Location: Lord Jeth's Estate, Anvard – Southern ArchenLand | Year: 7002 A.A. | Time: Last Night
The moon hung low, a pale sentinel adrift in a sea of deep blue velvet. Its light spilled gently over the rolling hills of ArchenLand, draping Lord Jeth's sprawling domain in silver. Each leaf in the surrounding groves caught a thin glimmer, trembling faintly in the night breeze. Somewhere beyond the trees, a brook murmured over its stones, while in the low marshlands, frogs sang in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. It was the sort of night poets would envy—soft, slow, unhurried.
But Lord Jeth was not unhurried.
He stood beneath the great oak at the hill's crest, a silent silhouette against the moonlit sky. The trunk behind him was thick enough to cradle the backs of three grown men, its bark rough beneath the fingertips of his idle hand. He shifted the long stem of straw from one corner of his mouth to the other, chewing absently. The habit had been with him for decades—part ritual, part comfort, part reminder of home.
His eyes were not on the land but on the heavens, those distant pinpricks of fire beyond mortal reach. There was a heaviness in him tonight, a weight that made him linger outdoors long after the warmth of the hearth had faded from his skin.
It came suddenly—the voice. Not in his ears, but in his mind.
'Hey, you can hear me, right? I need you to do something for me.'
Talonir's voice was unmistakable: crisp, sharp, and far too serious for this hour of the night.
Jeth's lips curved into a smirk despite himself. "Well now," he muttered aloud, though he knew the man would hear the shape of his thought more than the sound of his words. "Is that any way to treat a friend, Talonir? You vanish off the face of the earth—cut off most informal talk for months—and the first thing out of your beak when you decide to ring me up is a request for a favor? Shame on you, birdie."
He chuckled at his own jab, his voice carrying the comfortable drawl of the southern ArchenLand countryside. The humor was genuine, but beneath it, a flicker of curiosity kindled. Talonir did not make calls without cause.
On the other end, there was the faintest groan—though not the sort born of pain. No, this was the sound of a man tolerating something he knew he probably deserved.
'I'm sorry, my friend,' Talonir's mind-voice replied, tinged with weariness. 'But you know me, Jeth—I'm not one for pleasantries.'
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Jeth said aloud, tilting his head back so his wide-brimmed hat caught a bit of moonlight. "Ain't no feathers in your cap for that. So what's eatin' you, big guy? What's the favor?"
The silence that followed was not quite empty—it had a hum to it, the faint electric thread of thoughts being shaped carefully before they were spoken.
'I need you to patrol ArchenLand for me tomorrow morning,' Talonir said at last. 'Specifically, check the far sides of the land—near the valley of the Winding Arrow River and where it meets the Great Desert. I want to be absolutely certain it's secure.'
Jeth's chewing slowed. The straw in his teeth had gone dry, but he barely noticed. His mind turned quickly, scanning his own knowledge of the region. That was no ordinary patrol. Those edges of the land were rarely visited, the kind of places where silence reigned and only the wind told stories.
He dropped the easy humor at once. His voice, when it came, was low and steady. "You sound tense, Talonir. Is everything alright?"
There was a pause—a hesitation long enough for the wind to stir the leaves overhead, scattering moonlight like water ripples.
'I hope it is,' came Talonir's reply, quieter now, as if saying more would give form to something better left unsaid. 'I just hope it is.'
Jeth's eyes narrowed slightly. He knew that tone. Talonir's words were even, but something inside them was… knotted. The man was not prone to baseless fears; if his instincts were twitching, it meant something was already moving on the horizon—something Jeth couldn't yet see.
Still, Jeth did not press. Theirs was an old friendship, built on battles fought side-by-side and silences that needed no filling. If Talonir had chosen not to tell him the whole truth, it was not out of mistrust—it was because the truth was still taking shape.
"All right, birdie," Jeth murmured, leaning his weight back against the oak and letting his gaze drop toward the far-off southern valleys. "I'll ride out at first light. You'll have your answer before noon."
There was no spoken thanks—only the faint easing of tension at the back of his mind, the way a bowstring relaxes after release.
The telepathic link faded, leaving Jeth once more with the night sounds—the frogs, the rustling leaves, the hush between the trees. But now the peace felt thinner, like a blanket worn at the edges.
Somewhere out there, the Winding Arrow River flowed silently to meet the sands of the Great Desert. Somewhere out there, something was waiting.
Jeth spat the dry straw into the grass, pulled a fresh one from the pocket of his vest, and began chewing again. His eyes did not leave the horizon until the moon dipped low enough to touch the treetops.
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Location: Valley of the Winding Arrow – Border of the Great Desert
The morning came quietly, as if the sun were reluctant to disturb the fragile balance of the night. The hills lay draped in the pale gold of early light, dew still clinging to the tips of the grasses, each drop catching a tiny rainbow if one looked closely enough. Insects hummed lazily above the valley floor, and somewhere far downstream, the Winding Arrow River whispered over its pebbles, its winding song carried on the breeze.
Jeth kept his word.
He had set out early—long before the farmhands and stable boys stirred—and had ridden his mare down to the edge of the valley before sending her back. The rest, he chose to do on foot. He always preferred walking for a patrol. It gave him a better feel for the land: the way the ground shifted under his boots, the scent of the air when it rolled off the desert, the little signs most riders missed.
He hummed as he went—not a tune with words, but the kind of low, rhythmic melody a man keeps to himself, one born out of habit more than thought. His boots crunched softly over the gravelly floor, the sound strangely loud in a valley so still. His hands hung loosely by his sides, thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his worn trousers, and his eyes wandered lazily across the scene before him.
The Winding Arrow Valley was a place he knew well. On one side, jagged cliffs rose in irregular steps, their gray and ochre faces scarred by centuries of wind and water. On the other, the grasses rolled away until they thinned, giving way to stretches of dry earth where desert shrubs clung stubbornly to life. In the distance, he could hear the river's constant murmur, its voice threading through the hush like a secret too small for words.
"All clear so far," he muttered, the syllables riding the drawl of his southern ArchenLand accent. The sound was swallowed almost instantly by the air, as though the valley were not inclined to echo anything but its own silence.
The patrol was as ordinary as he'd expected—until it wasn't.
Jeth reached the far end of the valley, where the soft grasses abruptly surrendered to the brittle sands of the Great Desert. Here the air felt different—thinner, sharper, tinged with that dry mineral scent unique to barren places. He turned in a slow, satisfied half-circle, already thinking of the coffee he might brew once he returned home. His mind had nearly shifted away from the patrol entirely when it happened.
A faint pressure brushed against the edges of his awareness—subtle, but distinct, like the prickling of hair on the back of one's neck. It was not a sound or a sight, but something deeper. A mana signature.
Small. Weak. Almost swallowed by the ambient energies of the land. And yet… it was there.
Jeth stopped mid-step, his boot grinding a small pebble into the sand. The breeze tugged at the brim of his hat as he narrowed his eyes, scanning slowly back across the cliffs and rock faces.
"That's odd," he murmured. His heart rate hadn't quickened yet—he'd learned not to startle too soon—but his mind had shifted gears entirely.
He moved back into the valley, each step slow, deliberate, and noiseless. The sensation grew sharper as he neared the cliffs, until his gaze snagged on something that made him halt.
It was there, etched into the stone face of the valley wall—a mark.
At first glance, it might have passed for a trick of the light. But as the sun slid further into the sky, a faint glow revealed itself: a rune, carved deep and precise, its edges impossibly clean against the weathered rock. The violet light was not steady. It pulsed, dimming and brightening in a slow, deliberate rhythm, like the measured beat of a heart.
Jeth's brow furrowed, his mouth curling slightly around the stalk of straw he'd been chewing since dawn. "Now what in tarnation is this?"
He stepped closer, his boots crunching over loose grit. The glow played across his weathered face, catching in the lines at the corners of his eyes. He could feel it now—not just see it. A quiet hum in the air, as if the rune's presence rippled faintly through the ground beneath his feet.
It was not local work. He knew every mason and rune-scribe in the region, and none of them carved like this. The hand that made it was foreign—too precise, too deliberate, too… deliberate in its hiding. A farmer could walk this valley a hundred times and never notice it unless the sun struck it just so.
Jeth glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see someone standing there. But the valley was empty—still as a held breath.
He reached a calloused hand toward the mark, stopping just shy of touching it. The glow intensified ever so slightly, as though recognizing his nearness. Something about it set his teeth on edge—not fear, exactly, but the awareness that whatever it was, it did not belong here.
He straightened, his jaw tightening. His mind ran through possibilities: a ward, a beacon, a seal… or worse, an anchor for something best left unanchored.
And somewhere, far in the back of his mind, Talonir's voice replayed itself in fragments.
Specifically… near the valley… make certain it's secure.
Jeth took a step back, scanning the surrounding rock for more markings. If there was one, there could be others. The sunlight had climbed higher now, the rune's glow growing fainter in the brightness, but the memory of it pulsing remained imprinted in his sight.
Whatever this was, it was no idle scratch in the stone. And if Talonir had been worried enough to send him here, it meant this was the kind of trouble that didn't walk up to your front gate—it crept in, and waited.
___________________________
Location: Lord Thrax's Oasis – Central ArchenLand
The world here seemed untouched by the concerns gnawing at the rest of ArchenLand. Lord Thrax's oasis was a jewel set into the heart of a wide glade, where the air smelled faintly of damp moss and blooming water lilies. The waterfall, though not large, danced in the sunlight with a silver clarity that made it seem almost too perfect to be real. Each cascade broke into tiny beads of water, catching the light in flashes like bits of falling glass.
The two figures stood near the edge, close enough that the fine mist from the falls dusted their shells and hair. For a while, they simply watched the shallow pools at their feet, where countless tiny tadpoles darted and wriggled in the cool water. They moved with no sense of order—some rushing in short bursts, others drifting aimlessly before darting off again, their tiny tails flicking like threads of ink.
"They're so little," Darius said at last. His voice was quieter than usual, as though he feared speaking too loudly might shatter the moment.
Thrax's mouth curved in a slow, knowing smile. The old turtle's face, weathered from centuries of sun and spray, deepened into lines that spoke more of wisdom than age. "Yes," he said, chuckling low in his throat. "But some of them will grow into the biggest amphibians you'll ever see. You'd be surprised how something so small can one day move the very waters it was born in."
His gaze lingered on the tadpoles as though he saw not what they were now, but what they would become. "The circle of life is beautiful, don't you think?"
Darius let the words hang for a moment. He crouched slightly, bringing himself closer to the surface of the pool. One tadpole in particular caught his attention—a little slower than the rest, its tail bent at an odd angle. It swam with a lopsided wobble, constantly outpaced by its siblings. And yet, it didn't stop. It just kept going.
His lips pressed into a faint smile, but his eyes stayed thoughtful. "Yes," he murmured. "It is."
Yet beneath his quiet agreement, there was a heaviness that the waterfall's song could not wash away. The sight of these small, unknowing creatures stirred something deeper in him—an uncomfortable awareness that the world beyond this oasis was not so forgiving. Out there, survival didn't wait for you to grow strong. Out there, the weak didn't always have the luxury of becoming the mighty.
'How many of these would make it to adulthood? How many would be swept away before they even grew legs?'
For a brief, selfish moment, Darius envied them—their ignorance, their narrow world bounded by the curve of a shallow pool. They did not know of battlefields or councils, of decisions that cost lives or gambles that could break a kingdom. Their whole existence was the simple act of moving forward, tail-flick by tail-flick.
A soft breeze passed over the glade, stirring the leaves and sending a ripple through the water. The tadpoles scattered, their paths twisting in erratic spirals before slowly resuming their aimless play.
Thrax, watching Darius's expression, tilted his head slightly. "You see it, don't you?"
Darius glanced at him. "See what?"
"That they are… the same as we are. Some will grow strong. Some will perish. And some—" Thrax's eyes warmed with a strange, almost mischievous glint "—some will change the course of rivers without even knowing they could."
Darius held his gaze for a moment, then returned his attention to the water. He didn't answer, but the words stayed with him, threading themselves into his thoughts like a quiet refrain.
________________________________
Location: Multiple Sites Across ArchenLand
The stillness that had clung to ArchenLand's morning was fragile, like a thin sheet of ice waiting for the first crack. And that crack began—not with a war cry, nor the clang of steel—but with a silent, spreading glow.
Across the breadth of the kingdom, they emerged as if from nothing: the same runes Jeth had found etched into the stone, their light a cold, unnatural pulse that seemed to drink in the very air around them. In Valoria, one burned faintly beneath a market stall, hidden until now beneath baskets of fruit. In Trevor's grove, it coiled its way into the roots of an ancient tree, its curves etched into the wood like an old scar. And in dozens of other corners—lonely valleys, forgotten wells, and moss-covered ruins—the runes awakened, their glow sharpening as though the land itself had been marked long before the present day.
In the shadows of a place far removed from sunlight, Jarik stood. The rabbit Tracient's grin was as constant as ever, but there was something in it now—something stretched too wide, as if joy itself had been twisted until it became a parody of itself. Beside him, the Shadow loomed, his very presence seeming to drink the light from the air. The dark silhouette said nothing, yet its stillness was more oppressive than any threat spoken aloud.
Jarik tilted his head, long ears swaying slightly in the gloom. "Now…" he breathed, his voice almost playful. His teeth caught the faintest glimmer of light as his grin widened to something inhuman. "Let the fun begin."
The sound that followed was small—only the sharp snap of fingers. And yet, that sound was the thread that pulled apart the entire tapestry of ArchenLand's peace.
The runes flared, each one bursting into a corona of dust and violent mana. The blasts didn't roar like fire or scream like metal—they struck with a heavy, crushing force, the kind that traveled through the ground and up into the bones of all who felt it. In Valoria, shopkeepers and children stumbled to their knees, ears ringing. In Trevor's grove, flocks of birds tore into the sky in panicked spirals, their wings scattering leaves into the air like green snow.
Then, from the haze and rubble, the nightmare took form.
They came in swarms—vast, seething, and unending. Insectoid Tracients with chitin black as obsidian, their eyes burning with alien hunger. Arachnid Tracients, their spindly limbs striking the earth like spears, their silk trailing in sheets that caught the light before collapsing in sticky ruin. And among them, moving with a calculated, predatory grace, white fox Tracients—dozens, no, hundreds—eyes glinting with that same cold intelligence that spoke of a single mind behind them all.
Their arrival was a sound as much as a sight: the high, constant drone of wings; the sharp, rhythmic clatter of too many legs against stone; the faint, almost musical whisper of silk threads being spun in the open air. It was a song of invasion, of inevitability.
They swept into Valoria, their advance so sudden that the guards barely had time to rally. In Trevor's grove, the roots and trunks that had stood for centuries were draped in webbing within minutes, the ground vanishing under the movement of countless legs. Other corners of ArchenLand—some fortified, some utterly unprepared—were swallowed whole under the pressure of sheer numbers.
Somewhere, far from the chaos, Jarik's grin widened still.
"Oh yes," he thought with delight, though whether it was his own thought or something whispered into his mind by the Shadow at his side was unclear. "Let's see how fast they break."
____________________________
Location: Lord Thrax's Oasis – Eastern ArchenLand
Back at the oasis, the world seemed to hold its breath for a single, impossible second. The gentle sound of falling water faltered in their ears—not because the waterfall had stopped, but because something far greater now roared in the spaces between their heartbeats.
Lord Thrax's eyes, once softened by the sight of tadpoles, snapped wide with an instinct only warriors long past their prime truly understood. Darius felt it before he could even name it—a wave of oppressive mana signatures sweeping across the land like a black tide. It wasn't just strength they felt, but malice, an unmistakable intent to consume.
Every fish in the pond darted for the shadows beneath the reeds. Even the wind seemed to flee, slipping away from the clearing as though unwilling to carry what was coming.
Darius moved before thought could catch up. One moment seated; the next, his hooves struck the ground with such force that a deep thoom rolled outward. Ripples burst across the pond, slapping against the floating reeds before washing over the lily-pads. Tiny tadpoles fled into the silt.
Kopa's head jerked toward the horizon. The color in his face had drained, replaced by the cold, still mask of a soldier assessing a battlefield he could not yet see. "My Lord," he said, turning to Thrax, "I need to get to the capital. If that's their target—"
Thrax's wrinkled hand lifted—not sharply, but with the calm authority of someone who had seen more wars than his companions had years. The turtle's gaze held no trace of panic, only the stillness of stone that had weathered centuries of storms.
"Go," he said simply. His voice was not loud, but it carried. "They'll need you more than I will. I'll handle things here."
Kopa hesitated only long enough to bow his head. Then his palms pressed together, his knees bent, and his entire frame began to sink—not downward, but into the earth itself. His legs fused seamlessly with the ground, the soil embracing him as a root welcomes rain. Within moments, his body dissolved into the living green below, vanishing completely.
The oasis fell quiet again—quiet, save for a sound just at the edge of hearing: the faint, growing clamor of countless legs and wings approaching.
Thrax remained by the water's edge, listening. He could already feel the vibrations in the ground through his bare, calloused feet. They were coming quickly—too quickly for their number to be small. His mind's eye saw the creatures before they arrived: shapes spilling over the treeline like oil across water, fast, hungry, and many.
He bent slowly and deliberately, letting his gnarled wooden staff slip from his hand and fall into the grass with a muffled thud. The turtle's body seemed to change as he straightened—no longer hunched and weathered, but subtly uncoiling into something fluid and dangerous. Each joint rolled with the ease of a man who remembered every movement he had ever learned in battle.
"It's been a while since this old man exercised," Thrax muttered to himself. A dangerous glint kindled in his dark eyes, and the corners of his mouth curved upward in something far from a smile.
Beyond the oasis, branches cracked. In the distance, leaves shook violently, spilling in showers to the forest floor. A shadow fell over the pond, not from cloud but from the front edge of the swarm.
Thrax inhaled deeply, tasting the air.
"Bring it on," he said, his voice low and certain. "Bring it on, you bastards."