The Wise Forest at night was a cathedral of silver and shadow. Moonlight, clear and cold, filtered through the canopy, Oberon stopped at the edge of the Calm River, its surface a perfect, dark mirror reflecting the star-scattered sky.
He had shed his armor, trading the cold weight of metal for simple traveling clothes. He knelt by the water's edge and plunged his hands into the chill, welcoming the sharp bite against his skin. He splashed his face, once, twice, trying to wash away not the dust of travel, but the image burned into his mind.
It was the look in her eyes. A certain light. A familiar stubborn set to his jaw.
'What a day'
Fighting a horde of monster and the last dissert is a dragon the same size as a small mountain?
'The world get crazy just get crazy in such short of time? What the hell is going on!?'
He plunged his hands into the water again, a futile attempt to drown the thought before it could take root. The cold was a welcome anchor to the present.
"I still have mana left and yet *sigh* I am exhausted," he muttered to the silent forest.
He leaned back against the gnarled root of an ancient oak, tilting his head to stare at the fragments of night sky visible through the leaves. He let out a long, slow breath, watching it mist in the cold air.
A darker thought slithered into his mind.
'Does that dragon is already wounded? Mortally so?'
"Something doesn't add up. How the famous powerful dragon fall that ease... or it just me who are to strong?"
The problem, as always, circled back to a single, frustrating point: lack of information. The Elven Kingdom, was a gilded cage, its walls built from tradition and a willful ignorance of the outside world.
"I need to summon more servants," he murmured to himself.
As if in answer to his unspoken command, the world exploded into light.
A flash, brilliant and silent, erupted just above the surface of the river. Oberon was on his feet in an instant, his body shifting into a low stance, every muscle coiled and ready. He blinked, trying to clear the dancing afterimages from his vision, focusing on the source of the light.
A figure stood upon the water, as if it were solid ground. She was ethereal, a being woven from moonlight and mist, and achingly familiar.
"Sindarin?" The name escaped his lips before his mind could catch up.
The spirit of the forest smiled, a gentle, sad curve of her lips, and glided toward the shore. "Lord Oberon."
Relief, warm and unexpected, flooded through him, loosening the tension in his shoulders. He hadn't realized how tightly wound he was until he saw a friendly face.
She bowed, a movement as graceful as a willow bending in a breeze. "I must thank you. For protecting the forest. For defending my home."
"You saw that?" he asked, a hint of surprise in his voice.
"If my appearance offends you, I apologize," Sindarin said, her voice like the whisper of leaves. "But the forest whispers all things to me. It speaks of your deeds tonight. The trees felt your power. The river and earth carried the echo of your battle."
Oberon nodded, accepting her gratitude with a simple incline of his head. But there was a weight to her words, a hesitation that put him on guard.
"The dragon," Sindarin continued, her luminous eyes meeting his. "It is not dead, Lord Oberon. What you fought… it was but a shadow. A fragment. A piece of the terror that is even now rampaging in its wake."
"A shadow?" He thought of the beast's raw power, its savage fury. A shadow had done all that? "Then the real one still somewhere? How about the child?"
Sindarin was silent for a long moment, the forest itself seeming to hold its breath. "The child."
"She is the daughter of Ariel, the Wind Spirit, and the great hero, Albert Wallenstein."
The name struck him like a physical blow. Albert Wallenstein. The name was legend, whispered in awe and sorrow across the continents. The hero who had faced the Black Dragon and, though he had fallen, had given the world a chance to survive. And he had a daughter?
"How?" Oberon pressed, his mind reeling. "How did she end up inside that dragon?"
Sindarin shook her head slowly, her expression one of profound sadness. "That, I do not know. The forest does not whisper that tale. But there is no mistake. Her spirit, her essence… it is unmistakably that of Ariel's child. I am certain of it."
'A daughter of a Spirit and a hero. Sealed within a fragment of a dragon.'
The implications were staggering. But another question burned brighter. "She was a child, Sindarin. She looked no older than ten. The fight of the great hero happened centuries ago. How is she still a child?"
Sindarin had no answer, only a helpless, mournful look.
'Time travel? Oberon's thoughts raced.
'No. More likely… sealed. Trapped in a crystal, in stasis. Her body preserved, her spirit imprisoned and Ariel that spirit named shouted clearly by that dragon… a grudge it must be than why…'
He was about to ask more, to demand answers the spirit clearly didn't have, when Sindarin spoke again, her voice carrying a sudden, urgent warmth.
"Lord Oberon. I must tell you… Madam Viska is looking for you."
The name hit him like a bucket of ice water. His mother. His father. They would be frantic with worry. The thought of his mother's stern face creased with fear, his father pacing the halls of their home, sent a jolt of pure, undiluted panic through him.
He didn't even pause to say goodbye. With a thought, he willed himself into the air, a streak of motion against the starry sky, racing home faster than he had ever flown in his life. Behind him, the Calm River reflected only the moon once more, and Sindarin faded back into the whispering trees.
====x=====
Day had pass
The familiar confines of my family's backyard had become a gilded prison.
Three days. Three days of staring at the same manicured hedges, the same ornamental pond, the same sky that seemed infinitely smaller from in here than it did from beyond the walls. Mother's decree had been absolute: grounded until further notice. No arguments. No exceptions. The fact that I had slipped out to face a dragon—even a shadow of one—without a word to anyone had apparently warranted the full force of parental wrath.
I had lied to her, of course. Told her I'd merely grown restless and wandered outside for fresh air, that I'd lost track of time. It was a small mercy that my mother wasn't a goddess; lying came easily to mortals. But the guilt? That sat in my chest like a stone, heavy and immovable. Her face when I'd finally returned, pale with relief that swiftly curdled into stern disappointment—that image haunted me more than any dragon.
So now I trained. Endlessly. Relentlessly. It was the only thing that quieted the restless energy humming beneath my skin.
My sword sang through the air, a silver blur in the afternoon sun.
SWOSH!
Again.
Again.
Again.
Using gravity for such extend I can feel my muscle start to get more used for current weight of my sword. Still there is limit when I can feel or hear a crack on my shoulder that limit my nine years old body can take.
'I need to hone my body before tried to learn any sword technique. '
I let myself fall backward onto the grass after hundreds of swing, not bothering to break my fall. The cool blades tickled my neck as I stared up at the clouds, my chest heaving.
"Elowen is just teacher most of the basic of close combat, but she is not a true master."
'As expected for the elf who relied most on bow and magic I suppose.'
Mother had promised to speak with Lord Beldroth about formally instructing me. That had been weeks ago. Though doubt still remain of how it help me break the barrier between advance and saint swordsman.
("Good afternoon, Master.")
Varda's voice echoed directly in my mind, a welcome interruption to my brooding. The servant I had summoned weeks ago, a being of shadow and information, was my only remaining window to the world beyond these hedges.
("Thanks for the hard work, Varda.")
I woke rise my back.
("What news do you have?")
("I've gathered intelligence from the nearby Guild branch,") Varda reported, her telepathic voice carrying a hint of satisfaction.
("The Zeus and Hera Familias… they've been completely wiped out. No survivors from the expedition.")
Despite the warmth of the sun, a chill crawled down my spine. I knew their strength, even if only in fragments—tales whispered by merchants, songs sung by bards, the awe in my parents' voices when they spoke of the two greatest Familias in Orario. If they had fallen…
("Wiped out…") I let the weight of the word settle. ("That means there's no new information about the Black Dragon at all? Nothing about its weaknesses, its tactics, where it went after the battle?")
("Nothing, Master. The records, if any existed, perished with them. The vacuum of power they left behind is already being consumed by other Familia. It was Loki and Freya Familia. Mostly they take power with ease.")
'Hm, seems they had expected their downfall.'
("And the child? The one inside the dragon?")
("Her memories remain intact, surprisingly. She remembers her parents clearly. Her name, I have confirmed, is Ais Wallenstein.")
'Ais'.
The name settled into my consciousness like a key turning in a lock. So Sindarin's intuition had been correct. The daughter of the Wind Spirit and the great hero Albert Wallenstein—alive, after all these centuries, trapped as a child within a shadow of the beast that had killed her father.
'So it's true. All of it.'
I wanted to move. To act. To find her, to understand how she had been preserved, to learn what she knew about the real dragon. But first, I had to escape my gilded cage.
("I can't leave home yet, so in the meantime Varda prepared a summon ceremony altar.")
("I understand, Master.")
("Then I leave it in your capable hands. Continue overseeing the construction. And Varda… thank you again.")
The connection faded, leaving me alone with the sound of wind through leaves and the distant chirping of birds.
I raised my hand, channeling mana through my fingertips. Green light coalesced around my aching arm, the familiar warmth of healing magic knitting torn muscle fibers, soothing inflamed tendons. The pain ebbed, replaced by a pleasant coolness.
"Let's practice magic next."
====X====
Orario
The warmth of the hearth in Loki Familia's meeting room did nothing to chase away the chill that had settled over its occupants. One by one, the executives of the Loki Familia had filed in, their usual boisterous energy replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence. They sat around the great oak table, their gazes fixed on their commander, Finn Deimne, whose report had just concluded.
The only sound was the crackle of the fire, a stark contrast to the storm of disbelief raging in the minds of those present
Loki, for her part, was unnervingly still. Gone was her usual playful smirk, replaced by a mask of cool concentration. One pale hand rested on the table, her knuckles white, while the other pressed against her temple, as if trying to physically contain the information threatening to split her skull.
Finally, she let out a long, slow breath that seemed to deflate her entire form.
"So," she began, her voice deceptively calm, "let me get this straight." She held up a single, slender finger. "You headed for the reported dragon." A second finger joined it. "You found a monster that looked like the One-Eyed Black Dragon." A third. "It was mid-fight with a golem of equal stature." Her eyes, sharp and focused, snapped to Finn. "And you believe this golem was being controlled by a mortal?"
The calm shattered. Loki slammed her palm on the table, her voice rising to a disbelieving shriek. "A mortal?!"
Gareth Landrock, the grizzled dwarf, stroked his magnificent beard, his gaze sliding to the elven beauty seated beside him. Riveria Ljos Alf hadn't spoken a word since the meeting began, her emerald eyes distant.
Gareth had noticed her odd, withdrawn state the moment she'd returned, and now he understood why. The magic she had witnessed, Finn claimed, was unlike anything in her vast repertoire. For the realm's greatest archmage to be rendered speechless was a feat in itself.
"It's a hard thing to swallow," Gareth rumbled, his voice a low gravel. "A mortal reaching such heights… surely they'd have been discovered long before now?"
"You would think so," Finn agreed, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to Loki's outburst. He leaned forward, his gaze sweeping across the room. "But it all comes down to timing." He raised a finger. "One: The calamitous battle between the Zeus and Hera Familias happened yesterday. No survivors." A second finger went up. "Two: Simultaneously, a dragon, identical in description to the OEBD, appeared in the east and, according to the Guild, obliterated the kingdom of Fultone." He paused, letting the weight of the coincidence settle on them. A third finger. "And three: the sudden appearance of a knight in Black armor… alongside Ais Wallenstein's long-lost daughter."
A heavy silence descended, thick enough to choke on.
Gareth tugged at his beard, a thoughtful frown creasing his weathered face. "Could it be…? Albert himself, somehow?"
Finn shook his head, his gaze shifting to the silent golden-haired girl in the corner. "According to Ais, her father and mother fell in that battle. She is certain of that. As for how her daughter traveled a hundred years into the future… that is a question she cannot answer."
All eyes in the room slowly turned back to Loki. The weight of their collective gaze was immense. She was their goddess, their pillar. The decision was hers.
Loki met Finn's gaze. "I only have one question for you, Fin. Is he a threat?"
But it wasn't Finn who answered.
"No."
Every head in the room swiveled to stare at Riveria. The archmage met their looks with her usual stoic grace, but there was a flicker of something profound in her ancient eyes.
Loki blinked, then a slow, genuine smile touched her lips. "Well, well. If mom says so, that's good enough for me."
The effect was instantaneous. Riveria's regal composure cracked, a vein pulsing dangerously on her forehead. "Loki…"
"Eep! Right, right! Moving on!" Loki waved her hands, hastily steering the conversation away from the death glare emanating from the elven princess. She turned to Gareth, her expression sobering once more. "What of our cockroach'?"
Gareth grunted. "Quiet. For now. But there's a shift on Daedalus Street. The atmosphere is… unwelcome. Like you could feel a knife slip between your ribs with every step you take in the dark."
"So, they're making their first move." Loki's grin returned, sharper this time. She looked to Finn.
"It'll be costly," Finn stated, a grim understanding passing between them.
Loki nodded, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of the game.
"They're smart, at least. Avoiding a straight-up brawl. Looks like some of those meatheads on their side finally figured out what we already know." She leaned back in her chair, the picture of a goddess in her element. "That means the Dungeon is about to become our battlefield. Finn, keep a sharp eye out for new talent. We're going to need it."
Finn gave a firm nod.
"Riveria," Loki continued, her tone gentle but commanding, "If you could, expand the basic magic curriculum. We need our new members to be more than just sword-fodder. Same goes for you, Gareth. Hone them until they shine."
Both Riveria and Gareth acknowledged their tasks.
"Good." Loki rose from her seat, her small frame radiating an unexpected aura of power. "While you do that, I'll be working on our alliances. Freya's formidable, sure, but it's not enough. There is Strength in numbers are power after all." She paused, a thoughtful look crossing her features.
"I've just gotten word of a new goddess in town. One with a spine of pure steel and a reputation that precedes her." Her grin widened into a predator's smile. "I think we just found our perfect ally."
Finn, unable to contain his curiosity, asked, "Who is it, Loki?"
Loki's eyes glittered with anticipation. "Astarea. The Goddess of Justice."
++++++++++++++
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