The morning sun stretched golden fingers across the treetops as birds sang unseen among the leaves. A gentle mist rose from the river, curling around the trunks of ancient trees. The group stirred from slumber one by one, their spirits renewed by the tranquility of the jungle night.
Kael knelt beside Stormclaw, whispering softly as the beast stretched, muscles rippling beneath its silvery fur. "Stay close, Storm. And try not to scare anyone today, alright?"
The massive wolf-like creature huffed and nudged Kael's arm with its muzzle.
As they began their journey, Selena looked back at the campsite. "Hard to believe we were fleeing for our lives just two nights ago."
Luther, scouting ahead, nodded. "Let's hope this new land gives us peace."
It didn't take long before the jungle began to thin. The foliage ahead shifted, as though retreating. The group stepped into a vast clearing, and what they saw stole their breath.
An entire civilization sprawled before them—woven into the jungle like an extension of the land itself. Massive trees with hollowed interiors served as homes. Bridges of living roots stretched high above them. Glowing lantern-fruits swayed from the boughs. A waterfall trickled from high cliffs, feeding a stream that wound through the heart of the city.
And at the very center, towering over everything, stood a shimmering iceberg. Translucent and ethereal, it glowed with a soft, ancient light. Its base was carved with runes that pulsed like a heartbeat.
Arya gasped. "It's… like something out of a story."
"This place is alive," Selena whispered.
But awe quickly turned to unease.
They were being watched.
From doorways, from high branches, and from shadows, the people of this place emerged. They were tall, lean, and gray-skinned, their eyes glowing with faint silver light. Most wore simple robes of woven plant fibers, but some—guards, perhaps—wore reinforced leathers that blended into the environment.
None of them spoke. None of them approached.
Until a group of warriors stepped forward.
Their armor was sleek, made from interwoven bark and tough jungle leather. But their weapons weren't forged—they were conjured. Spears and blades formed in their hands as they advanced, crackling with elemental power. One burned with flame, another pulsed with electricity, a third shimmered like a blade of water.
Their leader, a tall man with eyes like cold steel and long hair tied with vines, raised a hand.
"Stop. Who are you?"
Luther stepped forward cautiously. "We mean no harm. We're travelers, far from home. We come from a land called Aeloria."
The leader's brow furrowed. "Aeloria? We know no such place. Are you of the North? The pale-skins dwell there."
"No," Arya replied honestly. "We came from a different land altogether—beyond your world. Through magic."
A tense silence followed.
"Humans can't wield magic," the Shadowkin leader said, narrowing his eyes. "Magic is the birthright of our people. Yours are makers of steel, not soulcraft."
Kael stepped forward, frowning. "Is that so?"
He raised his hand, and a flame burst to life in his palm—dancing, alive, warm. The light cast flickering shadows across their faces. It was harmless. Beautiful.
It was also a mistake.
The air shifted.
Every warrior conjured their elemental weapon at once. Spears of ice, blades of fire, whips of wind—each drawn from raw magic, each pointed at the group.
Gasps rippled through the gathered crowd.
And then came the shout that turned tension into panic.
"Thieves!" one of the guards roared.
"They've stolen the gift!"