On the southern edge of the Forbidden Forest, an elven village woke to routine.
Hands passed woven baskets from one porch to another. Sap clung to fingers as fresh elderwood was trimmed and stacked. Someone laughed when a jar slipped, then caught it before it shattered. The wooden walkways creaked under bare feet that had followed the same paths for decades.
Lyra adjusted the strap of her basket, wincing as resin smeared across her palm. She wiped it against her tunic, leaving a dark streak behind.
"The elderflower's heavier this year," she muttered.
"Means better honey," Elara replied as she tied off a bundle of herbs. "If the bees survive the season."
A young elfling tugged eagerly at Lyra's tunic.
"Mama, can we go to the Whispering Falls today? I want to see the sprites dance!"
Mid-conversation, Lyra brushed a hand through the child's golden curls.
"Perhaps later, little one. After we gather the herbs."
The ground shuddered.
Not enough to knock anything over. Just enough to still the laughter.
A second tremor followed, stronger this time. The baskets rattled where they rested. Somewhere, glass chimed softly.
At the village's edge, two watchmen stopped mid-conversation as the wooden platform beneath them vibrated. The sound came next, low and rhythmic, felt more than heard.
"What is that?" one whispered, his mouth dry.
"An earthquake?" the other said. "That's never happened before…"
The first watchman did not answer.
His eyes were fixed on the treeline, where branches bent inward as if pushed aside by an unseen weight. Leaves shook free and fell in a steady rain.
Something massive was moving.
The bell rope slipped through his fingers as he grabbed it.
CLANG.
CLANG.
CLANG.
The sound tore through the village, sharp and urgent.
"TO THE SHELTERS!" an elder shouted.
"PROTECT THE CHILDREN!"
The village fractured into motion. Mothers scooped up their elflings. Warriors burst from doorways, half-armored, fastening straps as they ran. A shield slipped from someone's grasp and skidded across the walkway, abandoned. Doors swung open and stayed that way.
From the center of the village, the elf chief emerged. His posture was rigid, his face set tight with focus. He raised one hand, and thin threads of green light began to gather, weaving together as he shaped a ward over the square.
The forest answered first.
Ogres burst from the treeline, followed by minotaurs and other warped forms. Their charge did not slow. The ward flared as the first impact struck it, light rippling outward in uneven waves. The air grew hot. The glow flickered, collapsed inward, and vanished.
The square lay exposed.
The village broke.
Homes splintered beneath brute force. Flames caught quickly, smoke rolling through the canopy and down into the streets. Screams rose and were cut short. Defenders were struck down where they stood. Those who fought were killed.
"Those who dropped their weapons felt iron bite into their wrists as they were forced to stand among the wreckage, wrists raw and bleeding."
The elf chief was thrown hard against the ground. His vision swam as he tried to push himself upright. The light in his hand guttered and died. Blood soaked into the grass beneath his knees.
Something moved through the smoke.
It was larger than the ogres. Its shape was broad and wrong, its presence heavy enough to press the air flat. Shadow clung to it, swallowing detail as it stepped forward.
The chief looked up.
Understanding came just before the creature seized him and bit down.
The sound ended.
The slaughter did not last long.
When it was over, bodies lay scattered through the ruins. Survivors stood bound among the wreckage. Smoke hung low, stinging the eyes, dulling the light as the fire consumed what remained.
The army did not linger.
Nearly twenty thousand strong, they turned west and began to march, dragging captives with them.
Toward human lands.
They moved without haste. Whatever drove them did not require urgency.
It only needed time.
.
.
.
.
.
Far from the screams and smoke of the forest,
The morning sun spilled softly into Piers' dining room… a gentle glow that made the world seem peaceful — almost too peaceful.
The air buzzed with the scent of fresh food.
A delicious spread was laid out across the table: eggs steaming, toast perfectly crisp, fruit glistening with dew — yet one plate remained untouched.
Piers sat slumped at the table, utterly still. His plate was full, but his eyes were dull, bloodshot, ringed by heavy shadows. He hadn't slept. Not last night. Maybe not the night before either. His body was here, but his mind drifted far beyond the walls of this serene home.
Across from him, Styx was a whirlwind of energy — demolishing her breakfast like a tiny, sugar-fueled tornado. A glob of sauce clung stubbornly to her cheek.
"Mama, I want more!" she chirped, eyes gleaming, legs kicking beneath the table.
Xylia rose from her chair with a warm smile. Calm and elegant, she moved with practiced grace — adding generous portions to Styx's plate.
"Of course, my little glutton," she teased, voice light and playful.
"I'm not a glutton!" Styx huffed, jabbing her fork toward the sky. "I'm just a growing girl with a healthy appetite!"
Xylia chuckled. "Whatever you say, dear. Just make sure you leave some for your brother."
As she spoke, her gaze drifted towards her little one, smile faded slightly. He hadn't moved. His food sat untouched, his shoulders slumped.
The exhaustion etched into his face sent a quiet ripple of worry through her.
She stepped closer, frown creasing her forehead, reaching out to touch his brow.
"Piers, honey," she said softly, "why aren't you eating anything? Are you not feeling well?"
Her hand lingered on his forehead, checking his temperature.
When he didn't answer, she tilted her head, a playful glint returning to her eyes.
"Or maybe…" she added with a teasing smile, "you still want Mama to nurse you?"
That did it.
His head jerked. Recognition flickered.
"Mama…" he murmured, "…I'm sleepy. I just… want to sleep."
Then thump — out cold.
Xylia's playful expression shifted. Worry creased her brow as she gently lifted Piers' head, cradling it in her arms.
Then she noticed it — the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. The rhythm eased the knot in her heart.
Of course. He was simply… deeply asleep.
Her earlier lightheartedness melted into a tender quiet. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she held him close, nestling him gently against her shoulder. Her fingers moved through his hair in a soothing rhythm, and she leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead.
Styx, cheeks puffed with food, watched the scene wide-eyed. She swallowed quickly, then piped up with that same innocent longing only children could pull off.
"Mama, I want a kiss too!" Her eyes sparkled. Her smile was crooked with mischief and sweetness.
Xylia chuckled softly, her heart melting. Still cradling Piers, she leaned sideways and placed a quick, affectionate kiss on Styx's cheek.
"Of course, my little one," she whispered, voice thick with warmth.
Then, carefully, she stood — lifting Piers into her arms like he weighed nothing at all. She carried him toward his bedroom, her steps slow and deliberate, her eyes full of quiet affection.
Styx, still chewing, watched from behind — her cheeks bulging with food, curiosity in her gaze.
In the quiet of his room, Xylia laid Piers gently down on the bed. Her hand lingered on his cheek, smoothing back his hair with a soft touch. Her expression was all mother — love and concern wrapped in a calm resolve.
She smiled. Not brightly. Not playfully. But with that quiet kind of love that speaks without a word.
A silent promise to protect him… no matter what had drained him so completely.
As Xylia turned to leave the room, something caught her eye.
There — lying on the floor beside the bed.
She stepped closer. Her gaze narrowed — she paused.
The dummy.
Piers' dummy.
Right there on the floor.
Her eyes widened in shock. She froze, the pieces snapping into place in her mind like a storm rolling in.
And then — in a single, instinctive motion — her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a scream. She didn't want to wake him.
But her eyes screamed.
Quietly, she bent down, picked up the dummy, and held it up.
Expression unreadable.
She stepped out of the room…
…and then let out a piercing, soul-rattling scream.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!"
The entire house shook.
Out in the garden, Rigas jolted, a spade slipping from his hand. Dirt flew as he turned toward the house, face pale.
Inside, Styx nearly choked on her fork.
Both bolted for the stairs.
At the top, they found Xylia standing outside Piers' room, the dummy dangling from one hand like a cursed artifact. Her other hand trembled with unspoken rage.
Rigas' face twisted in concern. "Xylia? What happened? What's—"
His words died in his throat when he saw the dummy.
Styx, still chewing, skidded to a stop beside him — cheeks puffed out like dumplings.
She looked at her mother.
Then the dummy…
Then her mother again.
Silence.
Her chewing… slowed.
Slowed more.
Stopped.
Eyes widened.
Brain connected the dots.
Soul almost left the body.
"O-Okay," she stammered, slowly backing away, voice trembling, "I… I think I should go to sleep now too…"
She spun on her heel and bolted for her room.
Tiny legs pumping.
Breath coming in ragged little gasps.
But Xylia… was fast. Too fast.
In a flash, she was behind her —
and without effort, snagged Styx by the back of the shirt, lifting her like a wayward kitten.
Dangling midair, the girl slowly turned her head.
Then looked up…
And froze.
Her mother's face — normally warm and glowing with love — had twisted. Not in anger, but in something far more terrifying.
Shadow crawled across Xylia's expression like ink in water.
Her features warped into a vision pulled straight from a nightmare.
Her eyes gleamed with a cold, unnatural light.
Her smile was the kind reserved for demons just before dinner.
A cold, devilish mask of fury.
Styx whimpered.
A tiny smear of food still clung to her cheek —
the last remnant of a peaceful morning now slick with sweat.
Styx slowly turned her head toward her only hope.
Her eyes locked with her father's.
Papa… please… save me…
But Rigas…
Already backing away in fear.
He paled, swallowing hard.
"I am sorry, my daughter," he whispered.
Then — ran.
Bolted out of the house at full speed.
No shame. No hesitation. No honor. No regrets.
"PAPA, YOU COWARD!" Styx howled, her voice cracking. "YOU BETRAYED ME!"
At her scream, the air shifted.
Xylia's aura flared —
once gentle, now radiant and terrible.
The hallway filled with an eerie violet light.
The walls groaned under the weight of her power.
The temperature dropped like winter had walked in.
Styx shook in her grip.
Eyes wide with dread.
"M-Mama… I-I can explain…"
The day blurred by, and by the time the chaos settled, evening had already crept in.
The room was dimly lit, shadows pooling in the corners. The only light came from a soft, ethereal glow that seemed to radiate from Xylia herself.
Styx knelt on the floor in seiza, her head bowed low, shoulders trembling. Her small frame shook with the remnants of sobs. Her eyes were swollen and red — the aftereffect of a long, tear-filled lecture.
Xylia sat in a chair nearby, her posture poised and regal. Her expression was a tangled weave of shock, anger, and deep concern. The news still echoed in her mind — that Piers, her "barely two-year-old" son, could use magic to conjure duplicate items from almost nothing.
"It wasn't just surprising, it was terrifying."
And it upended everything she thought she knew about her children.
Rigas stayed quiet. He cast one guilty glance at Styx, then fixed his eyes anywhere but on Xylia.
He had known all along, but he'd kept it quiet — believing silence was the safer path.
Now, watching Styx wilt under the weight of it all… Probably for the best. Xylia's wrath had no room for confessions today.
Xylia exhaled slowly, running her fingers through her hair.
"Consequences," she murmured, the word heavy, like a verdict.
Her gaze returned to Styx. The sharpness in her eyes softened.
"Oh, Styx…"
She rose and knelt before her daughter, gently lifting her chin until their eyes met.
"Look at me, my little one," she said, voice low, warm. "It's alright. This isn't your fault."
Styx's lip quivered. "But… I lied," she whispered. "I kept secrets from you."
Xylia shook her head, a faint smile breaking through the tension.
"I know. And I know why." She cupped her cheek.
"You were trying to protect your brother. Just like a good sister should."
She paused — not to lecture, but to let it land.
But you have to understand… secrets like these can be dangerous. They can put distance between us when we need to be close."
She pulled the girl into a firm, protective embrace.
"What matters is that we're together," she whispered. "That we stay honest. That we face whatever comes… as a family."
Styx clung to her mother, her sobs softening with each breath.
"Mama…" she breathed, voice muffled against her mother's shoulder.
Xylia stroked Styx's hair, her gaze fierce yet gentle. She glanced at Rigas, and in that quiet moment, something unspoken passed between them — an acknowledgment that the revelation about Piers had changed everything, forcing them to confront a reality they had long tried to ignore.
but for now, their focus remained where it mattered most: on their children, and the fragile threads holding their family together.
Styx's energy returned in an instant. Fear melted away, replaced by a spark of playful defiance — as if her earlier tears had never happened.
From his spot at a safe distance, Rigas allowed himself a small smile. The earlier tension had loosened, replaced by the familiar rhythm of his wife and daughter's exchanges.
Meanwhile, Piers slept on, utterly oblivious to the day's drama, his deep, steady breathing the only sign of the exhaustion that had claimed him.
* * *