Stransa tightened her arm around Nott, her eyes, though tired, shining with a fierce light. "Grimma did not 'foolishly' end her existence, Vidar. She chose to live on within Nott, to give her a chance, a power to fight against the very evil that imprisoned me and killed Lyraen. That green light... that was Grimma. That was the raw, boundless energy of a primordial flowing through Nott. It was beautiful. And it was terrifyingly effective. Nott defeated Trogvir, or at least incapacitated him enough for him to flee." Her gaze softened as she looked down at the unconscious girl. "She is something new, Vidar. A vessel for hope, not an abomination. A testament to Grimma's profound faith in a life worth saving."
Asha had barely taken a dozen steps into the scarred remnants of the ancient woods when the very air before her shimmered. From the distorted patterns of scorched bark and clinging moss, Lima coalesced, her form a vivid green against the charred backdrop, her eyes like deep, shadowed pools. She carried herself with an air of immense power, but her gaze was filled with suspicion, raw and ancient.
"I have had enough intruders in my wood," Lima's voice resonated, a low thrum that vibrated through the very ground. "Speak your purpose. And swear it on your deepest truth. I accept nothing less."
Asha met the primordial's gaze unflinchingly, her own eyes hard and direct. "I am Queen Asha of Nan du Tua. My purpose is to find the wolfkin girl, Nott. Steven, a Prince of Nan du Tua, gave his life for her. He was killed by a fae. I seek answers."
Lima's leafy features shifted, a flicker of profound curiosity replacing some of the immediate suspicion. "The wolfkin girl? Nott?" Her voice softened, a hint of something unreadable in its tone. "Why are so many seeking this one child? A fae hunter, and now a queen? What significance does this small wolfkin hold that brings such powerful forces to my ravaged domain?"
"Significance?" Asha scoffed, though her tone was measured. "My brother, a Prince, perished by high fae magic defending her. That makes her significant. His last act was a plea for her protection. I need to understand why. What is her connection to this fae hunter, Trogvir? And to the magical signature that marked my brother's death?" Asha watched Lima closely, looking for any tell.
Lima's eyes, deep and knowing, settled on Asha. "Steven, the catkin warrior... he was indeed here. And his sacrifice, a beacon. The hunter you seek is a being of great malevolence, a shadow from an age long past, who found his way back into this world. And the wolfkin... she is touched by forces even I struggle to comprehend fully. There is a connection. A profound one."
The confirmation, stark and absolute, sent a jolt through Asha. High fae magic. A malevolent hunter from the past. And Nott, at the center of it all. "Then she is vital," Asha stated, her voice hardening. "I need to see her. To question her."
Lima's form seemed to stiffen again, her wings subtly flaring. "This is my grove, Queen. And while I may have grievances with the wolfkin child's current state, she is under my protection for now. This grove has suffered enough. Her presence, and the power that now resides within her, draws conflict. I wish her gone as swiftly as her body will allow." Lima paused, her ancient gaze piercing Asha's. "I will allow you passage. But know this: any further conflict, any further devastation in this sacred place, and you will face the wrath of this forest. Proceed. The wolfkin and her companion are ahead, through the heart of the ruins."
Asha nodded, a flicker of gratitude in her stern eyes. "Understood. My purpose is information, not further destruction here." She turned and moved deeper into the scarred grove, leaving Lima standing sentinel amidst the broken trees.
The Grove: Truth and Tears
Asha followed the subtle currents of magic and the lingering scent of ozone, guiding her through the scarred grove. The path led her into a secluded, miraculously untouched clearing, bathed in a soft, ethereal light. Just as she stepped into this hidden sanctuary, Nott began to stir, her eyelids fluttering open.
Vidar, ever vigilant, saw Asha first – an armed catkin warrior, formidable and stern-faced, entering their fragile haven. His eyes widened, and he instinctively snatched up his war axe, his stance defensive, expecting another battle.
"You may think yourself formidable, young one," Asha stated, her voice calm but resonant with authority, her gaze meeting Vidar's defiant stare, "but I assure you, no child would best me." Her hand rested casually on the hilt of her dagger, a silent, potent warning.
Nott, sensing the tension, her eyes still clouded with emerging consciousness, caught Vidar's eye. Her hands moved slowly, almost weakly, but clearly. "Lower your axe, Vidar." Enjoying the story? Read on at novelping.com.
Vidar hesitated, then, with a heavy sigh of reluctant obedience, lowered his weapon. Stransa, still cradling Nott's head, looked up at Asha, her own eyes wary. "Who are you? What is your business here?"
Asha's gaze swept over the three, lingering on Nott's still form. "My business is Steven. My brother. He died defending this wolfkin. I seek answers." Her eyes returned to Nott. "You are Nott?"
Nott nodded slowly.
"Tell me," Asha commanded, her voice softening slightly, though her eyes remained sharp. "Tell me everything. From the beginning."
And so, between them, Vidar and Stransa began to recount their harrowing journey. Vidar, with his straightforward honesty, described the caravan's start, Steven's gruff but protective nature. Stransa, with her ancient perspective, filled in the gaps: Nott's miraculous appearance from the Fae Consulate's depths, the relentless pursuit by Trogvir, the fae hunter. They spoke of Steven's growing affection for Nott and Vidar, how he became a true guardian, his casual comments about his nieces, and his final, defiant stand. They revealed the agonizing detail of Steven's last, powerful roar, and their desperate leap into the river.
As they spoke of Steven's deep care, his unexpected sentimentality shining through their words, Asha felt a familiar ache in her chest. Steven. He was always like that. Behind the hardened warrior, there was a profound tenderness, a fierce loyalty to those he chose to protect. He had been close to his nieces, Kyra, Melody, and June, precisely because they reminded him of the boundless energy of youth, of the simple joy he often found in small things. It was clear now: Nott and Vidar, lost and vulnerable, had simply awakened that deeply buried protective instinct within him, one he would readily die for.
As Stransa concluded the tale of their leap and their subsequent rescue by Lima, Nott, now fully awake, heard it all. The full weight of Steven's sacrifice crashed down on her. He was truly gone. He had died for her. A single, silent tear traced a path down her cheek, followed swiftly by another, and another, until quiet sobs wracked her small frame. She had been too busy surviving, too caught in the immediacy of their escape, to truly grieve.
But then, another wave of realization, deeper and more profound, swept over her. The battle with Trogvir. The overwhelming power. Grimma. The maternal presence, the beloved whisper that had been her constant companion since she was five years old, since her father attacked her in their cottage. Grimma, who had given herself, ended her existence, to infuse Nott with primordial power. The grief for Steven was a sharp wound, but the understanding of Grimma's sacrifice was a crushing weight, an act of infinite love and ultimate giving. Nott's silent sobs intensified, becoming raw, heartbroken cries that resonated with the ancient grove itself. She cried for Steven, for Grimma, for the impossible burden of love and sacrifice that now flowed through her very veins.
The Grove: An Unkind Welcome
Nott's silent, heartbroken cries for Steven and Grimma filled the grove, a raw testament to the burdens now weighing upon her. As her sobs began to subside, Lima's gaze, cold and unyielding, fixed on the small wolfkin.
"She is awake," Lima stated, her voice devoid of warmth, like the rustle of dead leaves. She looked at Stransa, her earlier grief for Grimma now hardening into a bitter resolve. "Leave my forest, Stransa. You, and these mortals. Your presence here has brought ruin." Her eyes, shadowed and ancient, then shifted back to Nott, gleaming with unconcealed contempt. "Abomination. You are a calamity. You will bring only suffering to those around you." She gestured with a sweeping, gnarled hand at the ruined landscape, at the splintered trees and scorched earth that bore witness to the cataclysmic battle. "Look around you! This is what your cursed existence brings! This devastation! This is the price of your unnatural life!"
Nott flinched, her small face paling. She held it in, forcing herself to show no emotion, to present a blank mask to the primordial's harsh words. But inside, Lima's words tore at her heart, echoing the fears she didn't even know she harbored. Maybe Lima was right.
Stransa, her eyes blazing with a mix of fury and fierce protection, stepped forward, placing herself squarely between Lima and Nott. "How dare you, Lima! How dare you speak to her that way, after all she has endured, after all Grimma sacrificed!" Stransa's voice cracked with indignation. "She is not a calamity! She is a child! A child Grimma chose! You are blinded by your grief, sister, and it makes you cruel! If you cannot see the hope in this, if you cannot honor Grimma's choice, then your wisdom is truly withered!"
Asha's Decision
Asha, observing the volatile exchange, the raw grief, the primordial contempt, and the fierce defense, absorbed every detail. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place: a fae hunter, Trogvir, specifically tasked with retrieving this wolfkin girl. The brutal magic on Steven's body. And now, the primordial's bitter pronouncements about Nott being an "abomination" that brought ruin. It spoke volumes. The fae wanted Nott, desperately enough to hire a high-level hunter who didn't care about collateral damage, even a Prince of Nan du Tua. And if a powerful ancient being like Lima regarded Nott with such fear and disdain, there was clearly something extraordinary about the girl, something the fae likely desired to control or eliminate.
Asha's gaze hardened, her strategic mind already working. If the fae wanted Nott, truly wanted her, then the best place for her was precisely where they couldn't reach her. Far from their territory. Far from Petirorin and its consulate. Read this novel at novelping dot com for the best experience.
She stepped forward, her voice cutting through the strained tension. "Enough." Her tone brokered no argument, halting both Stransa's defiance and Lima's cold condemnation. "The Fae Courts are already looking for this wolfkin. My brother died because of it. If they want her, they will stop at nothing to get her." Asha's eyes settled on Nott, then shifted to Stransa and Vidar. "She is coming back to Nan du Tua with me. All of you. It is far from fae territory. If they want her, they will have to contend with three Queens and an entire nation." Her decision was final, a declaration that left no room for debate.
Abysillia: The Hunter's Account
In a grand hall of chilling, crystalline beauty, in the fae capital of Abysillia, Trogvir lay crumpled on the polished marble floor. Blood, a dark stain against the luminous surface, welled from the ragged stumps where his forearms had been. The intense pain was a living thing, consuming him, yet his eyes, wide with terror and desperation, were fixed on the imposing figure before him. It was Lyra, Queen of the Fae. Her skin shimmered faintly with an inner light, her hair like spun moonlight, and her eyes, pools of deep violet, were cold and utterly furious, reflecting the pristine, undisturbed grandeur of her throne room.
Trogvir coughed, a ragged, wet sound, and forced words through his pain-clenched jaw. "Your Majesty... heal me... please... save my life!"
Lyra stood from her crystalline throne, her movements slow, deliberate, each step echoing with chilling precision on the marble. She stopped a few feet from the bleeding hunter, looking down at him with an expression of icy disdain. "Why would I do that, Trogvir?" Her voice was like frozen bells, beautiful but devoid of warmth. "You obviously failed at whatever task you were sent on. A fae hunter, one of my most vaunted, reduced to a bleeding wreck on my floor. An utterly undignified spectacle."
She bent slightly, her voice dropping, though it lost none of its chilling power. "Though you will tell me exactly what that task was, how it led you to this state, and why you would stain my floor with your... liquid failure. And I would hurry. Before you die." Lyra's gaze was piercing. "If I find your explanation sufficient, Trogvir, I will spare you."
Trogvir whimpered, a sound beneath the dignity of any warrior, but his fear of Lyra outweighed even the agony in his phantom limbs. He spoke quickly, a desperate, pain-filled torrent of words. He recounted his mission: the retrieval of the wolfkin girl, Nott, from Petirorin's consulate. He described her improbable escape, the caravan, and the subsequent pursuit. His voice grew hoarse as he detailed his confrontation with Steven, the Nan du Tua prince, admitting the prince's formidable skill, but insisting the death was regrettable, a consequence of Steven's foolish intervention. And then... he spoke of the grove. The primordial that appeared, Lima, and the titanic battle that followed. He stammered as he described the smaller wolfkin girl, Nott, revealing an unexpected, devastating surge of power, her glowing green energy, the impossible speed, and the clean, searing cut that cost him his forearms. He concluded with his desperate, miscalculated teleportation spell.
As Trogvir's pain-wracked confession ended, a subtle tremor passed through Lyra's perfectly composed features. Her violet eyes, which had been so cold, now flickered with a raw, undeniable fear. "A primordial?" she murmured, her voice almost a whisper, then louder, sharper. "And two of them? Unbound? Free?" Her gaze became distant, assessing. This was a truth far more dangerous than a mere diplomatic spat. Primordials, ancient beings of immense power, were thought to be contained, relics of a past age. Two of them, active and outside of their designated domains, posed a threat to the established order, a threat to fae supremacy itself.
Her eyes snapped back to Trogvir, no longer concerned with his bleeding. "Those two cannot be allowed to be free," Lyra stated, her voice icy, filled with a newfound, terrifying resolve. The threat of the wolfkin was trivial. The freedom of primordial forces, however, was an existential crisis.
Abysillia: A Deal with Malice
"Those two cannot be allowed to be free," Lyra stated, her voice icy, filled with a newfound, terrifying resolve. Her gaze returned to Trogvir, still bleeding on the marble floor. "I will save you, hunter. Your life, however, will be a punishment for your transgressions."
With a flick of her wrist, Lyra began to weave a spell, forbidden magic that shimmered and twisted the very air. A gaping hole tore open in reality before them, a door to a prison of pure thought. An aura of profound, suffocating hatred oozed from it like smoke, chilling the opulent chamber. This was the prison holding Malice, a primordial being who held no love for any race, existing only to end life.
"Malice," Lyra's voice echoed into the void, a chill extending from her. "I have a proposition. A vessel for your freedom."
From the depths of the tear in reality, a voice responded, not with sound, but with a presence that vibrated with cold, sharp intellect, and an insatiable hunger. "A vessel? Such a simple thing for such a grand entity as myself. What is the price, Queen? What is the task for this... offering? "
"The price is service," Lyra replied, her violet eyes unblinking. "The task: there are two unbound primordials, and a wolfkin child now touched by primordial essence. You will find them. You will capture them. You will bring them to me."