The wheels of the caravan creaked over root-tangled trails as the forest thickened around them, its canopy dimming the sunlight to scattered shafts of gold. The deeper they ventured into the Emerald Veil, the more alien the world seemed. Trees grew like ancient titans, their trunks twisted and wide enough to house entire homes. Vines hung like silent watchers, and the hum of insects softened to an unnatural hush.
The aftermath of the ambush still lingered in the air like static. Whispers spread among the guards like wildfire. They no longer met Riven's eyes directly. Some offered respectful nods. Geller, who once puffed his chest with merchant pride and arrogance, now gave Riven short, grateful glances.
Riven sat at the rear of the lead wagon, his gaze unmoving from the woods beyond. Inside, a slow fire burned. Those bandits hadn't moved like mere raiders. Too coordinated. Too efficient.
"That one," Riven muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing. "His stance was low, shoulders angled... like the Blood Hand assassins."
His words vanished into the wind. But the thought gnawed at him. The Blood Hand was no ordinary enemy faction—they were trained killers, specialists from a kingdom far from these woods. And what would they be doing here?
Branches swayed where no breeze blew.
Riven's knuckles tightened around the edge of the wagon. He glanced up. Even the birds had fallen silent.
He jumped off the cart.
"Where are you going?" Geller called nervously.
"Checking the trail," Riven replied curtly.
His boots pressed into mossy soil as he scanned the edge of the path. For a second, nothing.
Then he saw it—a sigil, faintly glowing on the bark of a nearby tree. Old Elvish script. It pulsed once like a heartbeat before fading.
His hand hovered near his waist, where his gloves pulsed with quiet energy. Not hostile… but definitely a warning.
The caravan moved on slowly, winding around boulders that looked more like petrified beasts than rocks. Trees behind them subtly shifted—as if the forest were herding them, guiding them.
That night, they made camp in a small glade by a crescent stream. The guards lit only a few torches, speaking in hushed tones.
Riven sat slightly apart from them, cross-legged, a plate of barely-touched stew cooling beside him. His eyes were locked on the dark forest beyond the campfire's reach.
Something was coming.
Thud.
An arrow landed with perfect silence, embedded inches from his foot.
In one smooth motion, he rose to his feet and scanned the woods. No danger—no tension in the air. This was not a threat.
The arrow's shaft was wrapped in moss. An invitation.
From the shadows emerged a figure—an elven scout, cloaked in armor grown rather than forged, bark and leaf interwoven into his body like a second skin.
He spoke without preamble. "The Elder Seer of Velarion has summoned you. She says the roots have whispered your name."
Riven tilted his head. "And she expects me to follow some stranger into the forest alone?"
The elf's gaze was unreadable. "If the roots see you, you cannot hide."
Riven stared at him for a long moment. Then he sighed and turned to Geller. "I'll be back. Don't break anything."
Before the merchant could stammer a reply, Riven vanished into the dark.
The forest beyond the path was untouched by man. Light shimmered faintly along petals that glowed with natural bioluminescence. Trees bent in slow, unnatural ways—as if they recognized his presence. Every step felt watched.
The scout said nothing more, only gliding ahead like a phantom.
Eventually, the trees opened into a grove bathed in radiant silver light. Flowers glowed like stars fallen to the earth. At its center stood a woman atop a shallow rise, blindfolded in bark-cloth, hair long and silvery-green, and a staff grown from living wood.
She turned to him before he even approached.
"Riven," she said, voice as soft as wind in leaves. "You walk in shadow and flame. I have seen your path entangle with the fate of kingdoms."
Riven's fists clenched slightly. "Who are you?"
"I am Sylvareth, Seer of the Rootborn Council. The forest has spoken your name in tremors. You are the tremor that will become a quake."
Riven's brow furrowed. "You dragged me out here for riddles?"
Sylvareth's head tilted. "No. I brought you because the world must prepare. The blood you spill sings of change, and change draws eyes from beyond. There are things sleeping beneath these roots that fear your rise."
Riven felt it then—a pressure under his skin. Like the forest was listening.
She stepped forward.
"There is more to show you. But first, I must ask: will you walk willingly into the vision the roots have prepared for you?"
Riven looked into her blindfolded eyes.
"…Show me."
The light of the grove deepened. The roots beneath his feet pulsed once—and the world began to shift.