Location: Narn's Borderlands, just beyond the ArchenLand Barrier | Year: 7002 A.A | Late Afternoon, early Springlight
The greenish-blue shimmer of the ArchenLand Barrier glowed like a living wall across the horizon—a translucent veil of energy that whispered against the wind, humming softly with an ancient protection. It wavered, pulsing briefly, then parted like silk before the company that approached. A brief gust of magic swept outward as it opened, revealing the land beyond—a scarred but slowly healing stretch of Narn, bathed in the waning gold of a late afternoon sun.
Kon walked at the head of the procession, his figure tall and composed, his long fur-lined cloak trailing behind him like a banner of shadowed pride. His expression was unreadable, as it often was—set like stone but with eyes that held a tempest behind them. Every step he took was deliberate, steady, and grounded in a silent weight that the others could sense even if they did not understand it.
Behind him came the freed captives—men, women, children—some limping, others barely holding together, all wrapped in threadbare cloaks and hope. Their faces were drawn with exhaustion, many still etched with the echo of chains and the memories of captivity, but a new light flickered behind their eyes. It was faint, flickering like the first glimmers of a dawn that had long been delayed, but it was there.
To their sides, the soldiers of Archen Land moved with quiet precision. Clad in light silver-blue armor engraved with leaf patterns and runic warding, they kept close to the group without crowding them, their presence less that of guards and more of guardians. They spoke little, but often offered silent nods or steadying hands to those who stumbled.
Kon said nothing as he walked, but his mind stirred beneath the surface, quieter and deeper than he would ever show.
'So this is what three years has brought us…' he thought, his gaze scanning the slowly reblooming hills, where once-frozen soil now yielded to roots and green shoots. 'We are carving life back into death with every footstep. But how many more years will it take? How many more must bleed before this land forgets the taste of iron and ash?'
The wind brushed across the field, stirring the new grass and fluttering the torn cloaks of the captives. Saplings, just a season old, bent gently as if bowing to the passage of those who had seen too much. The trees were small—barely more than branches with ambition—but they were green, alive, and stubborn in their reaching.
Kon's eyes shifted skyward as the cry of a kestrel echoed overhead. It wheeled once, then dove into the treetops of a distant grove. A reminder: life persisted.
Even here.
Even now.
He allowed a breath to ease from his chest. Not a sigh, but a silent acknowledgment. He had fought for this—for these trees, for these survivors, for that bird soaring over land that was no longer silent.
Behind him, a few quiet voices rose from the procession. A mother was humming softly to a child too tired to walk. An older man was pointing to a flowering shrub, explaining something in hushed tones to a boy who had never seen one before. Laughter—dry, disbelieving, fragile—floated up from somewhere.
Kon cradled Tigrera gently in his arms, her body light against his frame, as if she had become less of flesh and more of memory—fragile and worn by the wind. Her head lay rested against his shoulder, soft breaths warming his collar, each one a reminder that she was still there—still alive. His boots moved soundlessly over the softened earth, the snow from the highlands now behind them, and the emerald soil of reclaimed Narn beneath his feet.
He said nothing as they approached the last gate of the barrier, but his thoughts clung to him like shadows—quiet, contemplative, yet unresolved.
'She's too light,' he thought. 'Too quiet. Like someone who hasn't had reason to speak for years…'
He glanced down, only briefly. Her face had relaxed in sleep, the tension gone, replaced by something uncertain—an innocence not quite regained, but no longer stolen. His fingers brushed absently over the edge of her hood, tucking it closer around her neck as the wind picked up.
The barrier's shimmer warped before them again, revealing the open passage—and waiting at its mouth, like a sentinel carved from dusk and horn, stood Kopa Boga.
The deer/stag Tracient was motionless at first, a statue of light brownish bronze. His antlers caught the last fire of the setting sun, casting long shadows like tree branches across the clearing. His eyes, keen as they were ancient, tracked Kon's approach, his arms folded with the patience of someone who had already guessed the answer to the question he was about to ask.
Kopa's deep voice broke the silence, calm but probing. "Mission successful, I presume?"
Kon didn't slow. His tone was clipped and composed, but it lacked the usual edge of tension. "The captives are safe. Razik's men fled into the crags. They won't regroup anytime soon."
Kopa nodded slowly, but his gaze drifted from Kon to the figure in his arms. His eyes narrowed slightly. "And her? She seems… different."
There was a pause—a faint shift in the air, as though Kon were weighing whether to answer at all.
"She's a special case," he said simply.
It wasn't just the words—it was the tone. A note, subtle but unmistakable, had woven its way into Kon's voice. Gentleness. Kopa's sharp eyes caught it immediately. He tilted his head slightly, his antlers flickering gold in the light as he studied his comrade's face.
He had never heard Kon speak of anyone that way before—not since the old days, not since the war, and certainly not since his ascension to the Hazël.
He could have asked more. He could have pressed. But Kopa was not the sort who plucked fruit before it ripened.
So instead, he offered a shrug and a faint smile, barely more than a breath across his lips. "Welcome back," he said, stepping aside as the rest of the procession moved behind Kon. "The capital awaits. Council's already gathered. But… take your time."
Kon gave a single nod, his gaze still steady. The others passed by them in hushed pairs and trios, many casting glances at Tigrera, others whispering prayers or thanks. The sun dipped lower, and the last rays of light stretched long across the ground, painting their shadows tall and far-reaching.
As Kon moved past the threshold of the gate, he felt the warmth of Archen Land's heart bloom around him. Birds sang. Wind rustled the green. And behind him, Kopa Boga remained standing, his gaze lingering on the Tiger Tracient who, for the first time in years, had carried someone not out of duty—but out of care.
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Location: Forest Road to Valoria, Archen Land
Time: Early Evening – Golden Hour Light
The path to Valoria wound like a ribbon of hope through the once-blighted wilds. Once dead earth now yielded to growth, the scent of damp soil mingling with fresh blossoms in the cool air. Tiny flowers—bluebells, frost-lilies, and dream-heather—sprouted at the edges of the road, bending gently beneath the wind as if bowing to welcome them home.
The captives walked slowly, awe overtaking exhaustion. Some touched tree trunks with trembling hands. Others knelt just to press their palms into the grass, as if needing to feel the truth of it against their skin. It had been so long since their world had held color.
At the head of the procession, Kon moved in silence.
Tigrera lay limp in his arms, her fur faintly stirring with every breeze. Her chest rose and fell against his own in slow rhythm. But then, her eyelids fluttered.
Her fingers curled slightly around his tunic. And then, softly, brokenly:
"…Flowers."
Kon glanced down. Her voice was hardly louder than the wind.
"Flowers," she repeated, the word escaping in a breath of disbelief. "Mud… trees… animals…"
She blinked hard as tears spilled down her cheeks, tracing crooked lines through the dirt on her face. Her eyes scanned the branches overhead, the golden light slipping through the leaves.
"I didn't think I'd ever smell these things again," she said, her voice cracking on the last word.
Kon didn't speak. Not at first.
He felt her shaking, the tremors of memory and trauma unraveling beneath his touch. He recognized them. He had lived them. The silent nights after his clan's downfall, when the scent of blood had long replaced the scent of soil. The dreams he never spoke of. The weight that never fully lifted.
So he answered not with eloquence, but with something deeper.
He shifted his grip on her slightly, bringing her closer to his chest, shielding her from the cooling air.
"You're safe now," he murmured. His voice was rough, but something warm threaded through it—an oath not just in word, but in soul. "You'll be alright. I promise."
Tigrera gave a soft sound—part sob, part breath—and slowly, quietly, she leaned her head against him once more.
The tears did not stop. But they changed. No longer frantic, no longer born of terror. These were the tears that came when the worst had passed—when the body still feared, but the soul began to believe.
As her breathing steadied and her eyes fluttered shut again, Kon kept walking. Never slowing. Never wavering.
The golden towers of Valoria stretched upward, bathed in the warm glow of the descending sun. The air carried the hum of bells and distant life—voices, hooves, the bustle of a city unbowed. For many of the freed captives, the sight of those proud white walls brought tears to their eyes. It was the proof of safety. Of deliverance. Of home.
But then—
A ripple crossed the ground. Subtle, at first. The light darkened ever so slightly, as though some great curtain had been drawn across the sun. A strange wind followed—short, fast, and sudden.
One of the younger soldiers turned his head sharply. "What's that?" he asked.
Kon stopped walking.
The breeze was wrong. Not natural, not random. It had shape. Intent. His body tensed instinctively, muscles coiled like a drawn bowstring. He glanced skyward—and saw it.
A shadow, racing across the clouds. Too fast for any bird. Too fluid for a ship. Too playful for a threat—and yet too sharp to ignore.
Then, without warning, the sky split open.
The shadow came down with lightning—no, faster than lightning. There was a roar of thunder, no anticipation. One moment it was above them, the next it had struck the path ahead, sending up a cyclone of dust and leaves, causing the captives to stumble and shout.
Kon stepped forward immediately, shielding Tigrera, his eyes narrowing into a sharp, calculating glare.
The wind settled.
And there, in the center of the swirling dust, crouched a figure—grinning, as if the entire world were nothing but a game.
His fur was the color of rich mahogany, wild and ruffled, catching the last of the evening light. Loose strands of his hair swayed in the breeze like frayed ropes, half-curtain over one bright, almond eye. A long tail twitched lazily behind him, and the weightless way he rose from his crouch made it seem as though gravity itself held no sway over him.
His clothes were unmistakable: the spiral insignia of the Maymum Clan sat boldly across his chest as well as his head band, and bright against the dark red vest he wore with the confidence of a Lord and the recklessness of a vagabond.
But what froze the air was not the symbol of his Clan.
It was what sat just above it.
The Hazël mark gleamed, etched with reverence and age. The number "2" shimmered beneath it, bold and clear.
A Hazël Lord.
The Second.
One of the most powerful beings in all of Archen Land.
The Monkey Tracient grinned wider, eyes glinting with irreverent joy. "Well, well," he said, his voice light, acrobatic, as if every word bounced off the air. "Told you I'd catch you before you reached the gate."
Kon's scowl returned instantly, sharp and fierce.
"…Maymum."
The dust from Trevor's entrance had barely settled when Kopa Boga stepped forward with the poise of a diplomat. With a respectful incline of his antlered head, he spoke in a measured tone.
"Lord Trevor Maymum."
His voice carried the weight of formal recognition, though not without a glimmer of dry amusement. In truth, no one could simply ignore an arrival like Trevor's—one that shattered the stillness and rearranged the very air like a child toppling a sandcastle.
Trevor, still beaming with impish pride, extended his arms theatrically as if expecting applause. "Thank you, thank you. Please—hold the roses."
Behind him, his tail flicked in perfect rhythm with the swagger in his step. The two captives nearest to him exchanged uncertain glances, unsure whether to laugh or remain on edge.
Kon, still holding Tigrera, didn't stop walking. His voice, low and bone-dry, cut through Trevor's pageantry like a dull blade through silk.
"Do you ever get tired of theatrics, Trevor?"
Trevor clasped a hand dramatically to his chest. "Do birds tire of flying? Do rivers grow weary of flowing? Do I—" he paused, glancing slyly at Kon's withering glare "—take that as a no?"
Kon didn't answer. He didn't need to. His gaze had already dropped, narrowing with quiet focus on the sleeping Tracient in his arms. Her breathing was soft, almost rhythmic, but there was something fragile in the way her fingers clenched at the fabric of his cloak—a survival reflex that hadn't yet been unlearned.
Trevor's grin faltered when he noticed her. His head tilted, and in an instant, the playfulness in his eyes dimmed into something more sincere. Curiosity—tempered, even cautious.
He stepped closer, his voice lowered now. "I wasn't expecting you back so soon." His brows pulled slightly together. "And… who's this?"
Kon shifted his weight. "I'll explain later." His tone was curt, but not cold. More protective than dismissive. He adjusted Tigrera gently, careful not to wake her. "Right now, the captives need rest. She needs rest."
There was a pause.
Trevor studied him carefully—this was a version of Kon he'd rarely seen. Not just the warrior, not just the scowling tactician—but something quieter, deeper. A flame hidden rather than extinguished.
With a small nod, Trevor stepped back. "Alright. Let's get moving."
No more words were needed.
The wind picked up as the mighty gates of Valoria groaned open, their golden frames gleaming under the descending sun. Light pooled across the cobbled streets beyond, where towers rose like spears of stone and flame, and the scent of baked bread and lavender drifted on the breeze.
The people of the city watched in awe as the procession entered—liberated captives wrapped in torn cloaks, soldiers walking tall in quiet pride, and at the head of them all: a Tiger with a burden in his arms, and a Monkey at his side.
Home.
But not yet at peace.
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Location: Fortress of Razik, Deep Narn | Time: Nightfall
The wind had a different voice here.
It didn't whistle or sing. It howled—a long, dreadful wail that carried over jagged mountain ridges and desolate wastes, weaving through the shattered towers of what had once been noble keeps. It curled around the ancient stones of the blackened fortress that now stood as Razik's seat of power—a grim bastion carved into the bones of Narn itself. Here, no sun dared to shine. Only the ghastly light of bluish-purple flames cast flickering shadows on cold obsidian walls.
The chamber was vast, yet stifling, like a tomb that had forgotten it was meant to house only the dead. Flame sconces lined the walls, casting slow, shifting glows that danced like spirits caught in restless torment. And in the center of it all stood Razik, his form rigid with stillness, like a statue carved in anger.
He didn't speak at first.
He didn't need to.
The subordinate before him—a thin, quivering Hyena Tracient whose name likely didn't matter—was already stumbling over his own words, breath short with fear.
"There… there was an ambush, my lord," the messenger stammered, claws wringing each other. "The captives… they… they were f-freed. Lord Kon—he—"
But the words never finished. They didn't have to. Something in the air shifted.
A ripple of power flared around Razik's frame—silent, oppressive, but unmistakably violent. His claws flexed at his sides, scraping against the stone floor with a sharp screech, and the torchlight dimmed, as if the flames themselves recoiled from him.
"Get out," Razik said quietly. It was not a request.
The subordinate froze. His feet refused to move.
"I SAID GET OUT!" the Hyena roared, and the chamber trembled with the raw force of his rage. Loose stones rattled. Dust fell from the arches above. The fire in the sconces flared white for a heartbeat before settling again into their unnatural purple glow.
The Hyena bolted, nearly tripping over his own legs as he scrambled from the room, leaving Razik alone.
The silence that followed was heavier than before. Not dead silence—but something worse. It felt like the world itself was holding its breath, waiting.
And then…
A laugh.
Not cruel, but amused. Almost playful. A sound that curled like smoke from the darkness, warm and maddening all at once.
From the far side of the room, a figure emerged, his step silent, his posture relaxed as though this were all a game he had been watching unfold with great interest.
Jarik.
The Rabbit Tracient moved with a peculiar, unnerving grace. His ears twitched faintly, and that ever-present grin stretched impossibly wide across his face. His eyes, half-closed, almost gave the illusion he wasn't watching at all—but Razik knew better. Jarik never missed anything.
"You know," Jarik began, his voice feather-light but unmistakably mocking, "you really ought to do something about that temper of yours, Razik. Very bad for your reputation." He gestured casually with one hand. "And your walls."
Razik said nothing, his eyes burning with fury, but he didn't lash out. Not yet.
Jarik came closer, tilting his head slightly as he examined Razik like one might a wounded animal—or a ticking bomb. "You're upset," he continued, "understandably. But you shouldn't be surprised. This is what tigers do, after all. They spring. Even from traps. Especially from traps." His grin sharpened, voice dipping to a whisper. "And your trap was never going to hold someone like Kon Kaplan."
Razik's claws dug into the stone floor again. "You speak too freely."
Jarik only chuckled. "That's the fun of being me. But don't let your pride trip you up. We're nearly there."
Razik's snarl deepened. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, come now." Jarik circled him like a breeze with a blade in it. "You've seen the signs. Archen Land has overextended. Their people are tired. And Valoria's defenses? Beautiful, yes, but flawed. All it takes is one well-placed crack. And I know just where to find it."
Razik turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing.
Jarik leaned in, close enough that his voice was almost lost in the flickering flame. "It's coming, Razik. The fall. Just like Narn did. Only faster."
He pulled back again, adjusting his collar as though nothing had happened. "So don't lose your head over one little rescue mission. Let the Wild Tiger roar. Let him play the hero. When the right string is pulled, even heroes fall."
Razik said nothing, but his silence was different now—no longer explosive, but simmering. Dangerous.
Jarik didn't mind. He was already retreating into the shadows again, his laughter trailing behind him like the last note of a haunting melody.
And once more, the chamber was still.
But the air had changed. The scent of war hung thick in the room, carried not by blood or fire… but by the calm before a storm.