The groaning of the silver-barked tree split the silence like a fracture through glass—long, slow, and unnatural. It was the kind of sound that stirred some primal part of the soul, as if the very bones of the earth were being rearranged. The kind of sound that didn't belong in a place meant for breath and warmth. It was the utterance of something old—older than names, older than forests, older than the breath of universe.
Kael gripped his sword tighter. His knuckles whitened, though the tremor in his hands came not from fear—but reverence. His instincts screamed danger, yet his soul… hushed. Something sacred moved here, and he did not dare blink.
The tree's trunk bulged.
It was not a subtle motion. No illusion of wind or shadow. It pulsed—once—like something alive was breathing inside it.
Liora let out a stifled gasp, stepping back into Kael's shadow, her fingers curling around the edge of his cloak like a child drawn to warmth amid a nightmare.
"Elara…" she whispered. "What is this?"
But Elara didn't answer. Her lips had parted slightly, her eyes wide—not in fear, but something stranger. Her entire posture was reverent, as if watching the slow, deliberate entrance of a queen long-thought mythical.
The bark of the tree began to split—not like wood cracking, but like flesh parting.
It tore not in jagged lines, but in a silent, graceful seam—dead center down the length of its torso. The lines deepened, revealing no sap, no woodgrain—only void. A hollowness darker than shadow, deeper than the abyss. The split reached down the trunk, then stopped, as if waiting for permission to continue.
Then… two hands emerged.
Slender. Unblemished. Almost too perfect.
They pushed outward, parting the tree's ribcage with a disturbing grace, as if the tree had been nothing but a shell—meant to be discarded.
No blood. No resistance.
The hands were luminous—skin kissed by moonlight, glowing faintly in the dimness, every curve and tendon traced by a soft, ethereal radiance. Fingertips dusted with what looked like silver ash, catching the dying light like falling stars.
Kael couldn't speak.
Couldn't move.
Something had ruptured in his chest, a sensation he couldn't name. Awe… terror… wonder… perhaps all three, braided into a single thread strung taut within him.
From the hollow of the tree, she emerged.
A girl—no, a vision draped in the semblance of flesh.
She stepped into existence not like something arriving, but as though she had always been here, waiting only for the right breath of twilight to reveal her.
Her skin shimmered with a pale iridescence, like starlight distilled into human form. Every inch of her was a contradiction—delicate, yet unyielding; fragile, yet immortal in bearing. Her limbs bore no blemish, no scar, no memory of harm—she seemed untouched by the world, and yet older than its bones.
Her hair fell in cascades of silvery-white silk, like snowfall under moonlight, reaching down her waist in soft waves, dancing with the air despite the forest's stillness. Not a strand was out of place.
And her body… barely clothed.
She wore only the remnants of what might once have been ceremonial silks, now tattered and threadbare, leaving most of her form exposed—curves that would make statues weep in envy, etched in the harmony of divine geometry. Every movement she made was art—effortless, fluid, hypnotic.
Yet nothing about her felt mortal.
Even in her bareness, there was no shame. No allure. She was not trying to be seen.
She simply was.
Liora stared, paralyzed. Her breath caught somewhere between lungs and lips.
She should've felt envy. Or fear. Or awe. But what settled in her chest instead was a primal, bone-deep wrongness—like this girl had emerged from a place where names held no power, where even time dared not peer too long.
Kael could feel Liora shiver against him. He wanted to say something—comfort her, shield her, understand what he was seeing—but his own thoughts had become a tangle of images and words that refused to resolve.
Because the girl's eyes were still closed.
Not sealed in slumber—but as if the act of opening them would unravel the world.
And still, she walked. Barefoot. Unhurried. Silent.
Her steps left no prints. Her presence made no sound. And yet every leaf turned toward her. Every breeze curled around her limbs like a lover come home.
Elara inhaled sharply. "No…"
Kael turned to her, startled by the depth of her reaction. "What is it?"
Elara's voice was hoarse. "She's not… supposed to awaken. Not yet."
"What do you mean?"
But Elara didn't answer.
The girl kept walking—until she stood before them, her body inches from the barrier between silence and storm.
And then…
In the span of a heartbeat, she vanished.
No blur. No movement.
One moment she stood yards away, framed in the stillness of the silver-ringed glade—and in the next, she was there.
In front of Liora.
So close, their breaths should have mingled.
Kael's sword half-lifted before instinct caught up and warned him: Too late.
He hadn't even seen her move.
Elara froze, hand half-raised with threads of wind gathering in her palm—but her spell refused to form.
Liora stared into the girl's face. Her lips parted slightly in disbelief. She couldn't breathe.
Still, the girl's eyes remained shut.
And then, gently, almost curiously… the girl raised one hand.
She did not reach for a weapon. She did not speak. She did not threaten.
She simply lifted her slender fingers, tipped in soft silver glow, and placed one single fingertip beneath Liora's chin.
The contact was feather-light.
Yet it hit Liora like a tremor in her soul.
Her knees nearly buckled, her breath hitched—because in that moment, her thoughts weren't her own anymore. Images—foreign, ancient, searing—rushed through her mind like a river unleashed.
Flashes of a city in moonlight.
A tower of crystal burning with songs no tongue remembered.
Eyes—dozens, hundreds—watching from a sea of stars.
And a name.
A name that didn't belong in this world.
The girl's lips curled slightly. Not a smile. Not quite.
But something between recognition and lament.
Then her eyes began to open.