They sat in the thick, endless dark, the black tar clinging to their legs. For once, they didn't bother moving. They didn't want to. The weight of tomorrow—or something deeper—pressed down on them.
The mirror appeared, rippling up from the tar like an unwanted memory.
Arbor scowled at it.
"Go away," they muttered, voice low and tired.
And for once... it listened.
The mirror faded, leaving nothing but the endless sea of tar and the stars twinkling faintly overhead.
For a long moment, Arbor sat in the quiet.
Then, from the tar, something else took shape.
A fox.
Made entirely of tar, its surface glossy and black, reflecting the starlight in warped patterns. It tilted its head at Arbor, mimicking their slight movements like a shadow in a cracked mirror.
Then it caught fire.
Flames—caramel and deep crimson—licked across its form, growing, twisting, devouring. The fox's shape stretched, towering higher and higher until it loomed over Arbor like a living monolith.
It grinned.
A row of sharp, burning teeth gleamed down at them.
Before Arbor could react—poof.
They jolted awake.
The familiar stone walls of the den greeted them, beams of morning sunlight cutting through the mist outside.
A lingering wisp of smoke floated near the ceiling from their sudden shift back to humanoid form. Arbor's legs were tangled awkwardly in the fox-sized bed, which was definitely too small for them like this.
They groaned, rubbing their eyes.
A knock sounded at the door.
Arbor flopped back against the small bed, staring at the ceiling.
"A new day," they muttered to no one in particular. "Yee."
Arbor groaned, rolling onto their side and throwing an arm over their eyes as the morning sunlight speared into the den.
"These dreams are really starting to bother me," they muttered into the pillow.
A knock came at the door—sharp, impatient.
"Get up!" Freya's voice rang out from outside. "We've got a big day ahead!"
Arbor groaned louder, dragging themselves halfway upright. "Why are mornings a thing," they grumbled to no one.
They shuffled through their usual morning routine, popping open the jar of lux bugs and letting them lazily float into the wall-lamps. They splashed some water on their face from the basin, blinked at their reflection, and went to check the wardrobe grabbing a similar outfit to the day prior.
For footwear, there were light, laced sandals left neatly by the door.
Arbor eyed them.
Then they looked at their own fox-like feet—tough, nimble, padded—and thought about Freya, who wandered around just fine on her hooves.
Yeah. No contest.
With a decisive grunt, Arbor left the sandals behind. Barefoot was just better.
They swung their cylinder-shaped bag onto their back, checking the straps. Essentials were packed—rune set, spare stones, and a battered old notebook. As they turned to leave, they spotted the staff propped awkwardly in the corner.
"Right."
Arbor slapped it onto their back too with a magnetic clasp. Couldn't exactly show up to team day without it.
With a long, dramatic sigh, they pushed open the door and stepped out into the cool morning mist.
Freya was already waiting by the path, arms crossed, looking entirely too awake for this hour.
Arbor shuffled over, squinting at her. "You know," they said, scratching behind one ear, "you could just let me sleep through one of these 'big days.' I wouldn't mind."
Freya smirked. "And miss the chance to see you stumbling around like a half-dead lux bug? Never."
"Alright," Freya called back over her shoulder. "We can get going now."
The walk was the same as always—mist curling through the undergrowth, faint shafts of morning light piercing the blue canopy. And, of course, Arbor's usual string of half-hearted complaints about waking up too early.
But today, two things dominated their mind.
First: the new people they were about to meet—a thought that tied their stomach into increasingly complicated knots.
And second: a question that had been gnawing at them for a while now.
As they bent to pick up a particularly shiny, rune-cracked rock for their growing "special" collection, Arbor decided to bother Freya with the second issue first.
"So," they said casually, tossing the rock into their pouch, "what even goes on in this forest that we need a whole army of magic warriors for?"
They waved a hand around at the quiet woods. "I mean, I don't see much happening. Just random animals wandering around, and the occasional magical creature minding its own business."
Freya chuckled, not slowing her pace. "The reason you feel so safe, Arbor, is because of the Legion."
She looked back at them, her expression serious but not unkind.
"I can assure you—life beyond this little pocket of forest is a lot less 'cozy.' The Legion enforces Atheria's will: peace for all who live under her protection."
Freya smiled faintly. "And soon, you'll see how much of an honor it is—and the good we do."
Arbor shrugged, unconvinced.
"If you say so, Freya," they muttered.
Their mind drifted, thinking back to the sheer destruction Freya had casually unleashed during training—the explosion that had turned a simple rock into a projectile weapon strong enough to crack trees in half.
If that was what Freya used just for demonstrations...
What in the world were they actually defending against that would need that much power?
And more importantly—
Could Arbor survive meeting it?
—------------------------
Elsewhere in the forest, the fog thickened into a heavy, suffocating blanket.
Shadows shifted between the towering blue trees.
A figure darted through them, their green cloak whipping behind like a wounded flag. Each frantic step kicked up dirt and leaves, their breathing shallow and panicked. The hood of their cloak slipped, revealing two pointed ears — an elf.
Beneath the loose fabric, strands of blond hair caught the light.
The cloak's bottom was frayed, streaked with dirt and dotted with dark stains of blood. A crest stitched on their back—a blue moon—shimmered faintly. If anyone had been close enough, they might have noticed how closely it resembled the one worn by a certain fox-like figure.
But no one was close enough.
Except the figure behind them.
The second figure moved like a shadow come alive, cloaked in deep black. No face could be seen beneath the hood, only the faint suggestion of a head bowed in patient pursuit.
Their left hand was pale, fingers sharp and unnatural—two replaced with thin, glinting metal prosthetics, each knuckle lined with rings inscribed with unreadable runes.
Their right hand gripped a crossbow.
Runes carved into its frame flared with a hungry light as energy flooded into the bolt resting on the string. The very air around it buzzed with tension.
Whip!
The arrow flew, crackling with a flickering purple aura. It zipped past the elf's hood, grazing the fabric. Sparks ignited where it struck, singeing the cloak's edge. The elf stumbled with a hiss of pain, clutching their chest where blood had already darkened the cloth.
Their movements grew sloppy, staggering.
From behind came a voice — sing-song and mocking.
"Run, run, little sprout," it said. "Faster now. You've done so well so far. Don't stop now."
The fog began to thin.
Ahead, the forest opened into a clearing—a sudden, jarring shift in terrain that nearly sent the elf sprawling.
Their desperate gaze darted across the open ground.
No path. No escape.
Only a ruined structure. A dead end.
They skidded to a halt, whipping toward the edge of the clearing—
Where the hunter stood, relaxed and waiting, still cloaked in darkness.
"That was fun," the hunter said, voice low and pleased. "But it seems we've reached the climax."
The elf cursed under their breath and thrust out a hand.
Space itself tore open with a shriek of green light. Runes spun around the portal's edges as a swirling hole formed in the air—a weapons gate.
From it, a staff burst forward.
Wooden, with golden vines coiling around its length and a blood-red gem seated between two sharp horns at the top. The elf grabbed it desperately, breath ragged.
Their hood fell.
Long blond hair spilled down her back, revealing a half-burned face, one eye sealed shut by scar tissue. The other eye—a vivid green—burned with rage and defiance.
Blood oozed from the wound at her chest, but she lifted the staff high.
Her lips moved quickly, tracing ancient words into the air. Runes spiraled around her feet and back, shimmering green and forming a complex, multi-tiered magic circle.
The ground beneath her thrummed with raw power.
For a moment, it seemed she might turn the tide.
The hunter simply raised their hand, revealing a floating red gem hovering above their palm—sharp, faceted, and alive with shifting light.
"We can't have that, now, can we?" they said.
Their fingers curled.
The red gem flashed green.
The elf's eyes went wide.
"No—!" she gasped, but it was too late.
The layered green runes cracked like fragile glass. Symbols burst apart in flashes of magic. Her staff's glow sputtered and died.
The spell collapsed in her hands.
Rage twisted her face. Desperation bled from every line of her body. "You'll regret this," she snarled, voice ragged. "Atheria will see you."
The hunter chuckled, low and slow.
"That's the thing about you mages... sooo much confidence." They paused, tilting their head. "I love it."
They stepped forward, the dark mist around them seeping out like ink spilled across the clearing.
"Atheria's gaze doesn't reach here, little sprout."
The light dimmed. The clearing swallowed itself in shadow.
And then—there was nothing but torn fabric and a staff that once belonged to the elf.