Morning returned more gently this time.
The priestess did not darken the chamber immediately. She let them drink tea first, let the stiffness of yesterday's revelations loosen its grip. Only when the flame burned steady and their attention settled did she raise her hand again.
"The Elves," she said, "did not answer the Devil King with fear."
The room softened.
Light filtered in—not sunlight, but something greener, older. The stone beneath their feet dissolved into loam and moss, cool and alive. They stood at the edge of a vast woodland clearing, dawn mist hanging low between towering trees whose canopies braided together far above.
An Elven encampment.
It was not a city. No walls. No towers. Living structures grown from bark and crystal-veined wood curved naturally around the clearing. Bridges of woven roots arched overhead. Magicules moved here in slow, deliberate streams, circulating like breath rather than blood.
Grey felt it immediately. "Unlike High Humans, Elves aren't forcing anything."
He spoke that sentence with pride in his voice. "My people don't require control."
"No," the priestess replied. "They never did."
Figures moved through the camp—elves tall and willowy, their features sharp yet calm, movements unhurried. Armor was light, grown rather than forged. Bows rested against trees that seemed to recognize their owners.
At the edge of the clearing, space bent.
A familiar distortion rippled through the air—subtle, precise.
Siena stepped through.
She emerged without spectacle, as if she had simply decided to exist here instead of elsewhere. Her presence caused a faint stir among the elves not alarm, not hostility, but attention to the outsider that had entered their serene forests.
An elven woman approached her.
She was older by elven reckoning, silver threading her dark hair, eyes like still water. No weapons in hand. No guards flanking her.
"Siena of the High-Humans," the elf said, inclining her head. "You are expected."
Siena returned the gesture, precise but respectful. "Thank you for receiving me."
"We always receive those who listen," the elf replied. Her gaze lingered briefly, on Siena's exposed skin, her posture, the way magic moved through her without permission. Not judgmentally but from the perspective of Assessment.
Around them, elves resumed their work, but the camp's rhythm shifted subtly. Conversations quieted. Bows were checked. Wards hummed a fraction louder.
Faker watched closely. "They feel the imbalance too."
"Yes," the priestess said. "But unlike the High-Humans, they feel it as pain."
The elven elder gestured toward the heart of the encampment, where a council ring of living wood waited.
"You come from those who stepped aside from the world," the elf said as they walked. "Why step back in now?"
Siena hesitated but just for a fraction. "We stepped back ino the background, but we are still affected by what happens in Gilbert."
She continued, "We do still require it's magicules that flow abundantly."
The elf studied her for a long moment.
"Then you may speak," she said at last. "Not as envoy. As witness."
They entered the council ring.
Roots tightened beneath Siena's feet. The forest did not reject her but it did not welcome her either. The roots eventually grow to form a chair on the round table.
Tolstoy leaned closer to the others, voice low. "This feels more dangerous than the Devil King."
Faker didn't look away from the scene. "Because this is where choices still exist. Something can be done about the problem at hand."
The illusion held on Siena as she stood among the elves, between harmony and optimisation, between worlds that touched but never merged.
The council ring breathed.
Roots shifted subtly beneath the gathered elves, responding to tone rather than volume. No raised voices. No proclamations. Only the soft friction of minds brushing against a truth they did not want to accept.
"The Devil King is awake," the elven elder said at last. "That alone narrows our options."
Siena stood at the center of the ring, hands relaxed at her sides, feeling the forest test her presence again and again—measuring circulation, intent, restraint.
"He is not an invader," another elf added. "He does not conquer. He just corrects. "
Grey felt it then—the weight behind that word.
Siena nodded. "Which means attacking him directly reinforces his purpose."
A murmur ran through the ring.
Tolstoy leaned toward the priestess. "I hate it when the enemy makes sense."
The priestess said something that stuck with the three of them, "The Devil King may be heralded as a son of Gilbert, who come's to collect his father's debt."
The elder's gaze sharpened. "Then why has he risen now?"
The priestess answered, though the elves had not asked her. "Because the world is uneven."
An elven hand pressed to the living wood. "We have felt the thinning. Our forests drink more and receive less."
"Our enclaves strain the natural flow," Siena said quietly. "High-Human circulation concentrates magic. We draw faster than Gilbert can redistribute."
Several elves stiffened.
"You admit this freely?" one asked.
"Yes," Siena replied. "Because denial will only accelerate correction."
Silence.
The elder considered her for a long moment. "Then what do your people propose?"
Siena inhaled.
"Stabilisation," she said. "Shared ley moderation. Redistribution of excess density. A deliberate slowing of circulation across all high-concentration zones."
"That would weaken us," an elf said flatly.
"Yes," Siena agreed. "That is the point."
The forest shifted it was uncomfortable, but still listening.
Grey watched the illusion closely. "They're choosing between strength and survival."
Faker murmured, "History always pretends like those are different things."
The elven elder turned to the gathered council. "If we do nothing, the Devil King will move. If we resist him, we validate his existence."
"And if we comply?" another elf asked.
The priestess's voice was soft. "Then you change the conditions that summoned him."
Tolstoy frowned. "You're saying starve the correction."
"Or resolve it," the priestess said.
The elder's gaze returned to Siena. "And the Trolls? The Devils?"
"They align with pressure," Siena replied. "They will not negotiate while imbalance exists. Only when the flow equalises will they pause."
A long silence followed.
Finally, the elder spoke. "Then our task is not to stop the Devil King."
All eyes turned to her.
"Our task," she continued, "is to make him unnecessary."
The roots beneath the council ring tightened—not in approval, not in rejection, but in commitment.
Siena exhaled slowly. This was the first step. It was Small and extremely Fragile.
Faker felt something shift but not in the illusion, in the shape of the story itself.
"So," Tolstoy muttered, "they're going to try to fix the world instead of fighting it."
Grey nodded. "That could work in theory."
Faker continued, "But going from Abundance to Rationing usually does not settle that easily."