"No no no! We can't back away now!" Blyra whines, zipping in front of the group with a flutter of frantic green sparks. "Once the prince realizes where we are, he's going to pop in here like smoke on a hot leaf, so if we want to reach that delicious~ smell, we have to do it quickly!"
Her moss-green hair fans out wildly as she twirls around Ithiona, leaving behind a faint trail of pollen-like shimmer. With exaggerated determination, she plants her tiny feet against Dúnadan's arm and tugs with all her might, grunting like a child trying to move a boulder. "Come on! The dungeon's already dead! Why are you two acting like it's going to come back to life and bite us? I'm starving!"
Despite her efforts, neither guardian moves an inch.
Around them, the cave yawns like the throat of some ancient beast—vast and quiet, its darkness thick but not oppressive. The walls glisten with damp condensation, long trails of water dripping rhythmically from above and echoing faintly through the chamber. Clusters of mana stones embedded into the stone glow in soft hues of deep blue and muted violet, casting shifting reflections across the floor like underwater light.
Moss clings to the walls in velvety patches, but farther in, something more unsettling reveals itself—thin, black vines coiling silently across the stone. They snake along the ground and creep upward toward the ceiling like grasping fingers, unmoving yet far too deliberate in their patterns. Though not openly hostile, they feel wrong. They don't pulse, or twitch, or hiss—but they don't feel still, either.
Ithiona's eyes flick toward the vines. Her smile falters just slightly.
"They're just... lingering roots," she mutters under her breath.
A flash of red light sparkles ahead—sharp and crystalline, like a shard of sunset breaking free—and comes to a stop in front of Dúnadan. A fairy, small and lithe, with crimson-tinged wings and glittering ruby hair, folds his arms stubbornly.
"Please, Guardian," he pleads with a slight pout, his voice unshakably polite but clearly forced through gritted teeth. "Everyone here wants to try something new. We've been eating the same sap for hundreds of years! Hundreds! Let us proceed! All three hundred and fifty-one of us are here!" he whines, pulling Dúnadan's arm like a child begging for a treat.
Dúnadan's wing twitches in frustration. 'What's this weird smell mixing in?'
"Okay, okay, everyone!" Ithiona calls out, raising her voice above the growing chorus of cheers. Her staff lifts high, glowing with a gentle, radiant gold. Light pours from it like a small sun, illuminating the chamber in a warm, pure hue that washes over the moss, vines, and fairies alike.
The cheers erupt. The air fills with sparkling wings and excited voices as the fairies swirl around in dizzying loops.
"What are you doing?" Dúnadan hisses through his teeth, yanking her arm. "We should be heading back. Something is off about this place. Those vines—"
"I know," Ithiona whispers back, her tone still smiling, but her eyes sharp. "I was thinking the same. But maybe it's just… us. Stress. The dungeon only recently died, so it's natural for plants that grew inside it to have residual effects. I scanned the area, Dúnadan. I haven't sensed a single threat."
"Residual or not, this place smells like trouble," he mutters, running a hand through his hair as he casts another wary glance toward the vine-laced walls. "If we go back now, the clan will just be angrier for interrupting the excursion."
He stretches his wings with a grunt. "Fine. The tree we're smelling should be just ahead. Let's hurry, gather some samples, and get out before our king drops the sun on our heads."
Ithiona nods, though her eyes linger on the black vines a moment longer than necessary.
-
The cavern opens suddenly into a quiet expanse, the oppressive rock giving way to an unexpected oasis.
At the center of the chamber stands a majestic tree, its trunk a smooth, light brown, almost bronze bark that shimmers faintly in the filtered glow of the mana stones above. Its branches rise gently upward, graceful like outstretched arms, and its leaves—soft pink and delicate as silk petals—rustle in a nonexistent breeze. They blanket the ground around the roots like a floral snowfall, untouched and glowing faintly with a gentle, rose-colored radiance.
Thin grass, impossibly green and swaying gently despite the stillness of the cave, carpets the space in a soft ring around the base. The entire scene breathes with serene, unnatural calm—as if untouched by time.
Fairies zip through the air in bursts of color and laughter. Their tiny bodies twist and tumble like dancing sparks, their flight trails making swirling patterns in the air. As they move, the wind rushes through, scattering fallen leaves into a slow, upward drift, like snow reversing its fall. The glow of the pink foliage intensifies, pulsing softly in rhythm with the fairies' joy.
"Wooow…" Ithiona's voice escapes her in a whisper. Her golden eyes widen with wonder as she hovers just above the flower-covered ground. The radiance paints her face in warm tones, and her mouth parts slightly in awe. "It's beautiful…" she breathes.
Then, suddenly, her expression pinches. She winces and grabs her head with one hand. "Ugh…" Her wings falter slightly.
'I must be tired,' she thinks, forcing herself to smile through the dizzy throb behind her eyes.
Before the atmosphere can shift, a sharp clap echoes through the cavern.
CLAP.
All motion halts in a heartbeat.
Dozens of fairies freeze mid-flight, wings snapping taut as their heads turn toward the sound.
With his arm raised, Dúnadan stands still, expression firm, his cloak fluttering gently from the sudden stillness.
"Everyone," he calls out, voice calm but commanding, "begin the ritual."
In an instant, the air becomes a blur. Fairies streak across the chamber in synchronized motion, their bodies forming gleaming streaks of blue, green, gold, and red. One by one, they come to a halt—kneeling in neat arcs around the tree. Their wings open fully, like stained glass windows in motion, each one pulsing with its unique affinity—wind, fire, water, nature, and more.
The overlapping lights blend into a mesmerizing sparkling aura, illuminating the cavern in a soft, sacred haze. The aura begins to swirl, forming a slow spiral that wraps upward around the tree's trunk, trailing through the leaves above and pooling along the glowing grass at its base.
Dúnadan and Ithiona approach the tree with reverence. The vines from earlier seem distant now, hiding beyond the glow. The guardians reach out in unison, placing their palms flat against the bark. As their hands touch the tree, a golden surge of power erupts outward from them—soft at first, then growing in intensity.
The light spreads, enveloping the tree in a holy warmth. For a long moment, nothing moves. The only sound is the faint hum of magic reverberating through the cavern walls.
Then, as if released from a long breath, the light fades gently.
Dúnadan opens his eyes. Ithiona follows, blinking slowly.
A cheer erupts. Fairies rise into the air with gleeful spins and cheers, wings fluttering wildly.
From the back of the chamber, several fairies with oversized belts and pouches zoom forward. They carry small glass flasks, tools made from refined crystal, and tiny drills shaped like thorns. They buzz around the tree's base, carving small channels into the bark with practiced care. A thick, glossy pink sap begins to flow, glowing slightly as it drips into the waiting vials.
The fairies cheer again.
None of them notice the way a single pink leaf falls from a high branch—its edge just slightly tinged in black.
-
A sparkle of light flashes through the air, shimmering like a sliver of stardust, before vanishing into a narrow cave tunnel. The walls close in—tight, damp, ancient. Whispers ride the thickened air, threading between the moss-slick stone like a thousand unseen mouths murmuring secrets.
Mirelith drifts forward lazily, one hand raised to push back his shimmering golden hair, strands catching the faint, eerie light of mana stones embedded in the ceiling.
"How strange," he murmurs, his voice smooth, almost bored, echoing softly down the corridor. "I am certain my illusions can't be undone by someone like you."
He doesn't bother to walk—his feet hover just above the ground, his form gliding forward, untouched by the muck or shadow.
Deeper in the cave, her voice answers—not defiant, not amused, but matter-of-fact and hushed.
"It is improbable for me to distinguish your illusions," Dae whispers, her tone threading through the darkness like a breeze laced with knives. Her footsteps splash, slow and rhythmic, each step a small disturbance in the shallow puddles lining the floor. From her side, blood drips, staining the water red in spreading ripples.
The source: an emerald blade, still lodged halfway through her torso, glowing faintly with runic light. The green hue pulses with an otherworldly hum, illuminating her tattered cloak and the slick cave walls behind her.
"My abilities are lacking in all areas compared to you," she continues, her voice never rising. "And yet… you do nothing. Your kind is gone. I used quite the resources to convince even your loyal guardians."
Behind her, the air fractures.
Cracks spiral silently across space itself—splintered threads of broken reality weaving through the shadows. Mirelith's golden eyes blink into existence just before the rest of him reappears behind her, floating midair like an unwanted thought.
"I'm sure the gods would pay me handsomely for your corpse," he says, his voice now a velvet whisper directly behind her ear. "I'm still unsure of your origin… but that sword—" his gaze trails down to the glowing emerald blade "—bears the crest of the Heavenly Realm."
The cave trembles as her blood reverses—the thick stream bubbling unnaturally, surging back into her body as if time itself bends to her will.
Dae doesn't flinch.
Instead, her eyes scan the fissured air around her, glowing faintly beneath her hood. "I am no fool. Plant as many illusions as you want, but even you… will not reach them before the infection takes root." Her voice is low, but it crackles with certainty.
The cave shudders again as Mirelith's aura flares, a golden pulse radiating outward, shaking the distant trees above.
But it stops.
The seal holds.
He floats in place, his narrowed gaze locked onto her. His power surges—but finds no exit.
"Careful now," Dae warns, her eyes tilting upward toward the ceiling above, where faint cracks of sky shimmer through gaps in the stone. "Your ascension is long overdue… You wouldn't want the world to retaliate while you're trapped, would you?"
Then, she exhales lightly, waving her hand.
In a soft flicker, the cave floor ripples like water, and two chairs—carved of wood and velvet moss—grow from the stone. Between them, a small table sprouts, vines curling into a delicate stand that holds a steaming pot of tea, its scent sweet and strangely floral.
She gestures calmly, seating herself without effort.
"Shall we talk?" she asks, resting one leg over the other, her blood-soaked robes folding neatly as if nothing were amiss.