Deep within the heart of Atheria’s Grand Tree, Freya, Jorma, Olive, and Swiftfoot followed the silent steps of a bunny maid, one of the goddess’s personal attendants. The corridor they walked seemed to stretch endlessly into shadow, lit only by pulsing, dark glyphs embedded in the walls. Wood gave way to veined black granite beneath their feet, each step echoing in hollow clicks that felt heavier the deeper they went.

“This place has changed a lot since I was here,” Jorma murmured, eyes trailing the unfamiliar engravings lining the walls.

“It suits her divine presence better,” Swiftfoot offered, his voice calm, thoughtful.

Freya exhaled through her nose, rubbing the base of her neck as if the pressure there had weight. “It feels… tacky. Like it’s trying too hard to impress.” Her voice dropped lower. “It used to feel more like a part of the forest. Now it’s all stone and reverence.”

The air was thick. Not just with incense or sacred silence--but with mana. Heavy, pressing, unnatural. Freya furrowed her brow. This isn’t like her. Atheria was known for calm, measured stillness. Her divine presence usually soothed, never suffocated.

She glanced at the others. Swiftfoot, composed as ever. Olive bouncing along, unfazed. But Jorma--his eyes were narrowed, lips pressed tight. At least someone else could feel it too.

Jorma broke the silence casually. “Hey, Olive. Since you’re one of the newest elites, any idea when all these changes started?”

Olive shrugged. “Nah. Haven’t exactly been invited up here much.”

Freya blinked. “Wait--what do you mean you haven’t met the goddess? You’re an elite.”

“Of course I’ve been chosen,” Olive huffed, a little defensive. “Had my ceremony and everything.”

“That happens in her chambers,” Freya pressed.

“Well, mine was at a temple south of here. Maybe things changed since your day, Freya.” Olive crossed his arms, ears flicking. “I earned my title. Struggled for it. Just because I look like a mischievous brat doesn’t mean I didn’t bleed for the spot.”

Freya raised a hand. “That’s not what I meant. You’re right--I’ve been looking at you like the kid I trained, not the man you are now. Sorry.”

Still, the unease didn’t leave her. Olive hadn’t met Atheria in person? That wasn’t just odd--it was unheard of. Freya filed the thought away. So many changes. Too many. Something was wrong.

At the end of the corridor loomed a massive metal door, runes glowing faintly across its surface.

“Another change,” Jorma muttered.

The bunny maid turned and laughed lightly. “Extra security. You understand.”

No. Freya didn’t understand. Why would Atheria need security?

The maid placed a hand to the runes. The door responded with a deep hum and a burst of light as it groaned open, stone scraping against stone.

The threshold beyond waited--bright, silent, and heavy with something that made Freya’s pulse quicken.

And yet, beyond the door, a soft stillness filled the air—calm and composed. The walls stood now in polished marble, but the chamber’s layout remained unchanged: the floor still carpeted with grass, and four streams of radiant blue sap branching outward from the center, symbolizing the union of Eden’s peoples:
– Aetherion elves of the East
– Sylvaris elves of the South
– Nytherion elves of the Northwest
– The Atherians themselves, born of the goddess’s magic

At the heart of it all rose a gentle hill, crowned with the Tree of Origins. From its roots flowed the sap, tracing paths that connected all four directions—united, yet distinct.

The chamber was not empty. The Ethereal Vanguard’s elite members had gathered, each group huddled with their own kind. Familiar faces mingled across cultural lines, but the lines were drawn. Even in this sacred space, politics whispered.

Freya inhaled sharply. This isn’t the peace I expected.

Soft murmurs drifted through the air—fragments of tension woven between diplomatic voices. Unable to ignore it, she closed her eyes and channeled a minor surge of mana into her hearing sense. She needed clarity.

From Aetherion and Atherian clusters, voices rose in concern:
“Our wind runes are unraveling,” one elf said, worry threading through his tone.
“The goddess's magic that stabilizes them is fading. What then of our trade routes?”

Another voice from the Sylvaris corner came sharper voices. One of the elder elves, robed in leafy green and adorned with moss-covered bangles, spoke with rising frustration.
“Our crop yields have dropped,” she said. “Many of our people are starving. The few alchemists we still have can’t find the right plants or magical creatures for potions. Our very industry is consuming itself.”

Freya’s ears twitched.

Meanwhile, the Nytherions stood unnervingly still, lined like statues with folded arms and calm expressions. They observed the Aetherions across the chamber, the air between them thick with a silent, old rivalry. That ancient distrust still lingered, no matter how polished their manners had become.

Freya narrowed her eyes. sheep, she muttered. The irony not lost on her.

One Nytherion leaned toward his partner and whispered, “It seems everyone’s facing similar problems. Should we—”

A high-pitched ring exploded in Freya’s ears, cutting the sentence short. She winced and doubled slightly, clutching the side of her head.

“By Atheria,” she hissed.

“Are you alright?” Olive was suddenly beside her, concern shadowing his face.

“Yeah… just a headache,” Freya said, brushing him off. But as she looked up, she caught sight of one of the Nytherions slipping a wand beneath their cloak.

She narrowed her eyes. So that’s how it is… punish the curious.

Still, the picture was clear enough: Atheria’s tree—the heart of Eden’s magical stability—was weakening. The divine current that held everything together was beginning to falter.

Freya’s thoughts whispered aloud, “What have I stepped into?”

Nearby, Jorma had wandered toward a tall figure cloaked in dark silver. The long robe shimmered like moonlight over still water, and the air around her felt quiet—deliberate. She faced the floating moonstones above, her hands clasped in prayer.

It was Myrralith Thereniel, high priestess of the Moonlit Temple. She had been in the elite longer than Freya and yet was always a mystery. Not once had Freya seen her without the hood.

“Ah, you must be Jorma, follower of the Aspect of the Moon,” she said, her voice calm and airy, never turning to look at him.

Jorma gave a respectful bow, “Jorma Ramdelion, yes. The very same.”

“We’ve never met, despite the years,” Myrralith noted.

“I’m a busy man,” Jorma replied smoothly. “And I assume you to be just as occupied.”

“A busy woman, indeed,” she said. “The Moonlit Temple sees more visitors now than ever. Pilgrims seek... more attainable guidance than what the sacred tree offers.”

She cast a subtle glance toward the great metal door.

Freya frowned. The goddess’s own faith was being circumvented. And the tree… the tree was failing.

Freya let Jorma’s attempts at charming the moon priestess fade into background noise. Her gaze was fixed on the tree at the chamber’s center, its blue-sap roots stretching outward like veins through the grassy floor. It was the heart of Eden, and it pulsed slower than she remembered.

The Moonlit Temple’s Aspect wasn’t a deity like Atheria—more a manifestation of collective belief, shaped by the worship and stories of her people. A spirit born of hope and mystery. Its presence was made stronger by Atheria’s moonstones, scattered throughout the land like watchful sentinels.

Their coexistence was... peculiar. But it worked, likely because Atheria saw the Aspect as a reflection of herself. A daughter made of light and worship.

Freya had never met the Aspect directly. But she had felt its touch before—in dreams and moonlit moments. It always knew its place.

Now, her eyes drifted to her own rune-covered hand. Something was wrong. The glowing earlier hadn’t been a fluke.

Freya clenched her fist. Damn it, she thought. She’d made too many deals, taken too many shortcuts in pursuit of power. Her body was a mess of seals and contracts—witchcraft woven in layers no sane person would attempt. She wasn’t even sure which sigil had activated. That was the danger of borrowing magic you didn’t fully understand. A mistake she’d learned too late in her youth.

A mess. She felt like a walking contradiction.

Her faith wavered. Where is our goddess? Where is Atheria? I need answers—

Suddenly, light. Pure and blinding. The moonstones above flared to life, casting silver brilliance across the chamber like divine fire.

And then came the weight.

The overwhelming tide of magic—no, divinity—slammed down like a storm breaking through the calm. Every elite in the room staggered, many dropping to their knees. Some gasped. Others simply bowed their heads in reverence or fear.

Freya stood still, just barely. The air around her crackled. Every seal on her body hummed in response. Her heart pounded.

There she is.

The fear was familiar. Not of harm—but of something vast. Something true. Something sacred.

No creature—no aspect, no beast, no demon—had ever made Freya feel this small.

Only Atheria.

Her creator. Her goddess.

And now, the goddess had arrived.