The weight in her tone pressed down on them all. Even Jorma, ever the relaxed one, fell silent.

“It has been centuries since one of the Elite Legion has fallen in such a manner,” Atheria continued. “That alone should tell you the gravity of what we face.”

She turned back to Swiftfoot, her gaze softening. “You may join them. Your years of experience will be invaluable. But I must ask you to tread carefully, old friend. Whatever did this may not fear gods or their agents.”

Swiftfoot bowed deeply. “I will do my best, my goddess. Until my last breath.”

Atheria nodded, then looked between Freya and Jorma. “There is another reason I have chosen the two of you specifically. Both of you have spent years outside of Eden—beyond my immediate influence. Where my magic wanes, and the ambient mana thins. By all logic, your kind should have struggled to maintain form or channel power. Yet you both thrived.”

Freya straightened. Jorma gave a proud little smirk.

“Whether that survival was achieved through artifacts, wit, or... questionable deals,” Atheria continued, her eyes landing on Freya with an almost teasing sharpness, “does not matter. It makes you uniquely suited for what lies beyond. You’ve already endured what others cannot.”

Then, her gaze flicked to Swiftfoot again. “You too, old one. You’ve lived long enough to see the world change—and lived through the places where my light does not reach. I trust you know how to survive among those faithless lands.”

Swiftfoot smiled faintly. “That I do.”

Freya, however, frowned. “If I may ask, my goddess… why not send elves instead? They’re naturally more resilient in low-magic regions. They could operate longer without relying on divine flow.”

The question hung in the air for a moment.

Freya had her suspicions why certain elves weren’t being considered—especially the Nytherion—but she kept them to herself.

Atheria’s expression turned thoughtful, though a shadow of irritation passed across her face.

Atheria exhaled softly. “I suppose,” she said, “that I have a bias toward you Atherians.”

Her gaze lifted toward the vaulted ceiling above. “You are my creations, after all.”

The goddess fell silent for a moment. When she spoke again her tone colder, quieter, almost fragile.
“I am unaware of who — or what — is tampering with my magic. But I can feel it. Pieces of me are being taken. Bit by bit. Fragments so small that most wouldn’t notice… but I do.”

Freya felt her chest tighten. The goddess’s voice — usually steady as stone — trembled faintly around the edges.

Atheria looked back to them, the moons above flickering dimly in response.
“Elissa is not the only one to vanish this way,” she said. “Others have been lost — scattered across Eden, their fates hidden from my sight. That is what this meeting was meant to address.”

A heavy stillness fell over the room. Even Jorma, who rarely took anything seriously, straightened at the words.

“But when one of my best—an Elite—disappears on the very day I call my children together…” Her eyes hardened. “That is no coincidence. It was a message. And I have received it.”

A pulse of power rippled faintly through the air, shaking the sap streams at the room’s center.

“I have decided to keep this matter confined to those I trust most. My power… wanes. Not drastically. Not yet. But it is happening.”

Freya’s thoughts spun. That explained everything—the unstable runes, the weakened crops, the wild mana flows. The world was unraveling because the goddess at its heart was bleeding power.

Atheria’s eyes flicked back to them. “You are all aware of how Atherians are born, are you not?”

Jorma raised a brow. “Yes…? I think so. But what does that have to do with what’s happening?”

Swiftfoot adjusted his cloak, brow furrowing. “Actually, no. It’s never crossed my mind. Is there… something different about it?”

A faint, almost maternal smile crossed Atheria’s face as she spoke.

“Unlike the way nonmagical creatures reproduce,” she began, “Atherians are born directly from me. When two Atherians—or sometimes a gathering of them—come to one of my temples, or to me personally, and choose to bring forth offspring, I create the soul from my own magic.”

Her tone was calm.

“After a period of adaptation, that soul is given form. The body it takes depends on the parents’ essence and the surrounding magic—usually a mammalian shape, though there are… exceptions.”

A small smile touched her lips before it faded.

“The details are not important at this moment. What is important is that every Atherian life is bound to me. When one dies, their magic returns—rejoining my essence so that nothing is ever truly lost.”

Her expression darkened.
“But lately, that flow has been severed. Atherians have vanished, and their magic has not returned. Somehow… I am being cut off from my own children.”

Swiftfoot exhaled. “Oh. That is far worse than I thought.”

Jorma leaned forward. “So the cycle itself is being tampered with.”

Atheria nodded once. “Yes. And that is why I cannot go to the Legion at large. The Nytherion’s history with my kind is far too… complicated to risk trusting them.”

Her gaze flicked toward the drifting moons above. “The Aetherion, despite their name, have fallen into secrecy. They have bound themselves to a wind-aspect buried deep beneath the earth—hiding it from me. I could forgive the act of worshiping another, but their deceit speaks volumes.”

She paused, voice tightening with restrained anger.

“And the Moonlit Temple, though they praise me in name, has grown too comfortable shaping their own truths about what I am. Mortals are quick to forget who planted the tree that gives them shade.”

Freya thought the goddess’s words carried more weariness than rage—like a mother mourning children she could no longer control.

Atheria took a slow breath before continuing. “The Sylvaris elves, however, are another matter. They are the closest to us—spiritually, at least. But their loss of Elissa has wounded them deeply. Until they recover, it is best they not be burdened further.”

She turned her gaze to Swiftfoot, eyes softening. “You hail from Sylvaris, do you not?”

Swiftfoot nodded. “Yes, my goddess. Though I’ve spent far more of my life here in the capital than in my homeland. I met Elissa only a handful of times, toward the end of my service. Freya knew her better, I believe—but cross-generational conversation has a way of reminding one how ancient they’ve become.”

That earned a faint laugh from Atheria, though the sadness never quite left her face.

“Ah yes,” she said, “time has a way of humbling even the greatest of us.”

Her gaze drifted down toward Freya, calm but resolute. “As for this team—Freya, I trust you to gather whoever you deem capable and loyal. You will lead this investigation. Consider it your command.”

Jorma blinked. “Wait—her?”

Atheria’s gaze slid toward him, and though her tone remained light, her words carried a quiet sharpness. “Your brother may be exceptional at gathering information,” she said, “but his methods…” She tilted her head. “Let us say they lack structure.”

Jorma crossed his arms but said nothing.

Freya, on the other hand, felt the faintest twinge of grim amusement. Atheria wasn’t wrong. There was a reason Jorma had never been given command of a division—his habit of vanishing mid-operation, his disregard for hierarchy, and his tendency to turn missions into one-Atherian shows were legendary.

Meanwhile, she had led the 3rd Division… technically. These days, most of the responsibility had fallen on her second-in-command while she juggled training a blue-furred fox, now wrangling her unpredictable little sister, and dealing with a Nytherion prince who seem to have to much pride in himself.

The more she thought about it, the more it felt like she wasn’t a captain anymore—just a glorified babysitter. She sighed quietly.

“Thank you, Atheria,” Freya said, straightening her posture, “but… how will this affect the students I’ve been assigned?”

Atheria gave a knowing smile, almost teasing. “Ah, yes. Them.”

She raised one elegant hand, and the enormous metal doors behind them began to slide open with a deep, echoing hum.
“Swiftfoot, Jorma,” she said gently, “that will be all for now. Freya will inform you how to proceed once preparations are made.”

The goddess’s tone shifted—warmer, but final. “We will speak again soon, when matters are less… strained. You both have my gratitude for your service.”

Swiftfoot gave a respectful bow, his voice soft. “It is what we live for, my goddess. No thanks necessary.”

Jorma shrugged, flashing a grin. “What the old man said.”

Atheria’s lips twitched into a faint, indulgent smile as the two turned to leave. Their footsteps echoed down the marble hall until the heavy doors sealed once more with a resonant clang.

And then, silence.

Freya found herself standing alone beneath the moonlit glow of her goddess—Atheria’s divine eyes focused fully on her now. The weight of command and divinity pressed down like unseen gravity.

Atheria shifted her position, rolling onto her stomach along the great branch of the central tree, her long hair spilling over the side. Her tone lightened, almost playful — a striking contrast to the authority she’d carried moments ago.
“So,” she purred, resting her chin on her folded hands, “how is that little fox of yours doing?”

Freya blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “Um… they’re all right, I think,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck. “Progress is… slow, but steady. That’s to be expected, given the circumstances.”

Atheria’s many eyes — or perhaps just the moonlight reflections that acted as them — softened. “That’s nice to hear. Any problems with their magic?”

Freya hesitated, then sighed. “Actually, yes. They’ve had a lot of mana reversals. Not nearly as bad as when they first started, but…” She gave a tired chuckle. “Let’s just say they used to be a walking explosion hazard. I’ve lent them a staff to stabilize their flow. It’s helping, but it’s still… unpredictable.”

“Aw,” Atheria cooed softly. “Poor thing. Do you think they’ll be ready for the promotion tests?”

Freya smirked, her confidence creeping back. “Probably. After all, they’ve got one of the best teachers in Eden.”

Atheria’s grin curved faintly — a goddess’s smile that could mean anything. “If you believe so, Freya. Still, I’d like to speak with them before their test. Just a small chat.”

Freya raised a brow. “That’s fine by me. Just… be warned, they’re a handful.”

Atheria laughed lightly — the sound like a ripple of glass bells. “So were you, and your brother. Look how far you’ve come.”

Freya smiled at that, despite herself. “Did you have a time in mind for this meeting?”

“Anytime,” Atheria said vaguely. “When the time is right, they’ll ask for it — even if they don’t know they are.”

Freya rolled her eyes. “There’s that vagueness again. I’ll keep it in mind, my goddess.”

“Good.” Atheria’s tone grew calm again — commanding, yet kind. “As for balancing your investigation with your duties as a mentor, I leave that to you. As one of Eden’s best teachers,” she teased, “I doubt it will be too much for you.”

Freya grimaced slightly but nodded. “I will not fail you, my goddess.”

Atheria’s eyes softened once more, her voice dipping low. “You won’t.”

She gestured gently toward the door. “Send Jorma to scout the outskirts of the other nations. You may involve as few or as many as you deem necessary. That will be all for now.”

Freya bowed low, her horns gleaming faintly in the blue light. “As you wish.”

And then she was gone. The massive doors sealed behind her with a resonant thud, leaving only Atheria in the chamber.

The goddess reclined on the ancient tree, her form illuminated by the pale moons orbiting above. For a long moment, she said nothing.

Drip… drip… drip…

The sound of blue sap trickled down from the central trunk, echoing softly through the divine hall.

Atheria’s eyes—half-lidded, unreadable—rose to the constellation of moons above. Her expression was distant, almost human, as if waiting for something only she could sense.