Freya and Swiftfoot rode through the heart of the market, their stone-beast-drawn carriage moving slowly among the colorful bustle. The rock creature’s heavy steps echoed over the smooth stone roads, drawing curious glances from merchants and passersby.

Eyes followed them—not just the people, but the moon-shaped stones hovering in the air, silent sentinels of Atheria’s ever-present gaze.

Freya rubbed her neck, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “I really hate coming back to this place.”

Swiftfoot gave a hum, guiding the reins as they turned into a wider thoroughfare.

Among the scattered voices of trade and laughter of children, a young elf boy stopped mid-game, a ball tumbling from his hands. His gaze locked onto the carriage—and specifically, onto Freya. With wide eyes and a smile blooming on his face, he sprinted toward them.

Swiftfoot instinctively tugged the reins, bringing the creature to a halt. “Easy now, young man,” he called. “Running up to carriages like that’s not the safest thing to do.”

The boy barely slowed, skirting around to the side of the cart to get a better look.

Freya arched an eyebrow. What in Atheria’s name does this kid want? she thought, but decided to humor him.

The elf boy, starry-eyed and flushed from the run, looked up at her with awe. “Um… are you Freya?”

She paused, eyeing him curiously. “Yes. And you are?”

He glanced down, suddenly bashful, kicking a small rock with his foot. “Cerin. You wouldn’t know me. But my dad talks about you a lot… and I just wanted to say thank you.”

Freya blinked. “Thank me? For what? Who’s your dad?”

The boy shrugged. “He’s just a warden. I doubt you’d remember his name.” He rattled off a name she didn’t recognize—he was right.

“But he said you saved his life during a war. He’s always been really grateful. And… well, I am too. ’Cause of you, I am around and got to grow up with my dad.”

He reached into his pocket and handed her a small, carefully carved blue gem.

A mana stone.

Freya looked at it, surprised by its craftsmanship. Shaped into a diamond, its edges were smooth, the rune etchings neat. It glowed faintly with residual energy—not powerful, but pure.

She felt a warmth in her chest, something gentle.

“Thanks,” she said softly, watching as Cerin grinned, waved, and ran back to his friends.

As Swiftfoot nudged the reins to move again, he chuckled. “What a kind young fellow. Good to see not all youth are like that loud-mouthed recruit from the gate.”

Freya smiled faintly, thumbing the mana stone in her hand before slipping it into her coat pocket. “Yeah. Maybe the world isn’t entirely all bad.”

The carriage rolled beyond the bustling market, the clamor of voices fading into a quieter part of the city. Trees lined the path now, their leaves rustling softly in the breeze. Houses stood tucked between flowering gardens, and a park stretched beside the road, mostly empty save for a few scattered residents out for a walk.

They passed a towering cathedral—its spires reaching skyward like fingers in prayer. A group of priests in Atheria’s silver-trimmed robes stood outside in hushed conversation. One of them, dressed in more ornate vestments than the others, turned sharply, his gaze locking with Freya’s.

She tensed. His stare lingered just a moment before he returned to the conversation.

Freya muttered a curse under her breath and lowered her gaze.

Swiftfoot didn’t speak right away. He let the silence settle, the wheels crunching over gravel. Then, softly, with the weight only a mentor could carry: “So… you’ve been making deals again, haven’t you?”

Freya stiffened. “What?”

“You reek of witchcraft, my student.”

Freya cursed again. “How do you know?”

Swiftfoot gave a small, tired smile. “I’ve known for some time. I suspected you’d stopped. But now… it’s returned. It’s not easy to sense on you, no. Most wouldn’t notice. But I’ve dealt with these kinds of contracts before.”

She fell silent, then finally spoke. “In my travels, I’ve had to make… choices. Fought monsters, aspects, and worse. The enemies threatening Eden now aren’t like the ones from your era, master. They’re stronger. Stranger. To protect this land, I needed more.”

“And so you chose to stray from Atheria’s path?” Swiftfoot asked, not unkindly—but heavy with sorrow.

“No,” Freya said firmly. “This power serves her. Everything I’ve done has been for Eden’s future. Its safety. Its peace.”

Swiftfoot’s eyes softened, though his mouth tightened into a thin line. He looked around to make sure they weren’t being overheard. Then he leaned slightly closer.

“I am… disappointed,” he said. His gaze swept over her—lingering on the broken horn, the worn eyepatch, and the faint seal that peeked from beneath her woolen curls.

“I feel I’ve failed you.”

Freya lowered her head. She didn’t reply.

She didn’t believe she was wrong. But she knew the argument wasn’t worth having—not here. Not now.

“Yo yo!” a voice called from the back of the carriage—a tone both familiar and unmistakably smug.

Freya groaned. “By Atheria, Jorma…”

“Still getting scolded by teach, huh?” he teased, stepping into view.

He was a little taller than Freya, his wool darker—a sleek black compared to her gray. His horns were long, proud, and unbroken, curling back with a regal sort of elegance. He wore a dark cloak with a purple moon crest stitched over the heart, two stylized daggers crossed beneath it—his babies, as he often called them.

Freya scowled. “You can’t just eavesdrop like that.”

Jorma grinned. “Sneaking around is kind of my whole deal, sis. Intel, shadows, all that cloak-and-dagger nonsense. Best operative in the elite, if I do say so myself.”

Freya crossed her arms. “How much did you hear?”

Jorma tilted his head. “Now, what kind of spy would I be if I gave that away?” He gave her a wink. “But I heard enough. Not like any of it surprised me.”

She sighed again, visibly exhausted by her brother’s antics.

Jorma turned his attention to Swiftfoot. “And you, old man—how’s life treating you?”

Swiftfoot chuckled. “I’ve seen less of you than your troublesome sister. Though it seems you've both grown into fine headaches.”

“I try,” Jorma said with mock pride. “Only here on official business, same as her. Things must be getting dicey if we’re both being pulled in.”

“And me along with you,” Swiftfoot added.

Jorma raised an eyebrow. “Really? Don’t tell me they’re pulling you out of retirement. Are we about to see that legendary bow in action again?” He let out a low whistle. “By Atheria, things must be bad.”

Swiftfoot offered a small smile. “Not quite. I just have… news to share.”

Jorma’s face dropped slightly. “Ah. Well, that’s less exciting.” He smirked. “But maybe just as important.”

They reached a wide clearing. Before them stood another colossal wall, this one formed by massive trees fused together, their trunks interwoven like braided roots. Guarding the entrance were several Champion-ranked Legion soldiers, each clad in ornate armor marked with shimmering runes.

Above it all, a single tree towered high—its trunk so vast it seemed to stretch into the clouds. It was Atheria’s Tree, the living heart of Eden.

The air was dense with mana—thick life energy and pulsing gravity magic. Freya’s body tensed. Her eyepatch glowed faintly as she activated its vision, revealing streams of blue mana cascading down from the great tree like falling rivers of light.

Something’s off, she thought. Her presence... it's too strong. Even from this distance. She never broadcasts her magic like this.

Jorma stepped forward, eyes wide. “Whoa. You feel that? Something’s definitely up.”

Swiftfoot winced, rubbing his back. “Egh. These old bones weren’t made for this much divine pressure.”

Jorma chuckled, glancing up. “The tree looks even bigger than last time. Pretty interesting, right?”

Freya gave a tired wave. “Sure, Jorma. Fascinating.”

The guards standing at the gate snapped into formation, saluting in perfect unison. “Welcome, Ethereal Vanguard.”

Freya nodded, leading the group through the now-open gates.

Beyond the wall, the path ahead was a pristine stretch of pale stone, leading directly toward Atheria’s Tree, its colossal canopy casting a gentle shadow over the sacred ground.

As they approached the massive tree, the carriage came to a stop. The group disembarked, their eyes drawn to the colossal door embedded at the base of the trunk—an entrance etched with glowing runes and ancient carvings.

Swiftfoot gave the rock beast a gentle pat. “Sorry, girl. You’ve got to stay here for now.” The creature gave a rumbling huff before settling down obediently beside the tree.

As the trio stepped closer, the grand doors creaked open without a touch, reacting to their presence.

Freya was the first through. The moment she crossed the threshold, a wave of soothing energy washed over her, like the calming pull of a deep forest glade. A sweet aroma followed.

“Is that…” she sniffed. “Baking?”

Swiftfoot tilted his head, inhaling. “Smells nice. Not what I expected.”

Jorma smirked. “Yeah, someone’s cooking up something good in here. But there's no way that crusty old chief is behind it. He couldn’t boil water last time I was here.”

Before anyone could respond—

“Hey! Get back here, you little thief!”

A raspy voice rang out from deeper within, followed by the frantic scuttling of tiny feet across polished wood. Freya turned just in time to see a brown-and-white blur leap through the air—

THUMP.

A ferret landed squarely on her shoulder, half a loaf of bread clenched tightly in its jaws. Scruffy fur, beady black eyes. Mouth full. A little too familiar.

Freya narrowed her eyes. “Olive.”

The ferret froze. Slowly, Olive looked up at her, cheeks stuffed to bursting, as if only now realizing where they’d landed.

Thunderous footsteps followed. A large man in a flour-covered apron rounded the corner, wielding a rolling pin like a battle-axe. He wasn’t the old wolverine chef they’d known. He wasn’t even elven.

Freya blinked. A human? What’s one of those doing here?

“You again?! I’ll skin you, you furry menace!” The chef’s hands coated in flour as he waved a rolling pin like it was a warhammer. “Why do you even need food, you Atherian?! You don’t even need to EAT, but you keep stealing my bread, you little pest!”

Olive scampered up Freya’s horn, dangling smugly.

The chef finally registered who Olive had climbed onto. His furious march halted mid-step.

“…Oh.”

Freya raised a brow. “Scin who now?”

The man stammered, “I—I just—Captain, I didn’t realize—”

Freya exhaled, already annoyed. “I’ve heard enough. Go on, chef.”

The man bowed clumsily, muttering apologies as he retreated, leaving a trail of flour behind.

Freya watched the chef retreat, shaking her head with a sigh. “Humans,” she muttered. Her gaze shifted to Olive, still hanging lazily from her horn like a misplaced ornament. “You really have to stop doing that.”

With a sly grin, Olive let go, tumbling through the air before landing in a puff of smoke. Their form shifted mid-fall, and in their place stood a short, messy, curly brown haired boy and that same mischievous glint in their beady eyes. Their tail, long and fluffy, flicked behind them like punctuation.

Clad in an oversized elite Legion mage uniform, they could have been mistaken for a teen playing dress up but sadly it seemed they were in the legion.

Freya blinked. When did this happen? They’re a member now?

“What can I say?” Olive said, stretching. “The baking here’s the best in the capital. Hard to resist.”

Swiftfoot squinted before his expression brightened. “Ah! Is that little Olive? Haven’t seen you in years.”

Olive grinned. “Oh hey, old man. Still got that rock monster you let me ride?”

Freya gave a long-suffering sigh, rubbing her temple. “So you somehow made it into the elite legion.”

“Yep!” Olive said, hands on their hips proudly. “You taught me well. Or... did you not believe in me?”

“It’s not about skill,” Freya muttered. “It’s about your... personality.”

Olive clutched their chest in mock agony. “Freya, how could you? Wounding your favorite student so cruelly.”

“My list of students is short. You might barely make the cut. Not to mention the many issues your team caused oh so long ago,” she replied dryly. But even as she said it, her thoughts drifted to her current team. I hope those three are surviving each other.

“Well, as long as I’m still on the list,” Olive winked. “Anyway, it’s been, what—ten years since we last saw each other? I take it you’re here for the meeting with Atheria too?”

“Yes,” Freya replied. “Looks like we all are.”

At the end of the corridor, a tall bunny-humanoid woman in a crisp black maid uniform stood waiting. A silver mooncrest shone from the apron across her front. She gave a graceful bow.

“Please follow me,” she said, her voice serene. “The goddess has been expecting you. You are the last of the summoned. It's a pleasure to see you again, Swiftfoot—even in retirement.”

Freya glanced at Jorma.

Jorma raised a brow and cracked his knuckles. “Looks like we’re the stars of the show, huh? Guess the book doesn’t start without its main character."

Freya sighed and promptly punched him in the arm.

“Let’s just see what the goddess wants. I can’t stand you.”