simple," he said, brow furrowed. "The Aryas… they're not just trinkets you can pass along. They bind themselves to their wielders. And they don't let go without reason."
Trevor gave an exaggerated shrug, flipping down beside him with a flourish. "So, what—we're not asking him for it, we're asking him to… join the band?"
"Exactly," Kon cut in, his tone edged with caution. He hadn't relaxed since the mention of the Arya of Evolution. "We're asking him to trust us with a war he didn't start. One he's spent years staying out of."
"Which is totally fair," Trevor replied, suddenly more grounded. "He's a king, not a freedom fighter. He's got a nation to worry about."
"Which is why we'll need more than words," Kon said. His gaze was scanning the trees again, always watching for danger even in times of peace. "We need to show him that prophecy isn't just a tale. That what we carry—what we are—is real."
Trevor rolled his eyes playfully but said nothing. His silence, for once, spoke volumes. Beneath the grin and flips was someone who understood the stakes far more deeply than he let on.
Adam let out a breath, one that curled visibly in the air. "The Aryas… they choose their time. They find their wielders when the moment is right. That's what Asalan told me. If we're meant to stand side by side with Darius, then he'll know it. He'll feel it like we did."
"Sounds a little mystical for me," Trevor said with a wry grin. He dropped down from a tree, landing beside Adam in a crouch. "But then again, I did wake up one day in a magic land and get handed a glowing headband and a flaming staff. So what do I know?"
Adam gave a half-smile, but the truth in Trevor's words clung to him like frost. He, too, had been swept into this world by forces unseen—tangled in threads older than memory. The idea of choosing had become slippery. Was this his path, or simply the one laid before him?
Kon glanced at Trevor, and for the briefest moment, his stern mask cracked into something close to amusement. "Seems like destiny had a few tricks up its sleeve."
Trevor chuckled and kicked at a tuft of snow. "Yeah, maybe. I just hope destiny doesn't throw us into another trap. My tail still hurts from the last one."
They all grew quiet after that, their words settling like mist into the trees behind them. The landscape had changed—subtly, steadily. The snow was thinning now, giving way to browns and greens long buried. The path ahead was clearer. Softer.
And with the thaw came birdsong—faint, distant, but unmistakably alive. Life, stirring again at the edge of war.
Trevor tilted his head, listening. "Birds," he whispered. "First ones I've heard in weeks."
"It means we're getting close," Adam replied. His voice had an edge of reverence, as though he didn't want to break the quiet with too much certainty. "The land changes as we near Archen's borders. The trees aren't so angry here."
Kon simply nodded. He felt it, too. Not just the temperature, but the tension of the forest easing—as if the land itself recognized that they were walking out of a curse, if only for a while.
They moved on in silence, their footsteps lighter on the thawing earth. Each of them, in their own way, felt something unfamiliar creeping in—not quite hope, not yet—but something like the possibility of it.
And just beyond the treeline, the edge of Archen Land waited.
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The forest opened slowly, as though it too were preparing to bow. The shadows thinned. The snow grew sparse. And before them—sudden and silent—rose the border.
It shimmered like no wall should. It wasn't stone, nor steel, nor even light, but something more elusive: a veil of living color, weaving itself from hues of blue and green that pulsed in slow rhythm, like the breath of some ancient slumbering creature. It towered above the treetops and stretched beyond the horizon, dancing faintly with the wind but unmoved by it, as if it obeyed a force older and deeper than air.
Trevor came to a stop, his mouth open slightly, wonder writ plainly across his face. "Wow," he said in a hush, as though afraid loud words might disturb the sanctity of the sight. "That's… something else."
Adam stood beside him, wolf ears twitching faintly at the low hum vibrating in the ground beneath them. "That's the border," he said, almost reverently. "It's what's kept Archen Land safe all these years—from the corruption, the rot… from Razik."
Kon approached more slowly, his eyes tracing the swirls of energy with growing suspicion. "It's not just a shield," he said, almost to himself. "This is deep magic. Old and precise. If Darius is keeping this active through the Arya of Evolution…" He shook his head slightly. "Then he's wielding it with mastery."
Trevor tilted his head, tail flicking as he squinted at the wall. "So, how do we get through? I don't see any doors. No guard posts. Not even a 'do not disturb' sign."
Adam's brow furrowed. Something about this place—it didn't feel unwelcome, but it didn't feel open either. The air pressed softly against them, like a hand on the chest: not pushing them away, but holding them still, measuring them.
"There has to be an opening," he murmured. "If Darius knows we're coming, he'll have left us a way in."
The closer they moved, the more Adam felt it—energy licking at his fur like static before a storm. His breath caught, as if the very air was charged with questions: *Who are you? Why do you seek entry?* But no voice spoke. It was just the presence of the wall, watching.
Trevor leapt lightly onto a branch, swinging upside down once more, inspecting the barrier with a thoughtful squint. "Do we knock, or…"
He trailed off. All of them did.
Because something was coming.
Adam's ears twitched. Kon's hand moved instinctively to his sword. Trevor dropped soundlessly beside them, his expression alert now, all mischief vanished in an instant.
The forest held its breath.
And then, from the gloom beyond the thinning trees, came the measured sound of hooves crunching softly over brittle leaves. Not thunderous, not hurried—no rush or alarm. Just calm, deliberate steps, like someone who had been waiting and now chose to be seen.
A tall figure stepped into the clearing.
He was elegant in the way only certain beings ever were—without trying, without needing to be. A deer Tracient, tall and slender, his antlers a lattice of brown ivory that caught the shimmer of the barrier behind him. His fur was tawny like autumn leaves, and his eyes—sharp, amber-bright—missed nothing. He wore a fitted cloak the color of dusk, clasped with a silver brooch shaped like a stylized tree.
He stopped a few paces before them and inclined his head—not deeply, but with meaning. It was the kind of bow that came not from humility, but from respect offered without surrender.
"You've come far," he said, his voice smooth and warm, yet touched with the unmistakable authority of one used to being listened to. "Welcome to the border of Archen Land."
Adam took a step forward, eyes meeting the newcomer's with cautious curiosity.
"I am Kopa Boga," the deer continued, folding his arms neatly behind his back. "Emissary and Hand of King Darius. The king has been expecting you."