In the bustling city of Petirorin, the air within the Nan du Tua consulate thrummed with a different kind of tension. Asha, regal and formidable, had arrived moments ago through the shimmering teleportation gates, her presence commanding attention. Magistrate Maeve, a kindly older woman with a perpetually worried expression, waited for her. Maeve had dutifully sent word of Asha's arrival and arranged chambers for the queen in the consulate dorms.
Asha wasted no time. Her first demand, delivered with thinly veiled fury, was for answers concerning her brother, Steven, who had fallen. Maeve, however, could offer little more than what she knew: Steven had indeed requested aid for a wolfkin girl in fae custody named Nott before returning to his caravan duties. She confirmed that Steven's body had been returned to the consulate.
Asha's jaw tightened. "Good. Take me to him. I want to review the body myself. I need to know what weapon, what force, could fell my formidable brother." Her eyes, sharp as a hunter's, held a promise of retribution.
The Grove: Approaching Chaos
Back in the ancient grove, the battle between Lima and Trogvir raged, a cataclysm of magic and primal force. The earth groaned, trees shattered, and concussive blasts ripped through the air, their sounds echoing like endless thunder. Nott and Vidar, battered but resolute, moved closer and closer to the epicenter of the chaos, drawn by a grim determination.
"What can we do against that kind of power, Nott?" Vidar yelled over the cacophony, his voice strained.
Nott simply signed, her movements fluid yet uncertain, "I don't know."
But even as she did, Vidar noticed a faint, ethereal green light begin to emanate from Nott, subtly at first, then growing to envelop her. She seemed faster, lighter on her feet, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten. What Vidar couldn't know was the secret Nott carried within her. This glowing green woman, always comforting, always maternal, had been a constant presence in Nott's mind since the horrific night she was five, when her own father attacked her in their small cottage. Vidar had rushed her to the river, desperately trying to heal her, unaware that it wasn't his efforts, but the mysterious woman inside Nott, who had truly saved her life. Since then, in moments of sleep or even quiet contemplation, the woman was always there, a source of profound solace. When Nott was sad or frustrated growing up, the woman was always there, a silent, loving companion. Nott had never seen her fully, never glimpsed her face clearly, but she understood, implicitly, that this woman loved her. This maternal energy, now stirred by the surrounding primordial magic and her own fierce resolve, was beginning to manifest, lending Nott an otherworldly strength.
Petirorin: The Prince's Inspection
A cold, sterile light filled the consulate's examination room, casting stark shadows on the unyielding surface of the table where Steven's body lay. He was bare-chested, his once vibrant fur now dulled, a gaping, cauterized hole marring the center of his chest. Asha choked back a sob, her breath catching in her throat, barely containing the surge of grief that threatened to overwhelm her warrior's composure. Memories, sharp and poignant, flickered through her mind: Steven's easy laughter, his steadfast loyalty, the familiar weight of his arm around her shoulders after a hard-won battle. She had always been close to him, their bond forged in the crucible of countless skirmishes during the brutal human wars. They had fought side by side, their blades a synchronized dance against overwhelming odds, a testament to the ferocity and unity of the beastkin. He was the first to buy her a drink, a rough, comforting mug of ale, when she was made leader of Nan du Tua's nascent armies, long before it was even a recognized country, when the beastkin were just a loose collection of wary allies fighting for survival. He deserved a better death than this, she thought, a burning conviction solidifying in her gut, a cold flame of vengeance beginning to ignite.
She leaned closer, her keen eyes, honed by years of battlefield analysis, studying the wound with meticulous precision. It was unmistakably from a spear, its point diamond-sharp. But what made it truly curious, what pulled at the very threads of her extensive combat experience, was that it wasn't a clean cut. The flesh around the entry point was seared, cauterized instantly, almost as if superheated by an infernal forge. Asha lowered her head, sniffing at the wound with an animalistic intensity, an act that drew strange, uneasy looks from the consulate guards standing vigil. The scent was distinct, unmistakable: sulfuric, sharp and acrid, yet subtly mingled with an unsettling sweetness and the crisp, clean tang of ozone. This was no ordinary weapon, no mundane blade wielded by a common foe. This was fae magic, potent and malevolent, and rather high-level at that. No average fae foot soldier or common skirmisher would know or wield such power. This spoke of deep arcane training, of power held only by the most formidable—the high-ranked military mages, perhaps, or the ancient, powerful nobility of the fae courts. Steven had faced no mere mercenary; he had faced a force of significant, dangerous pedigree. You are reading on novelping . com, the official source.
Petirorin: The Queen's Summons
Asha returned to Magistrate Maeve's office, the lingering scent of ozone and sulfur still clinging to her, a stark counterpoint to the consulate's polished wood and hushed air. Maeve, perched behind her grand desk, looked up with a kindly, expectant gaze.
"Magistrate," Asha's voice was low, devoid of its earlier raw grief, replaced now by a chilling clarity. "I require a page. One with discretion, and speed."
Maeve, ever efficient, nodded, her spectacles glinting. "Of course, Your Majesty. One moment." She pressed a button on her desk.
A few moments later, a small calico catkin hesitantly entered the office. She was indeed diminutive, with big, round glasses perched on her small nose, and soft brown hair pulled neatly back. Her posture was slightly stooped, her eyes wide with a nervous disposition, a common trait among calico catkin who mostly kept to clerical work or hospitality, rarely displaying ambition. This was Callie, and despite her visible anxiety, Asha's keen eyes immediately sensed the underlying current of ambition and sheer hard work that belied the nervous facade.
Asha paid little heed to the anxiety, her focus absolute. She retrieved a heavy, ornate sheet of parchment from her satchel, its surface already bearing the crisp, official script of Nan du Tua. She then produced a stick of dark wax and a small, silver warming tool. The air filled with the faint, sweet scent of melting wax as she meticulously dripped a generous pool onto the parchment. Then, with a decisive, powerful movement, she pressed her signet ring, bearing the intricately carved crest of Nan du Tua, into the soft wax. The seal, large and bold, was perfect, a declaration in itself.
She held out the parchment to Callie. "This is an official summons. You will take this directly to the Fae Magistrate. Inform them that Queen Asha of Nan du Tua demands an immediate audience concerning the death of Prince Steven, and the evidence of high fae magic involved. Do not falter. Do not delay. This is a matter of the highest royal urgency."
Callie's eyes, already wide, somehow managed to grow larger behind her glasses. She swallowed hard, taking the weighty parchment with a trembling hand, but a flicker of grim determination hardened her gaze.
Asha watched the young page depart. Maeve, however, didn't wait for further instructions from the queen. Knowing Asha's fiery temper, and the catastrophic implications if this meeting with the Fae Magistrate were to go south, she had already acted. Behind Asha's back, a trusted guard, the fastest she knew, was already making all haste back to Nan du Tua. Their mission: to find Savine or Clara, whichever queen they reached first, and bring them to Petirorin immediately. Maeve only hoped they wouldn't be too late.
The Grove: Into the Fray
Nott and Vidar finally reached the chaotic edge of the primordial battle, the sheer force of it pushing back the very air around them. They ducked behind a massive, recently felled tree, its splintered trunk a grim testament to the destructive power being unleashed. Vidar yelled over the deafening roars and crashes, "We're here now, Nott! What can we do against that kind of power?"
Nott didn't answer immediately. She peeked over the top of the fallen tree, her small face grim, the green glow around her growing brighter, more intense, shimmering with an ethereal strength. Then, her hands moved swiftly, decisively. "Help Lima, Vidar! Buy me as much time as you can! I'll hit him when he least expects it!"
Vidar swallowed hard, his eyes wide as he glanced from the raging duel to his sister's determined face. There was no doubt in her eyes, only a fierce, unshakeable resolve. He knew he was outmatched, drastically so, against a foe like Trogvir, but he wouldn't abandon Nott, or Lima. With a guttural roar of his own, Vidar launched himself from behind the tree, his war axe held high. Follow the newest chapters on novelping dot com.
He charged into the maelstrom, aiming for Trogvir’s flank. The ground beneath him bucked and heaved from the immense magical impacts. Trogvir, locked in his titanic struggle with Lima, barely registered Vidar's approach until the last second. He deflected Vidar’s wild swing with a casual flick of his glowing spear, sending Vidar sprawling back with surprising ease.
"Foolish mortal!" Trogvir snarled, turning his attention to this new, irritating distraction.
But Lima, seeing the momentary opening, seized it. She lashed out with a wave of sharpened roots, forcing Trogvir to defend. This allowed Vidar to scramble back to his feet, grimacing but unbroken. He became a whirlwind of desperate defense, his large frame surprisingly agile as he dodged chunks of shattered rock and splintered wood flung by the magical attacks. He was clearly outmatched; his axe swings, though powerful, were slow compared to Trogvir’s lightning reflexes, and his brute force seemed to have little effect on the fae hunter.
Yet, with Lima's constant, thunderous assaults as a distraction, Vidar was able to hold his own. He would duck under a sweeping magical blast from Trogvir, only for Lima's staff to crash down where he had just been. He'd narrowly avoid a shard of ice, only to see a tangle of vines erupt from the earth, briefly snaring Trogvir and giving Vidar a fleeting chance to land a glancing blow. The fight was less a direct duel for Vidar and more a frantic dance of survival, constantly moving, dodging, and occasionally striking, a small, stubborn anchor in a storm of primordial power. His presence, though seemingly insignificant against Trogvir's might, forced the fae hunter to divide his attention, creating the precious opening Nott sought.
The Grove: Nott's Silent Strike
Amidst the swirling maelstrom of battle, Nott moved like a whisper, a tiny shadow flitting between shattered trees and smoking craters. The very chaos became her cloak. Thunderous magical blasts and the cracking of ancient wood deafened her opponents to the soft padding of her wolfkin paws. Being mute, Nott had always relied on acute senses and quiet movement; now, these instincts were honed to a razor's edge. She found whatever cover she could, darting from behind a moss-covered boulder, scrambling over the remains of a split trunk, always keeping her emerald glow suppressed, a tiny, vibrant spark hidden in the shadows. Her eyes, wide and focused, darted between Lima and Trogvir, searching for the moment of opportunity, her small heart pounding a fierce rhythm against her ribs. The maternal green light around her pulsed, feeding her speed, her agility, making her a ghostly blur in the periphery of the titanic clash.
Just as Trogvir unleashed a furious barrage of magic, forcing Lima to create a massive, undulating shield of roots and earth that pushed her further back, his primary attention fully consumed, Nott saw her chance. He was momentarily off balance, his back briefly exposed as he dealt with Lima's retaliatory surge.
At that precise instant, Trogvir's spear swept out, catching Vidar mid-dodge. The blow sent him flying with brutal force, his large body slamming against a thick, ancient tree with a sickening thud before he slumped, unconscious, to the ground. Trogvir, sensing one threat neutralized, turned his attention back to Lima, gathering another surge of arcane energy.
It was then that Nott struck. A silent, emerald blur, she launched herself into a flying attack, twin axes gleaming. She soared through the air, aimed directly at Trogvir's head, fueled by a raw, protective fury.
But Trogvir, despite the chaos and his preoccupation with Lima, was a hunter of unparalleled skill. Even as he unleashed a powerful magic attack that sent Lima reeling, he felt the subtle shift in the air, the faint disturbance. His head snapped around, and with a speed that defied belief, his free hand shot out. He caught Nott in mid-air, his large fingers closing around her throat.
Nott's axes clattered uselessly to the ground as his grip tightened. The green glow around her flickered, choked by his immense strength. She was no match for him; her small wolfkin body struggled in futility, her legs kicking, her hands clawing at his iron grip, fighting desperately for air that wouldn't come. Trogvir held her suspended, utterly helpless, a trapped animal in the clutches of its predator