The river was a monster, a churning, liquid beast that showed no mercy. It seized Nott, a cruel embrace of frigid water that battered her relentlessly against submerged rocks, pushing the very breath from her small body. Each desperate lunge for the surface, a gasping plea for air, was met with the river's cold defiance, ripping her back down, the thunderous roar of the current filling her ears, stealing what little oxygen remained in her burning lungs. Panic, cold and sharp, began to prick at the edges of her consciousness. She was sure this was it; she was going to drown. And worse, in the terrifying chaos, the fleeting glimpses of Stransa and Vidar had vanished. They were gone, swallowed by the darkness and the fury of the rapids.
Just as despair began its icy climb up her throat, a dark, hulking shape loomed out of the churning water. It was a fallen tree, an ancient sentinel ripped from its roots, now swept downstream, its thick trunk offering a momentary, precarious salvation. With a surge of desperate energy born of pure survival instinct, Nott lunged, her numb fingers scrabbling, then clamping onto the slick, moss-covered bark. The wood was treacherous, offering little purchase as the current still fought with monstrous strength to tear her away. She clung with all her might, knuckles white, her small body screaming in protest with every jarring impact, as the tree slowly, agonizingly, carried her across the raging torrent. Her muscles screamed, burning with the effort. She slipped, nearly losing her grip numerous times, the cold water threatening to reclaim her, to pull her under for good, but she held on, driven by a primal, unyielding will to survive. Each gasp of air was a victory, each shuddering breath a prayer.
Finally, with the very last vestiges of her strength, the tree snagged on something. With a ragged, guttural cry, Nott pulled herself, inch by agonizing inch, towards the muddy bank. She collapsed onto the treacherous shore, coughing, retching, her lungs burning, her entire body a symphony of aches and tremors. Just before consciousness completely abandoned her, her eyes flickered open, scanning the murky river's edge. Her heart leaped with a painful jolt, then a wave of profound relief washed over her. There, half-submerged in the shallower waters but mercifully out of the main current, were the forms of Stransa and Vidar. They lay utterly still, battered and bruised, but their chests rose and fell, shallowly, painfully. They were breathing, just. The sight was the last thing she saw before darkness claimed her.
In the heart of Nan du Tua, within the regal confines of her chambers, Asha paced. The Tigren woman, with her striking dusty blonde hair and an aura that seemed to dwarf even the highest peaks of the island, was a tempest of barely contained rage. Steven's roar had reached her, a raw, final echo across the vast expanse, and now she demanded answers.
With a furious jerk, she snatched her scimitar and belt, securing the gleaming blade at her hip before storming from her chambers. Her destination was the throne room, a place of quiet power that now felt too still, too silent. Inside, three ornate thrones stood sentinel. The middle one, currently occupied by a catkin with pristine white fur and violet hair and eyes, sat serene. Her long, intricately braided hair cascaded over one shoulder, a stark contrast to the storm brewing in Asha.
Asha burst into the room, her voice a low growl, "Steven is dead." The words hung heavy in the air, thick with fury that threatened to spill over. "I received his roar. He gave his life for someone named Nott, and I want to know why. I want to know the circumstances of his death." Her eyes, blazing with an untamed fire, locked onto the white catkin. "I want blood, Savine."
"I felt it too, Asha," Savine, the First Queen of Nan du Tua, replied, her voice a soft counterpoint to Asha's thunder. Her violet eyes, though serene, held a deep, reflective sorrow. "Our brother, Steven... he is truly gone." She looked at Asha, the Queen of Blades. "His roar wasn't just a cry for help; it was a testament. A final act of defiance and protection."
Asha slammed a fist onto a nearby map table, ignoring the scattered parchments. "Protection for whom? This 'Nott'? Who is this child he died for? And why wasn't he protecting himself?"
"The roar will guide us," Savine stated, her voice regaining a thread of its usual authority. "It carried his final location. We'll send a retrieval party immediately. Not just for his body, but to investigate the scene. They'll bring back every detail, every scrap of information. They will discover who did this." She paused, her gaze distant, listening to an unseen current. "He spoke of 'Nott' and asked for our help. Clearly, these children are significant to him."
"Significant enough to die for?" Asha scoffed, but a flicker of pain crossed her features. "He was our brother, Savine. Our protector. The balance of the three queens is broken."
"And it will be restored," Savine said, her voice firm. "But first, we honor him. His royal funeral will be held within the week, once his body is returned. It will be a ceremony befitting a prince of Nan du Tua, a warrior who gave his life for his will."
Asha ran a hand through her hair, her anger momentarily overshadowed by grief. "And the diplomatic fallout? If this was an external enemy, a human, a fae, anyone with ties to a nation... what then?" This story is hosted at novelping(.)com.
Savine’s violet eyes hardened. "That depends entirely on what our investigators find. If it's a matter of simple banditry, justice will be swift and brutal, without involving other nations. But if this assailant is tied to a kingdom, a recognized power, then we will demand answers. And if those answers are insufficient, or if this was an act of aggression against a Prince of Nan du Tua, then there will be no diplomatic resolution. Only war." Her gaze met Asha's, a shared understanding passing between the two queens. "Nan du Tua does not forget its own. And we do not forgive lightly."
Asha nodded slowly, the heat of her rage beginning to coalesce into a cold, determined resolve. "Then let the hunt begin."
Nott's eyes fluttered open, her senses slow to return. Instead of the churning river and the sharp bite of cold, she felt the gentle cradle of soft grass beneath her. Panic flared instantly as she realized she wasn't by the water's edge at all, but in a clearing that seemed plucked from a painter's wildest dream. Sunlight filtered through a canopy of vibrant, impossibly green leaves, dappling the ground with shifting patterns of light and shadow. Flowers, in hues she'd never seen, bloomed in impossible abundance, and the air hummed with an ethereal stillness, thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming life. Her body ached, a deep, pervasive thrumming beneath her skin, but the immediate threat of the river was gone.
She looked around frantically, relief washing over her as she spotted Vidar in a similar patch of impossibly soft grass nearby, his chest rising and falling with steady, if shallow, breaths. But Stransa was nowhere to be seen, a fresh wave of terror tightening Nott's chest.
Slowly, painfully, Nott pushed herself to her feet, her muscles screaming in protest. Every movement was a struggle, a testament to the river's brutal embrace. She stumbled towards her brother, nudging him gently until his eyes fluttered open, groggy and confused.
Where are we? Nott signed, her hands moving with a desperate urgency, her gaze pleading for an answer Vidar couldn't give.
Vidar blinked, his gaze unfocused as he took in their surreal surroundings. He shook his head, a silent acknowledgment that he had no idea, his own memory a hazy mess of rushing water and crushing darkness.
Just then, the very grove seemed to stir, not with wind, but with an intentional, living breath. The ancient tree branches above them, thick with leaves and gnarled with age, began to subtly shift. Not in a violent contortion, but a slow, deliberate shaping. Leaves rustled, not with random motion, but as if being pulled into place. Bark seemed to flow like liquid, defining contours. Slowly, impossibly, the wood and foliage coalesced, forming the distinct, gentle features of a woman's face, carved from living timber and verdant green. Her eyes were deep hollows of shadow, her lips formed by intertwined vines, her hair a cascade of shimmering leaves. Her voice, soft yet resonant, drifted down to them, like the gentle whisper of wind rushing through branches on a warm summer day, carrying an ancient wisdom that settled deep within Nott's bones.
"You are in my domain, wolfkin," the voice breathed, carrying an ancient wisdom. "And a long way from home."
Nott eyed the face in the trees, her small hands moving with sharp, urgent precision, her fear for Stransa outweighing her awe. "Where is Stransa?" she signed, her gaze locked on the shifting foliage, demanding an answer.
The face in the branches seemed to soften, a ripple passing through the verdant features. Its voice, a gentle echo in the tranquil grove, was like wind chimes stirred by an unseen breeze. "I am acquainted with your companion, Stransa. She and I must speak, old secrets and new paths. She is safe for now, little one, as are you. Though I find myself curious as to why I found two such vibrant sparks of life, and one so battered, half-dead on the shores of my domain."
Nott, despite the lingering exhaustion that made every muscle protest, began to recount their harrowing tale. Her hands moved swiftly, painting a vivid picture in the air. She spoke of the caravan, their simple journey shattered by the sudden, brutal ambush. She described the cold precision of Trogvir, the hunter who seemed to materialize from shadow, and the desperate, defiant roar of Steven, their protector, whose life had been a shield between them and death. Her hands trembled slightly as she recalled the dizzying plunge into the roaring river, the icy grip of the current, the terrifying separation from Vidar and Stransa, and her own near-drowning. She conveyed the terrifying chaos, the sense of being utterly lost and at the mercy of the water, until the blessed, impossible appearance of the fallen tree, her only hope.
All the while, Vidar sat in silent wonder, his eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and awe. He understood Nott's signs perfectly, having learned them through years of shared life. But how the ancient grove understood her silent language was a mystery that baffled him, his gaze flitting from Nott's hands to the expressive, leafy face of the tree. He couldn't hear the words Nott's hands were speaking, nor could he fathom how the very grove was responding with a voice woven from the wind. This chapter was copied from novelping.com without permission.
The leafy face listened intently, its features unmoving yet conveying a deep, ancient concentration that seemed to absorb every detail of Nott's frantic tale. When Nott finished, a sigh like rustling leaves, ancient and sorrowful, drifted through the grove. "A desperate journey indeed, born of violence and sacrifice. This 'Trogvir' sounds... problematic, a shadow from older times."
Nott's hands moved again, a sudden, intuitive realization sparking in her eyes, a whisper of understanding from something deeper than thought. "You... you're a primordial, aren't you? Like Stransa." Her words were a bold leap, spoken with an unshakeable certainty.
The ancient face in the trees seemed to ripple, a faint tremor of awe passing through its leafy features, like wind through distant leaves. "A primordial? How do you know of such beings, little wolfkin? It is a name rarely spoken by mortals, a truth whispered only in the oldest of places."
Nott hesitated, her gaze dropping for a moment to her trembling hands, then meeting the tree-face's shadowed eyes with a directness that belied her youth. "I know little. Just... Stransa. She feels a kinship with me. A deep, ancient feeling, like looking at myself in a pool, seeing a reflection of something vast and powerful she didn't fully understand within herself."
A profound silence settled over the grove, broken only by the gentle hum of unseen life and the soft drip of dew from overhead leaves. The leafy face gazed at Nott, a new depth of understanding in its shadowed eyes, a recognition that transcended words. "Kinship," the voice murmured, the sound resonating through the very earth beneath Nott's feet, a confirmation that echoed with the weight of ages. "Indeed."
Deeper within the grove, where the light filtered through the canopy in emerald shafts, Stransa began to stir. Her eyes fluttered open to a sight both wondrous and familiar. The face woven from the forest, which had spoken to Nott, now coalesced into a fully formed being. Lima stood before her, a creature of living moss and gnarled roots, her form graceful and ancient, her vast, translucent wings seemingly attached to and shimmering with the very canopy of the grove itself.
Lima did not wait for pleasantries, her voice resonating with the deep, resonant hum of the forest. "It has been a long time, sister."
Stransa pushed herself up, her gaze locking onto Lima. "Lima." The name was a whispered acknowledgment of a past steeped in both affection and anguish.
"A long time," Lima repeated, her voice tightening, a subtle tremor running through her leafy form. "A thousand years. For you to return. After the purge. After you abandoned us." Her eyes, like pools of deep shadow, fixed on Stransa with a cutting accusation. "My betrothed, Lyraen. He, a mortal, chose to fight alongside us, alongside you, against the encroaching darkness. And you simply vanished. Without a word. Without a trace." A bitter, wounded edge crept into her tone, sharp as winter frost. "Did his death shame you so deeply, that you couldn't bear to face the wreckage? To face me?"
Stransa flinched, the accusation a barb from a wound that had never truly healed, festering in the darkness for centuries. "Shame? You think I abandoned him? Abandoned you? Do you truly believe that, Lima, after all we were to each other?" Her voice rose, raw with a millennium of suppressed agony, the words tearing from her throat. "Do you know what the purge truly was? What it meant for those of us who weren't rooted to the very land, who weren't protected by a thousand years of growing power? He chose to fight, yes. He was brave, foolhardy, and loyal to a fault, a loyalty that cut me to the bone, even as it made my heart ache with pride. And though it hurt me, deeply, to see him fall, to watch him give his life, it was his choice to stand on that battlefield!"
Lima's form seemed to stiffen, moss and roots hardening, her anger building like a storm. "A choice he made because he believed you would stand with him to the bitter end! He died believing you had fled! He died believing his beloved Lyraen, whom you were so close to, had abandoned him to face those monsters alone! Did you ever stop to think what that did to him? What that did to me?"