It would place her, and by extension the Queen, in a position of unique advantage when he finally turned his gaze towards Arden's Reach. It was a gamble. He might simply harvest the Terror and ignore the gesture. He might see it as a challenge. But the potential reward, forging a connection with this walking blasphemy, this key to unimaginable power, was worth any risk.
A slow, predatory smile touched Morwenna's lips. She had her plan.
"You have served the Wood well, little whisper," she crooned to the terrified shadow. "And now, you will serve one last, greater purpose."
Ignoring its confused, fearful vibrations, she tightened her grip and launched herself from the branch, her powerful wings beating a silent rhythm against the thick air. She did not fly towards the Herald, not directly. She would circle around, approach from the open field, making her intentions clear. She would be a diplomat from the shadows, and her offering would be a taste of the feast the Whisper Wood could provide.
---
Morwenna's flight was a silent, circling descent. She did not emerge from the Wood's edge, the domain of shadows and fear. Instead, she swept out over the open, blood-soaked field, a stark, elegant silhouette against the soft rays of moon light. Her approach was deliberate, non-threatening, a display of power and grace meant to be seen. She held the injured Whisper Terror in one taloned hand, its form limp and fraying, a clear offering. Doom sensed her the moment she left the cover of the trees. His head, which had been resting against the wagon wheel, snapped up. The hood of his borrowed cloak shifted, revealing his obsidian eyes that tracked her every movement. He did not rise. He did not move the Ossuary Blade, though his fingers rested on its hilt. He was a statue of scarred indifference, but his focus was absolute. This was the watcher. And it was coming to him.
'Patience, myblade,' Ainar's voice was a razor's edge of caution and intrigue. 'It brings a gift. A poisoned apple, perhaps, but a gift nonetheless. See how it holds the wounded shadow? It understands your hunger. This is a language you know. Let it speak first.' Morwenna landed softly twenty paces away, her powerful, digitigrade legs absorbing the impact without a sound. She folded her vast, glossy wings, the obsidian feathers settling like a cloak of night. As she straightened, her form was revealed. She was tall and lithe, but she stood a full head shorter than Doom, her eyes level with his sternum. Her hybrid form was both terrifying and mesmerizing, a symphony of elegant predation. She did not advance further. She held her ground, her blood-red eyes meeting his across the gulf of ash and ruin. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken assessment.
Then, she moved. Not a step, but a gesture. With a fluid, almost contemptuous motion, she tossed the Whisper Terror onto the churned earth between them. It landed in a heap of shuddering shadow-stuff, its single remaining claw scrabbling weakly at the dirt.
"A token," Morwenna's voice was a low, melodic croak, devoid of fear or submission, laced with a cool, intellectual curiosity. "From the Whisper Wood. To the new power that walks its border."
The injured Terror, hearing its fate so casually declared, found a final reservoir of desperate energy. "Named One! Please!" it hissed, its voice a static-filled plea. "I served! I brought the warning! Do not give me to this... this Devourer! My essence is still loyal to the Queen! I can still serve!" It tried to pull itself away, a wounded spider scrambling from a flame.
Morwenna looked at it, her expression one of mild, detached annoyance, as if watching an insect struggle. "Your service is noted. And its conclusion is now. Your final purpose is to be a message. Be silent." She took twenty deliberate, measured steps forward, the talons of her avian feet leaving precise impressions in the mud. She stopped ten paces from Doom, a respectful and strategic distance. She placed a taloned foot lightly on the Terror's back, not with crushing force, but with enough pressure to still its frantic movements. The Terror let out a low, despairing keen, its form shuddering in absolute submission.
Doom's gaze flickered from her to the pinned Terror, then back to her. He said nothing. His expression did not change. But the hum of the Ossuary Blade, still resting across his lap, intensified slightly. Morwenna tilted her head, a bird-like gesture of inquiry, her blood-red eyes unwavering. "It witnessed your... work. It carried an echo of your nature. An echo that disturbed the Wood's deeper song. I have come to see the source of that disturbance for myself." Her eyes swept over the field of ashes, the empty armor, the lingering stench of void and purified light. "You are thorough. I admire thoroughness."
Her gaze, sharp and intelligent, locked onto the Ossuary Blade. "Your instrument is remarkable. It does not just kill. It converts. A fascinating alchemy. The Wood is full of life, Herald. Twisted, yes. Wild. But potent. A feast for one such as you, if you know where to hunt." She nudged the Terror with her foot. "A small sample. A demonstration of the potential for... mutual understanding."
Doom's assessment of her was cold and multi-layered. He felt a strange, primal pull, an appreciation for the lethal elegance of her form, the sleek fusion of woman and raven, the sharp intelligence in her blood-red eyes, the promise of power in her talons and wings. It was an attraction devoid of sentiment, a predator's recognition of a formidable and exotic counterpart. Yet, it was intertwined with a deep-seated perplexity. Ainar's whispers had centered on human women as tools for release or leverage. This creature, this Valravn, defied that simple categorization. She was not a tool to be used, but a power to be negotiated with, an unknown variable that stirred something other than the urge to dominate or consume.
He moved.
It was not the blur of a Void Dash, but a slow, deliberate rise to his feet. The Ossuary Blade seemed to weigh nothing in his hand. He took two steps towards the offered Terror, his bare, scarred feet silent on the earth. Seeing him advance, Morwenna acted. In a single, fluid motion, she hooked her taloned foot under the shuddering Terror and kicked it forward, not with violence, but with precise aim, sending the shadowy form tumbling through the air directly toward Doom.
Doom didn't flinch. He simply adjusted his grip and angled the Ossuary Blade, holding it steady as the Terror's mass, fueled by Morwenna's kick, impaled itself upon the point.
SHLORP.
The broken creature, It looked up, its vortex-face swirling with a final, pathetic mix of terror and despair. The sound was wet and final. The Ossuary Blade drank. The crimson veins blazed, and the Terror's form convulsed, its essence violently siphoned away. It dissolved, not into ash, but into a cloud of dissipating black smoke that was greedily consumed by the hungry metal. In seconds, there was nothing left.
```
HARVEST: [WHISPER TERROR - REMAINING ESSENCE]
✦━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✦
BIO-TITHERIUM EXTRACTION: [SHADOW-WEAVE CORE / AGILE BONE MATRIX]
YIELD: MODERATE (18%)
BIO-TITHERIUM RESERVES: 22.5% -> 40.5%
✦━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✦
```
Doom lowered the blade. His obsidian gaze, now utterly focused and devoid of the weariness from moments before, locked onto Morwenna. The brief influx of energy had sharpened his senses. The Verdict System flared to life, scanning the entity before him. The data that scrolled across his vision was unlike anything he had seen before. A cold, unfamiliar jolt, something akin to alarm, spiked through him, though his face remained an impassive mask.
```
VERDICT SYSTEM: ENTITY ANALYSIS
✦━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✦
ENTITY: MORWENNA
SPECIES: VALRAVN
DESIGNATION: NAMED OF THE WHISPER WOOD (QUEEN'S ANOINTED)
POWERALLOCATION: STAGE 2 - CHILD | TIER 4
THREAT CLASSIFICATION: EXTREME (ELITE / INTELLIGENT PREDATOR / STAGE SUPERIORITY)
ESSENCE SIGNATURE: CORRUPTED NATURE-AFFINITY / SHADOW-WEAVE / AVIAN SYMBIOSIS
PHYSICAL ANALYSIS:
✦━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✦
HEIGHT: ~5ft 10
COMPOSITION: DENSIFIED ORGANICS, SHADOW-INFUSED BONE, OBSIDIAN-FEATHER INTEGRATION.
DETECTEDWEAPONS: RAZOR TALONS (HANDS/FEET), BEAK-LIKE BONE DENSITY (SKULL), OBSIDIAN FEATHERS (PROJECTILE/RENDING CAPABILITY).
MOBILITY: HIGH (AERIAL SUPERIORITY, ARBOREAL AGILITY).
NOTED ABILITIES (HYPOTHESIZED):
✦━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✦
SHADOW MELDING (ADVANCED STEALTH)
SONIC ATTACK (DISORIENTATION/PIERCING)
POSSIBLE PSYCHIC SENSITIVITY (WOOD CONNECTION)
ENHANCED SENSES (LOW-LIGHT, TRACKING)
ASSESSMENT: CRITICAL THREAT. COMBAT STYLE FAVORS SPEED, PRECISION, AND AMBUSH. AERIAL ADVANTAGE MAKES MELEE ENGAGEMENT DIFFICULT. ENTITY EXISTS ON A HIGHER ORDER OF POWER (STAGE 2). DIRECT CONFRONTATION IN CURRENT STATE IS NOT ADVISABLE.
✦━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✦
```
Stage 2 - Child. Tier 4.
The terms were alien, but their meaning was brutally clear. A hierarchical structure of power he had been unaware of. Garret, Lyra, the False Titan, all formidable, all broken, had never triggered such a classification. They were all, it seemed, within the same broad category as him, whatever "Stage 1" or lower might be. This creature, this Morwenna, was categorically different. A "Child" of a higher order of existence. The analysis confirmed his instincts with terrifying clarity. She was not just an enemy to be taken lightly; she was a potential executioner he had been fortunate enough to not provoke.
'A... Stage? A Child?' Ainar's voice was a whisper of stunned confusion in his mind, the first time he had ever heard her truly at a loss. 'This world's power is measured in Stages? And she is a tier within the second? What Stage are you, my son? Why has the Verdict never shown this for you? What are we?' The foundational understanding of his own power was suddenly, violently, called into question.
Yet, her actions spoke of a calculated offer, not a challenge. She held a position of immense power, yet she had chosen to gift him prey, not become it.
His face, a masterpiece of Kael-forged stoicism, betrayed nothing of the internal earthquake. With his obsidian eyes still on Morwenna. He gave a single, curt nod. The message was clear. The gift was accepted. The potential for understanding was acknowledged, now layered with a newfound, profound respect for the giver's standing. Morwenna's smile widened, a flash of sharp, white teeth in the gloom. She had her answer. He was pragmatic. He could be reasoned with, in the language of power and consumption without needing a demonstration.
"The Wood has many such morsels, Herald," she said, her voice a silken promise. "And greater prizes, for one of your... appetite. The Queen watches with interest." She took a step back, her wings beginning to unfurl. "The city ahead, Arden's Reach, is a cage waiting to be filled. Its walls are high, its guardians alert. But here..." She gestured to the dark, whispering expanse behind her. "...here, you can hunt unfettered. You can grow strong away from prying, sanctimonious eyes. The deep woods offer more than just prey. They offer solitude. And secrets."
With that, she launched herself into the air, her powerful wings beating once, twice, lifting her with breathtaking grace. She did not look back, soaring back towards the dark tree line, a phantom returning to the shadows from whence she came.
Doom watched her go until the last glimpse of her form vanished into the gloom. The Ossuary Blade's hum subsided to a contented thrum. The encounter had been… illuminating. The city was a known, fortified target, now warned and likely hostile. The Woods were a known, blighted territory, but one that now seemed to be extending a tentative, clawed hand from a position of terrifying strength, offering not just sustenance, but a strategic advantage. More than that, it had revealed a fundamental truth about this world, and a glaring, unsettling question about his own place within it.
The profound weariness he had been holding at bay returned in a heavy wave. His reserves were still low, his body needed true, deep rest to fully knit the wounds left by Faith's searing light. There was nothing more to be gained here tonight, and no immediate threat pressing him.
Decision made, he turned his back on the road and the distant city. He walked back to the ruined wagon and sat once more, his back against the splintered wood, the Ossuary Blade laid across his lap. He pulled the hood lower, shadowing his face, and allowed his eyes to close. The hunt was not over, but the hunter needed to sleep. When he awoke, he would turn his steps towards the Whisper Wood. He would use the forest, hunt its "morsels," regain his strength in its deep shadows, and perhaps, learn the "secrets" of this world's true power structure and learn the "secrets" the Valravn had hinted at. The storm would gather its strength in the heart of the blight, under the watchful eyes of powers he was only beginning to comprehend.
---
Morwenna's flight through the upper canopy of the Whisper Wood was a journey through a living, breathing nightmare of breathtaking, terrible beauty. The air, thick with the cloying scent of rotting blossoms and wet, black earth, carried the whispers. They were not mere wind through leaves. They were voices, a thousand layered susurrations that plucked at the edges of her mind. Promises of forgotten loves, secrets of buried treasure, the exact pitch of a lost child's cry. For anyone not born here, the whispers were a sanity-shattering assault.
For a Named One like Morwenna, they were a constant, buzzing symphony to be acknowledged and ignored, a testament to the Queen's pervasive will. The trees themselves were a gallery of tortured forms. Their bark was black and peeling, like burnt skin, revealing weeping, phosphorescent sap beneath. Branches twisted into agonized, grasping shapes, and leaves the color of old bruises rustled with a sound like scraping bone. Strange, bioluminescent fungi pulsed with a sickly green and violet light, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to move with a purpose of their own. The very atmosphere was heavy, not just with moisture, but with latent magic, a curdled power that made the air feel thick as syrup and just as sweetly suffocating.
Her destination was the heart, the one place in the blighted forest where the chaos found a perfect, terrifying center. As she flew deeper, the oppressive gloom began to subtly shift. The random, grasping branches seemed to part, forming a natural, arched corridor high in the canopy. It was the Queen's Road, a path only her children dared to tread. Morwenna followed it, her powerful wings beating a steady, silent rhythm. The whispers here changed, becoming more coherent, more reverent. They spoke the Queen's many titles in a dozen dead languages, a continuous, whispered prayer.
She descended through a break in the canopy, ten meters before the vast, circular clearing. The air here was still and cold, the whispers muted to a respectful hush. This was the Gloomglade, the throne room of the Whisper Wood. The ground was a carpet of velvety, black moss that drank the light and sound. In the center up ahead stood the throne. It was not built, it was grown. The massive, petrified trunk of a tree that might have been ancient when the world was young formed the base, its roots twisting into steps and armrests.