All the prisoners were carried by Wingroars, their massive bodies cutting through the gray sky like arrows loosed from a bow, their white feathers gleaming against the dark clouds.
The entire sky of Nova was filled with the army of elven warriors, their silver armor shining like a second sun, their weapons raised, their presence so vast and terrible that it seemed as if they were marching to war rather than returning home.
The Wingroars flew in perfect formation, their wings beating in unison, their roars echoing across the mountains, shaking snow from the peaks, sending avalanches crashing down into the valleys below.
They were many miles from their kingdom, following a signal that only they could sense—a beacon that had been placed in Sophia's blood the day she was born, a magical mark that could not be erased, could not be hidden, could not be ignored. And when she used it, They knew where she is, The Underwarden turned to the elf mage beside her, a woman with silver hair and eyes that glowed like emeralds, her face weathered by centuries of study and battle.
"Ready the teleportation spell," she said, her voice calm, commanding. "We are taking them to Sylvaris."
The mage nodded. She raised her staff—a branch of ancient oak, purple with age, its wood so dark that it seemed to absorb the light around it. The staff was taller than she was, carved with runes that told the story of her people, and at its tip, a crystal began to glow, pulsing with a soft, golden light that grew brighter with each passing second.
Behind her, one hundred and twenty mages stood on the backs of their Wingroars, their staves raised, their voices rising in unison. The chant was ancient, older than the mountains, older than the forest, older than the elves themselves. It was the language of creation, the tongue of the first beings, the words that had shaped the world from chaos. The sound of it was beautiful and terrible, filled with power that could bend the very fabric of reality.
The Graduate Novens watched from above, dangling from the claws of the Wingroars like dolls caught in the grip of a giant. They could not move. Their hands were bound, their mouths were gagged, their bodies were secured to the beasts with enchanted ropes that would not break. They could not speak. They could not signal. They could not do anything except watch and wait.
Even though they had power—they had trained for years, had fought countless battles, had earned their rank through blood and sweat—they knew that it would be useless here. In Nova, the elves had lived for hundreds of years, had achieved power beyond human comprehension, had experience that no human could match. They had seen empires rise and fall. They had watched stars burn out and be reborn. They had forgotten more about magic than humans would ever learn.
If they tried to fight, it would be like a child battling an adult. They would lose. They would die.
So they stayed still. They stayed quiet. They became prisoners, trusting that their doctor would save them later. He had connections. He had power. He had resources that could reach even into the heart of the elven kingdom. All they had to do was survive.
One of the elven guards looked at them, his lip curling in disgust. His face was hidden behind a mask, but his eyes were visible—cold, cruel, filled with a hatred that had been nurtured for centuries.
"All of you," he said, his voice low, dangerous, "if you do not want to lose your tongues, keep your mouths shut."
The Novens nodded. They kept their mouths shut.
Rovareth raised his hand. The army fell silent. The only sound was the beating of wings and the chanting of the mages, their voices rising and falling like waves against a shore.
He gave the signal.
The army surged forward, flying toward the teleportation circle that had appeared in the sky—a shimmering disc of golden light, large enough to swallow them all, its edges crackling with power. The mages' voices reached a crescendo, and the world dissolved.
The journey of many miles became the journey of a few minutes.
When they emerged, they were in Sylvaris.
Yuuta was on Rovareth's Wingroar, held in the Skywarden's iron grip, his small body swaying with the motion of the beast. The wind whipped through his black hair, and his red eyes were wide, taking in everything. Sophia was on the Underwarden's Wingroar, unconscious, her body wrapped in blankets, her face pale, her breathing shallow.
They descended through the clouds, and the kingdom of the elves was revealed.
At the heart of Sylvaris stood a tree that defied the very idea of scale. Its roots sank deep into the world of Nova, reaching down through rock and stone, anchoring themselves in the core of the continent. Some said that the roots touched the bottom of the world, that they held the very foundations of reality in place. Others said that the tree was older than the world itself, that it had been planted by the gods before the first dawn.
Its crown pierced the heavens, vanishing beyond the clouds as if it sought to touch the stars themselves. The top of the tree could not be seen—it was lost in the mists of the upper atmosphere, where the air was thin and the light was pale. Birds nested in its highest branches, creatures that had never touched the ground, that had been born and lived and died in the sky.
The trunk alone stretched for kilometers—so vast that entire cities were carved into its living wood, their windows glowing faintly with ancient mana, their streets winding through the bark like rivers through a canyon. The wood was warm to the touch, pulsing with a gentle light, and it hummed with a low, constant vibration, as if the tree itself was alive and aware.
But it was the branches that formed the true kingdom. They spread across the sky like continents, each one wide enough to hold forests, rivers, and palaces of white stone. Some branches were so large that clouds formed around them, and rain fell from their leaves, creating endless waterfalls that cascaded into the void below.
Bridges of woven roots and light connected the branches, swaying gently in the wind far above the ground below. They were wide enough for armies to cross, strong enough to hold the weight of dragons, ancient enough to have witnessed the birth and death of stars. Travelers walked along them, their forms small against the vastness, their voices carried away by the wind.
Waterfalls cascaded from the edges of the branches, falling for what seemed like miles before disappearing into the mist. The water was clear and cold, fed by springs deep within the tree, and it sparkled in the light like liquid diamonds. The sound of it was constant, a white noise that filled the air, that became a part of the background of life in Sylvaris.
Upon the highest branch, where the air grew thin and the sunlight turned pale gold, stood the royal palace—vast as a city, its towers rising like extensions of the tree itself. Its walls were carved from living wood and gleaming crystal, and its spires were tipped with gold that caught the light and scattered it like rain. Gardens grew on its terraces, filled with flowers that bloomed year-round, their petals glowing with their own light.
This was Sylvaris. Not built upon the land. Grown from it. Nurtured by it. Part of it.
Yuuta's red eyes widened.
He had never seen anything like this. He had never imagined that such a place could exist. The laboratory had been cold and gray, the well had been dark and wet, the forest had been white and empty. But this—this was alive.
This was beautiful.
This was a world beyond his dreams.
He forgot to be afraid. But Exahustation took Over him.
They soon landed near one of the great branches—a platform so vast that it could have held an entire city, its surface smooth and warm, humming with the ancient life of the tree. The wood beneath their feet was not dead; it was alive, pulsing with a gentle rhythm like the heartbeat of a sleeping giant. Moss grew in the crevices, soft and green, and tiny flowers bloomed in patches, their petals glowing faintly in the dim light that filtered through the canopy above.
The army descended in perfect formation, their Wingroars landing in ranks, their claws gripping the living wood, their wings folding against their sides. The sound of their landing was thunderous, a thousand beasts touching down at once, their talons scraping against the bark, their roars echoing through the branches. Dust and leaves rose into the air, swirling in the downdraft, creating a golden haze that caught the light and scattered it like stars.
The branch was enormous, easily large enough to accommodate the entire army and more, yet there was still space left—enough to fit twice their number, perhaps three times. The tree had grown to accommodate the needs of its people, and it would continue to grow for as long as they needed it. Bridges of woven roots stretched from the branch to other parts of the tree, connecting the kingdom like veins in a living body.
The human prisoners were dragged from the Wingroars, their hands bound, their mouths gagged, their bodies secured with enchanted ropes that glowed faintly in the dim light. Their feet scraped against the wood as they were pulled along, and their eyes were wide with fear. They knew where they were. They had heard the stories. They knew that elves did not show mercy to those who harmed their own.
They were brought to a nearby prison seal—a circle of ancient stone, carved with runes that had been old when the first humans learned to walk. The seal was set into the living wood, integrated into the tree itself, as much a part of Sylvaris as the branches and the leaves. It glowed with a pale blue light, and the air around it was cold, still, dead.
When the prisoners were placed inside the circle, they felt their mana drain away, sucked from their bodies like water from a cracked vessel. They could not cast spells. They could not summon weapons. They could not do anything except kneel and wait.
Their belongings were stripped from them—their weapons, their communicators, their tools. Everything was taken, cataloged, stored. They were left with nothing but their clothes and their fear.
Queen Aerisyl Sylvarion was waiting in the landing area.
She stood at the center of the platform, her Golden hair gleaming, her green eyes fixed on the horizon. Her dress was white, simple, elegant, and her crown was a circlet of living wood, its leaves still green, its flowers still blooming. She was tall—six feet and two inches—and her presence was commanding, absolute.
Behind her, seven elders stood in a crescent formation, their faces hidden behind masks, their bodies wrapped in robes of gold and silver. They were Elgons—mixed bloods of dragon and elf, beings of vast knowledge and immeasurable power. Their eyes were ancient, their faces lined with centuries of wisdom, and their hands rested on weapons that had been forged before the first human drew breath.
They were ready for any surprise attack, any rebellion, any threat to their queen. Their auras leaked from their bodies, cold and terrible, and the air around them shimmered with barely contained power.
Queen Aerisyl had been waiting here ever since she received Sophia's signal. The beacon had burned in her heart like a flame, a hope that she had thought was long dead. Sophia was her only daughter—the only child she would ever have. Elves were infertile, their birth rates so low that having one child was considered a blessing, having two a miracle. Sophia was her miracle, her joy, her reason for living.
They had fought, years ago. A small matter, a petty argument, the kind of disagreement that mothers and daughters have since the beginning of time. Sophia had stormed out, vowing never to return. And she had kept her vow.
For two decades, she had been gone. Twenty years of silence, of searching, of hoping. The queen had sent scouts, had offered rewards, had prayed to every god she knew. She had never stopped looking for her daughter.
And now, Sophia was coming home.
The army landed. The Wingroars took their positions, their great bodies forming a corridor that led from the edge of the branch to the queen. The soldiers dismounted, their armor clinking, their weapons sheathed. They formed two lines, creating a path for their queen, their heads bowed, their hands over their hearts.
Queen Aerisyl ran.
Her silver hair streamed behind her, and her green eyes were fixed on the figure being helped from the Underwarden's Wingroar. The Underwarden held Sophia gently, supporting her weight, trying to keep her on her feet. Sophia was barely conscious, her body swaying, her eyes unfocused. She stumbled, nearly fell, caught herself on the Underwarden's arm.
She looked like a drunkard, like someone who had been lost in the wilderness for years and had only now stumbled back to civilization. Her legs were weak, and her arms hung limply at her sides, and her head lolled on her neck.
The queen reached her daughter.
She saw the rags, the blood, the bruises. Sophia's wounds had been healed—the healers had done their work, closing the cuts, mending the bones, repairing the damage—but the stains remained. Dark patches of dried blood covered her pale skin, crusted and flaking. Bruises bloomed on her arms, her neck, her face, purple and black and yellow. Her lips were cracked and bleeding, and her eyes were sunken, ringed with shadows.
Her clothes were torn and filthy, barely covering her body. They were rags, nothing more, held together by desperation and hope. Her hair was matted and tangled, filled with dirt and dried blood and bits of leaf. Her face was gaunt, her cheeks hollow, her skin stretched tight over her bones.
Queen Aerisyl's eyes filled with tears. She had thought her daughter was dead. She had mourned her, had built shrines in her memory, had visited her empty room on every anniversary of her departure. She had never stopped hoping, but she had stopped believing.
And now, Sophia was alive. Broken, wounded, barely recognizable—but alive.
She hugged her.
She wrapped her arms around her daughter and pulled her close, pressing her face against Sophia's hair, breathing in the scent of her—blood and dirt and something else, something that was still her, still Sophia, still her little girl.
Sophia woke up.
Her eyes snapped open, wide and wild, unfocused. She looked around, confused, disoriented. She did not recognize this place. She did not recognize the people surrounding her. She did not recognize the woman who was holding her so tightly.
She could not find Yuuta.
The queen's embrace was too tight, too constricting, too much. Sophia's body convulsed, and she vomited on her mother's clothes—a thin, watery bile that soaked into the white fabric, staining it yellow and green. The smell was acrid, sour, and it filled the air around them.
Everyone around them froze. The knights, the Skywarden, the Underwarden, even the elders—they stared in horror. Their mouths hung open, and their eyes were wide, and their hands hovered over their weapons, uncertain of what to do.
This was not how a princess should behave. This was not how an elf should act. This was barbaric, disgusting, wrong.
Sophia growled.
"Waasss.... waaaa... a.a.a.a... ahaajaj..."
The sound was animalistic, inhuman, wrong. It was the sound of a creature that had forgotten how to speak, that had forgotten how to be civilized, that had forgotten everything except pain and fear and hunger. Her lips pulled back from her teeth, and her tongue lolled out, and saliva dripped from her chin.
The queen's heart stopped.
Her daughter was mad. The princess of Sylvaris, the heir to the throne, was a mindless beast. She was not broken—she was shattered. She was not wounded—she was destroyed. The light in her eyes was gone, replaced by something feral, something wild, something that did not recognize its own mother.
Queen Aerisyl's aura rose.
It exploded from her body like a storm, like a wave, like the end of the world. The pressure was immense, crushing, absolute. Everyone around her fell to their knees—the knights, the soldiers, even the Elgon elders flinched, their ancient bodies trembling under the weight of their queen's rage. The Wingroars whimpered and pressed themselves against the ground, their great heads bowed, their wings folded tight against their sides.
The tree itself seemed to shudder. Leaves fell from the branches above, and the wood beneath their feet groaned, and the light in the crystals dimmed.
"Who did this?" the queen said, her voice low, terrible. "WHO DID THIS TO MY DAUGHTER?"
Her aura grew stronger, sickening the world tree itself, making the leaves tremble and the branches groan. The air around her shimmered with heat, and the ground beneath her feet cracked, and the very fabric of reality seemed to bend under the weight of her rage.
Rovareth knelt, his head bowed, his voice shaking.
"I apologize, my Queen," he said, "that we found the princess in this condition."
The queen's aura did not lessen.
"But we found who did this," Rovareth continued, his voice barely audible over the pressure.
The queen's eyes blazed. "Who?"
Rovareth gestured to the prisoners. The humans were brought forward, their hands bound, their faces pale, their bodies trembling. They were shoved to their knees in front of the queen, and they dared not look up.
Among them was Yuuta. He was unconscious, his small body limp, his black hair matted with blood, his red eyes closed. His face was bruised, and his lips were split, and his arms were covered in cuts and scrapes. He looked like a broken doll, discarded and forgotten.
The queen did not hesitate.
"I, Queen of Sylvaris, sovereign of this realm, pass judgment without trial.
They have laid hands upon royal blood. They have dared to harm my daughter.
By my authority, their lives are forfeit.
I decree their end… by Trial of the Beast Execution."
The elven knights knelt, honoring their queen's word. Their heads bowed, and their hands pressed to their hearts, and their voices rose in unison.
"As the Queen commands."
The elders exchanged glances, their ancient eyes troubled. One of them stepped forward, his robes rustling, his mask hiding his face.
"My Queen," he said, his voice low, respectful, "there is a child among them."
He pointed at Yuuta, who was barely visible among the prisoners, his small body hidden by the taller humans. The child was so still, so pale, that he might have been dead.
The queen's eyes flickered toward him. Her expression did not soften. Her aura did not lessen.
"It does not matter," she said. "My word is absolute. They will die by Beast Execution."
The words echoed through the clearing, through the branch, through the very heart of Sylvaris. They reached the ears of every elf present, and they were accepted without question.
Sophia heard them.
Something shifted inside her. Some part of her that had been dormant, that had been sleeping, that had been waiting for this moment—woke up. She recognized the words. She did not know how, she did not know why, but she understood what they meant.
They were going to kill Yuuta.
She started to growl.
"WAAAAA....AAHAHAH..S.S..S.S.S.S..."
Her voice grew louder, more desperate, more animalistic. It was not a word, not a cry, not a scream. It was something else—something primal, something that had been buried deep in her chest and was now clawing its way out.
She pushed against her mother, shoving her away with surprising strength. Her body swayed, and her legs threatened to buckle, but she did not fall. She walked toward the prisoners. She walked toward Yuuta.
"Yu... Yu... Yuuta..." she said, her voice weak, broken, barely audible.
Then her body gave out.
The exhaustion that had been building for days, for weeks, for years—finally caught up with her. Her legs collapsed, and she fell, her hand stretched toward Yuuta, her fingers grasping at empty air. Her eyes closed, and her breathing slowed, and her body went still.
She was unconscious.
The queen stared at her daughter's fallen form. She stared at the child among the prisoners. She stared at the blood on his face, the bruises on his skin, the way he lay so still, so pale, so small.
She did not understand. But she would.
To be continued...