The chamber of Atheria was utterly silent. Her divine image bloomed above them—a shimmering figure of pure light that bathed every corner of the room, extinguishing all shadows.

One by one, the elite members of the Legion collapsed. The glow reached them; their knees buckled beneath the weight of her presence. The first to fall was Olive, his face drained of color as if the goddess’s power had pushed the breath from his lungs. Soon the rest yielded—either overcome by awe or crushed by the pressure of divine gaze.

All but Freya.

She stood, rigid. Years of training had honed her body and resolve, but standing before her creator tested even her limits. With Atheria’s aura pressing down like a tidal force, Freya felt a surge of inferiority she’d worked so long to bury.

Breath. Focus on breathing.

This wasn’t how Atheria ordinarily revealed herself. Not like this—forcing her presence into mortal hearts. Freya sensed it in the air: a tightening of ambient mana, a subtle distortion of the chamber’s power. She had grown used to feeling strong; now she felt small.

Olive lay inert. Others still bowed, their faces hidden in reverent collapse. Freya’s boots became heavy as if the floor had shifted beneath her feet.

Atheria’s radiance shifted—floating downward until her divine gaze fixed on Freya alone. The goddess’s eyes were unflinching, ancient, full of accusation.

“You come into the home of your Creator,” Atheria’s voice echoed, “armed with wards and runes of other gods; your body marked like a defiled temple.”

Freya’s knees threatened to give way. Though she forced herself to stand, her heart pounded.

From beside her, Jorma whispered, “Kneel down, sis…” concern laced his tone. But Freya couldn’t even hear him—her ears rang with the weight of Atheria’s power.

Her rune-sealed arm throbbed. Contracts she'd made, seals she’d borne—they screamed in her blood. Warnings triggered in her mind as if defenses were trying to activate.

The goddess’s voice sharpened at Freya.

With as much honesty as she could force, Freya spoke, voice quiet yet unwavering:
“Atheria…”
She elevated her gaze. Her runes glowed bright—amplifying her words against the giant presence.
“The threats beyond Eden have grown in strength. They find new ways to hurt even our strongest forces. Over many years I have sought greater power—”

“Power from other gods?” Atheria’s tone cut her off.

Freya paused. Her chest tightened.

“Yes. But only for the defense of Eden—the place I call home. No aspect nor god has come close to you, Atheria—the god who gave life to me and to all your children. Your magic flows through me stronger than any contract I’ve made. For all my deals, I never prayed nor thought of myself lesser.”
She bowed her head, humility washing over her.
“But you, Atheria, are the one I see above me, the one I was made to serve.”

“I, like everyone else here,” Freya said, her voice still catching in her throat, “have climbed to the top to be your people’s sword and shield. And through our feats, we show your strength.”

Atheria’s gaze remained fixed on her a moment longer—piercing, unreadable. Then, slowly, her divine form lifted, rising to float above them all. The pressure in the room softened, the intensity of her presence shrinking only slightly. Her expression shifted, thoughtful, as she spoke:

“Freya… despite my anger, I shall let you off—for the time being. Your words move me, as they always have. But the consequences of your questionable actions shall be discussed later.”

And with that, the divine pressure fully dissipated.

Freya inhaled sharply. Her legs nearly gave out beneath her, and all she managed to mumble was, “Shit…”

All around her, the others began to recover. Coughs echoed softly through the chamber as spellcasters cast healing spells on themselves and others. Swiftfoot moved quickly to Olive’s side, helping the young Atherian to sit upright.

Jorma leaned over to Freya and whispered, “You really don’t know how to keep a low profile, do you?”

Freya’s fingers sparked faintly with residual lightning as she exhaled. “I do what I can, Jorma.”

The room stirred—elites from every lineage exchanging quiet murmurs. Tension still lingered, like static in the air, but it was no longer suffocating. Atheria hovered above them now, silent, her radiant image seemingly deep in thought.

That quiet was broken by the sharp voice of a Nytherion elf.

He stepped away from his group, his crisp uniform marked him as elite, but it was his smug posture and entitled tone that drew attention.

“So what exactly are we here for?” he asked, arms crossed. “Don’t tell me we were summoned from our duties just to watch this… traitor get put in her place?”

Freya blinked. His name escaped her, but she remembered the face—young, rising too fast, and thinking himself invincible. One of the new bloods. Probably hasn’t been humbled yet, she thought.

She wasn’t the only one displeased. Power leaked from across the chamber—many elites letting their auras slip, heavy and furious. The air shimmered as their displeasure took form, making the Nytherion stumble over his next words.

An older Nytherion elder quickly pulled the young man back, whispering harshly. Then, turning to Atheria, he bowed deeply in apology. The goddess hadn’t even acknowledged the insolent outburst. The boy was beneath her notice.

Finally, Atheria spoke again, her voice washing through the room like a gentle breeze:

“My legion,” she said, “the reason I have gathered you here… is to inform you: I have recovered from my weakness.”

As her gaze passed across the chamber, a radiant warmth spread with it.

“Many have grown fearful,” Atheria said, her tone steady yet layered with something deeper—bitterness, frustration—a weight Freya couldn’t fully place. It settled in Freya’s chest like cold stone.

Her eyes flicked across the room, taking in the faces of the elite Legion. Some hopeful, some confused. Freya’s own heart throbbed with unease. She felt none of their hope.

“I regret to inform you that we have lost a member of the Elite Legion.”

The air chilled. The words dropped slowly, each syllable echoing in the marble-and-grass chamber.

“The elf Elissa from Sylvaris was slain near the outer rim of Eden.”

Shock rippled through the chamber.

The Sylvaris elves exchanged glances. One with leaves woven through their hair covered their mouth, eyes wide.

The Nytherions stiffened—shoulders back, lips tight, murmurs running between them.

Freya’s gaze swept to the Sylvaris group—and realization hit her: Elissa wasn’t here.

Her heart twisted. She hadn’t been close to Elissa, but they’d served together. They’d clashed, laughed, worked side by side. Elissa should have been standing here.

Her eyes dropped to the runes on her hand, faintly glowing—and she thought bitterly to that morning with arbor and her new students, Was that the warning?

Atheria continued:

“The thing that took her life evaded my detection.”

Freya’s pulse hammered.

“For that, I am deeply sorry,” the goddess said, voice softened.

“I see each of you as my children. Hearing this… it angers me more than you might know.”

The tree at the heart of the chamber glowed brighter. The blue‐sap streams arched outward, and the ambient magic around them.

The air cracked. Light erupted from Atheria’s form, filling the chamber. Freya squeezed her eyes shut, her teeth gritting as the flood of divine energy burned.

“I know many of you fear the waning of magic,” Atheria declared, voice hard and precise. “Help will arrive. I will find who—or what—is behind this and make them regret their choices.”

The glow faded slightly but the power remained.

Her gaze flicked to the Nytherion line, then paused on Freya for a heartbeat. Freya held her breath.

“There are whispers of betrayers, liars… deceivers among us.”

“Despite my kindness,” Atheria’s voice dropped cold, “I have been betrayed too many times.”

The divine light dimmed, shadows licking the edges of the chamber once more. Her presence, pressed heavy on every soul in the room.

“I have turned the other cheek for far too long.”

Freya’s fingers slowly curled into fists. This isn’t like her at all. Atheria had always been a gentle force—merciful, patient, slow to anger. But now… this wasn’t divine serenity. It was a storm.

Atheria raised her hand, and the magic thickened for a breath before dissipating entirely, the air finally easing around them.

“To those among you harboring ulterior motives…” Her golden gaze swept across the Legion, “this will be your only warning. I will unleash divine wrath on any who betray me.”

No one dared move.

Her eyes drifted—distant now, like she was looking through time itself. “I will bring order and peace to this Eden.”

And just like that, the weight lifted—and chaos followed.

The chamber exploded into noise.

Dozens of voices surged at once. Elves from all factions—Aetherion, Sylvaris, Nytherion, and Atherian—spoke over one another.

A Sylvaris elf cried out, “What caused your weakness? How could you let Elissa die?!” eyes darting toward the Nytherion group.

A grumbling Aetherion muttered, “And how will she enforce this wrath?”

Freya stood still in the middle of it all, unmoved by the clamor.

This is why she’s putting on this front, she realized. Fear.

This wasn’t strength. This was desperation. Freya had seen it before—old gods clinging to fading power, putting on shows of force to hide their unraveling. Atheria seemed to be no exception.

Her gaze dropped to the faintly glowing runes on her hand. They had flared earlier. She knew now what they were trying to say: Elissa is gone. And with her… a fragile piece of balance may have gone too.

Something is deeply wrong.

Atheria raised her voice again, calm but final: “I have no more answers for you at this time. But know this—I am thankful for your service. There is hard work ahead. My blessing remains upon you. You will receive further instructions soon.”

Some tried to protest, but Atheria raised one clawed hand—and the entire room fell silent. No spell was needed.

The great doors at the end of the chamber groaned open, light spilling through from the corridor beyond.

One by one, the elites departed—some in silence, others muttering. Freya could see it in their faces: confusion, doubt, and fear. More of them were hurt now than when they had entered despite being at the aspects of their legion.

Freya scanned the crowd. Where’s Olive? He was gone. Slipped out somewhere in the chaos, no doubt shaken by the power on display.

A quiet voice whispered beside her—Jorma’s, as he faded in from her shadow. “I assume you’re staying?”

Freya nodded. “Probably.”

“Probably, indeed,” came Atheria’s voice.

Freya turned. The goddess towered.

Only Swiftfoot, Jorma, and Freya remained in the chamber now.

“I need to speak with you three,” Atheria said, eyes resting on them calm.

Freya stood still.

What could the goddess possibly want from the 3 of them specifically?