"He died because he was brave, and because Trogvir found me!" Stransa retorted, her own bitterness finally erupting, a torrent of long-held pain. "You speak of abandonment, sister? I was captured! Tortured! Imprisoned by that monster, Trogvir! He used a net woven from pure shadow and pain-laced iron, dropped from above, it snapped around me before I could even draw a breath. He dragged me away, bound and helpless, and forced me to watch Lyraen die! Forced me to watch him fall, unable to lift a single finger to help my friend, the man you both cherished! Do you think that was my choice? Do you think I chose to watch him die? To be helpless?" Her voice dropped, a chilling indictment. "And where were you, Lima? While the rest of us fought and died, or were captured and broken, you retreated into your precious forest. You chose this place over your own kind. You chose to be a living monument while we were hunted to extinction."
Lima recoiled, her leafy features contorting in shock, the depth of Stransa's revelation striking her like a physical blow, compounded by the stinging accusation. "Captured? Tortured? But... but Trogvir... we thought he was destroyed in the purge, that he was merely a footnote among the hunters, a fleeting shadow we swiftly dealt with." Her voice was a disbelieving whisper. "And this grove... it was all I had left! I protected it to preserve what little of us remained!"
"A footnote who remembered me," Stransa spat, the memories flooding back, cold and sharp, etching themselves anew into her mind. "He trapped me in an endless darkness, a living tomb fashioned from magic and despair. A thousand years, Lima! A thousand years in isolation, no sound for comfort, no light, just the echoes of Lyraen's last breath and my own failure to save him. I have suffered, sister, for not saving him, more than you, rooted in your peaceful grove, could ever imagine!" Stransa sank to her knees, the weight of a millennium of silent torment finally breaking free in shuddering gasps. "I was not ashamed. I was broken. And I mourned him, and you, and all we lost, in a darkness you could never comprehend. A darkness I thought would be my eternal prison! While you cultivated your perfectly serene sanctuary!"
Lima's form softened, the rigid lines of her body melting as understanding, raw and agonizing, dawned upon her, tempered by the stark reality of Stransa's suffering and her own inaction. Her leafy wings shimmered, not with fury, but with profound sorrow. She knelt before Stransa, her mossy hand reaching out, hesitant, then gently cupping Stransa's tear-streaked face. "Oh, my sister. My foolish, proud, suffering sister. I thought... I thought you had simply fled. The silence, your utter absence, it ate at me, corroded my heart. I am so sorry. Forgive my bitterness. Forgive my ignorance. I built my grief into a wall, and blamed you for a pain I could not bear alone." Tears, like drops of clear dew, gathered in Lima's shadowed eyes and ran down her ancient, verdant cheeks, leaving glistening trails on her mossy skin. "You were never lost to shame. You were lost to a hell I cannot begin to imagine. And yes, I sought refuge. I sought to preserve. Perhaps I erred in not seeking you, not fighting harder. I left you there in my heart, thinking you were gone by choice, when you were simply lost."
Stransa leaned into the touch, a sob tearing through her chest, a thousand years of unspoken grief finally finding release, dissolving the bitter shell that had encased her heart. "There is nothing to forgive, Lima. We both suffered. We both lost. But we are here now."
Lima pulled Stransa into a gentle embrace, the scent of fresh earth and blooming life surrounding them, the soft rustle of her wings a comforting lullaby. The ancient bitterness dissolved, replaced by the profound, comforting solace of shared grief and renewed sisterhood. "Welcome home, Stransa. Truly home, after all this time."
"Now tell me, sister," Lima began, her voice still soft but with a new edge of curiosity that belied her ancient composure, her gaze moving from the distant past they had just relived to the immediate present. "How did you come to be with those two wolfkin children? What intricate thread of fate, after all these centuries, wove you into their lives?"
Stransa, still regaining her full composure after the torrent of emotion, swallowed hard. "I was freed from my cavern prison beneath Petirorin, a darkness I'd endured for a thousand years. It was Nott who found me, after she fell through the floor of the Fae Consulate. We escaped the city together, only to be relentlessly hunted by Trogvir, the fae hunter. After Steven, their guardian, fought him, we leapt into the river." Stransa gestured around the lush grove. "And now... we are here."
A warmth touched Stransa's eyes as she spoke of the small, energetic wolfkin, a contrast to the bitter memories she'd just relived. "She is... special, Lima. Chosen. There's a resonance to her spirit, a flicker of something deeply familiar. I believe she is Grimma's chosen child."
Lima's verdant form stilled, her mossy features conveying a profound shock. "Grimma? Our fierce Grimma? The one who vanished into the deepest wilds, leaving no trace? I had always feared she was captured as well, lost to the hunters during the purge, like so many others who fought until their last breath, their life forces extinguished without a trace." A slow, ancient smile, a rare, radiant light, began to spread across Lima's moss-wrought face, softening the gnarled lines of her visage. "But yes. Grimma. She was too wild, too cunning, too deeply connected to the old ways, to the very essence of the primordial wild, to be held. She would be one of the ones to have escaped the purge, to live on and fight another day, to defy the hunters even in her solitude. And to have a chosen child..." Her gaze settled on Stransa with renewed understanding, a glimmer of hope in her shadowed eyes. "It makes sense you found her. The threads of destiny are complex, far more intricate than mortals comprehend, even after a thousand years of seeming silence and separation. There are patterns woven across the ages that even we, the ancient ones, can only begin to perceive as they unfold."
Lima rose, her movements fluid and graceful, a living sculpture of forest power. Her vast, translucent wings, which seemed to drink in the light filtering through the canopy, unfurled slightly with a soft, rustling sound, like leaves dancing on a gentle breeze. "Come, Stransa. Let us return to Nott and her brother. There is much to discuss, much to understand about these new connections that have drawn you back to us, and perhaps, much we must prepare for. The shadows of the past, it seems, are not as distant as we once believed."
With a shared sense of renewed purpose, Lima, her form glowing faintly with an inner light, led Stransa through the vibrant, living pathways of the grove, the ancient trees seeming to bow their branches in reverence as they passed. They moved silently, the soft moss cushioning their steps, back towards where Nott and Vidar lay, small figures awaiting their return in the heart of the primordial sanctuary.
Trogvir reached the banks of the roaring river, his movements precise as he scoured the muddy edge for any trace of his prey. His sharp eyes quickly caught sight of the fallen tree, wedged securely between two massive rocks, bridging the treacherous current. Nearby, the soft mud bore distinct imprints – footprints, followed by clear drag marks leading into the dense woods. "There you are," he mused, a cold satisfaction in his voice. Without hesitation, he navigated the slippery trunk of the fallen tree, crossing to the other side of the banks.
He stepped into the ancient forest, a place of deep shadows and hushed whispers. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, and an almost palpable sense of antiquity. As Trogvir ventured deeper, his predatory presence, a jarring discord in the grove's harmony, sent a ripple through the very essence of the forest. New chapters come out on novelping.com first.
In the heart of the grove, Lima stopped mid-stride, her vibrant moss and root form tensing. She had been leading Stransa back towards Nott and Vidar, the sounds of their renewed kinship still echoing softly between them. "We are not alone," Lima murmured, her voice now a low, resonant thrum of warning, her leafy wings subtly flaring.
But Lima was this forest. She had been for a thousand years, her consciousness intertwined with every root, every branch, every whispering leaf. As Trogvir pressed further into her domain, the trees around him began to shift, subtly at first, then with deliberate intent. Branches lowered, intertwining into impenetrable walls. Paths vanished, replaced by dense thickets. The familiar forest floor dissolved into an undulating labyrinthian maze, ever-changing, designed to confound and ensnare. Lima watched, her ancient, arboreal senses tracking every one of the crimson fae hunter's movements, a patient, living trap closing around him.
Trogvir was observant, patient. He knew something was watching him. The silence of the forest was too deep, the air too still. He turned left suddenly, then snapped back to the right, catching a fleeting glimpse of a massive oak shifting, its ancient branches subtly moving to block his path. It wasn't natural.
"I know you're there," Trogvir's voice cut through the hushed grove, cold and sharp. "Show yourself, or do you want your wood burned to ash?"
The very air shimmered, and from the interwoven leaves and gnarled bark of the large oak directly in front of him, Lima materialized, her features forming into a stern, watchful face. Her voice, resonant and deep like the earth itself, echoed through the trees.
"You are not welcome here, hunter," Lima intoned, her voice carrying the weight of a thousand years. "This grove is my domain, and it offers sanctuary to those who seek peace within its heart. Leave now, peacefully, or your life is forfeit."
Trogvir’s lips curled into a sneer, unimpressed by her ancient power. "Peacefully? I think not. I will not leave without my prey. The wolfkin, and the primordial, they belong to me."
"I know of no 'prey' here, only those who entered my wood without malice, and they are under my protection," Lima countered, her voice hardening, the air around her growing heavy. "I offer you one chance to turn back. Do not mistake my patience for weakness."
Trogvir tightened his grip on his spear, a chilling glint in his eyes. "Protection? You think this paltry wood can stop me? I will cut through your grove, piece by piece, if that's what it takes to find them. Do not mistake my words, tree-spirit. I will have what is mine."
A long moment of silence stretched between them, thick with ancient power and mortal resolve. Then, slowly, gracefully, Lima's leafy face began to shift, the branches parting. The previously impassable labyrinth of trees before Trogvir began to yield, creating a clear, though narrow, path deeper into the grove. This chapter was copied from novelping . com without permission.
"You are welcome to try," Lima's voice echoed, a challenge and a promise woven into the soft rustle of the parting leaves.
Trogvir advanced, his steps silent despite the subtle yielding of the forest floor beneath him. He walked down the newly opened path, his senses alert, but it quickly became clear he wasn't being led to Nott or Stransa. Instead, the winding route led him to another grove, this one vast and open, bathed in an ethereal light that seemed to pulse from the very heart of the ancient trees.
In the grove with Stransa, Nott, and Vidar, Lima's form pulsed with a sudden, urgent energy. Her body, intrinsically linked to the forest, vibrated with Trogvir's intrusion. "He is here," she announced, her voice losing its gentle lilt, becoming a deep, resonant warning. "Get your belongings. Leave through the other end of this forest, quickly. I will take care of the hunter."
As Lima's form dissolved back into the surrounding trees, her consciousness fully merging with the grove, Stransa and Vidar already saw the fierce determination in Nott's eyes. There was no mistaking it: she wasn't going to run. Not again. She wouldn't let anyone else die for her. Vidar knew there was no talking her out of it and simply sighed, a heavy, resigned sound, as he grabbed his war axe. Nott signed quickly, "Stay here, Stransa. In case Lima needs you." Then, with a nod to Vidar, she turned and moved in the opposite direction of the path Lima had opened for Trogvir, intent on finding her own way to the hunter.
The Primordial's Fury
In the vast, open grove, the very air hummed with gathering power. Trogvir stood in the center, his posture radiating lethal calm. Before him, the trees themselves began to writhe and shift, coalescing into a towering, formidable figure. It was Lima, but transformed. Her skin was now hardened bark, her limbs thick, gnarled roots, woven into a living wooden armor that seemed impenetrable. In one hand, she clutched a massive iron oak staff, its surface rough and dark as ancient stone.
"Last warning, hunter!" Lima's voice thundered, no longer a gentle whisper, but a resonant bellow that shook the very leaves on the surrounding trees. "Leave this place! Or your life is forfeit!"
Trogvir responded with a low, mirthless chuckle. With a sudden, violent crackle of energy, his hand tightened, and a spear of pure magic materialized in his grasp—a weapon of crystalline light, humming with destructive power. "Come and try, tree-spirit!"
The battle began with the force of a natural disaster. Lima struck first, bringing her iron oak staff down with the force of a plummeting meteor. The blow gouged a massive trench in the earth, sending up a cloud of pulverized soil and stone. Trogvir sidestepped, moving with blinding speed, and retaliated with a thrust of his magic spear, a bolt of emerald energy erupting from its tip. Lima met it head-on, her wooden armor absorbing the blast with a groan that echoed like grinding stone, but she barely recoiled.
They clashed, the raw power they wielded turning the grove into a maelstrom of destruction. Trogvir unleashed barrages of magical projectiles—shards of ice, bolts of fire, tendrils of shadow—each one impacting Lima's form with concussive force, stripping away layers of bark and sending splinters flying like shrapnel. But Lima was relentless. She fought with the raw, untamed might of the earth itself, summoning roots from the ground to snare Trogvir, sending waves of thorny vines to whip at him, and striking with her staff like a battering ram. Each swing of her iron oak staff split the very ground, creating fissures that snaked across the grove. When it connected, the impact sent shockwaves through the air, vibrating through Trogvir's bones.
The sounds of their titanic struggle were like thunderclaps, echoing through the vast forest, each magical discharge and physical impact reverberating across the landscape. The earth shuddered beneath their feet, trees splintered and fell, their ancient forms consumed by ethereal flames or blasted apart by unseen forces. The sky above the grove turned a bruised purple, reacting to the sheer magical output. These apocalyptic sounds traveled far, reaching ears all the way to the distant city of Petirorin, unsettling its inhabitants.
Yet, despite the colossal power unleashed, neither Trogvir nor Lima could gain a decisive upper hand. Trogvir, the master of precision and magical force, found his attacks absorbed by Lima's ancient resilience and regeneration. Lima, the embodiment of the grove's strength, found her immense power matched by Trogvir's relentless agility and devastating magical offense. The battle was a deadlock, a swirling vortex of elemental and arcane might, slowly, irrevocably, scarring the very landscape around them.
What will Nott and Vidar do now, hearing the immense battle raging behind them?