The forest near Pratishthana Mountain grew wilder as they neared the next resistance camp. The gentle paths and dappled light of the lowlands gave way to something older—denser, heavier. Here, the jungle breathed with an ancient rhythm, humid and unrelenting, thick with secrets. The air tasted of moss and decay. Towering trees rose like titans, their canopies tangled into a living ceiling that choked out the sun. Strange birds cried overhead, their calls sharp and alien, while insects droned in a ceaseless hum—as though the forest itself whispered truths it was never meant to share.

Vines hung in heavy coils, draped from branches like watchful serpents, twisting through the undergrowth as if poised to snare the unwary. Fungi bloomed along the bark in vivid oranges and deep crimsons, like old blood staining the wood. This was not a place of simple life. It was a place of memory—each root and branch steeped in stories long buried. A reverent hush settled over the group. Even their footsteps felt intrusive.

Bhima pressed forward with practiced certainty, though caution tempered every step. His posture had tightened, his gaze sweeping the underbrush with quiet vigilance. His hand hovered near his blade, fingers brushing the worn leather grip at regular intervals. Erik and Seth walked close behind, their usual ease replaced with a shared tension. Every snapped twig carried the weight of warning.

“They should be close,” Bhima said under his breath. “Arjuna’s camp lies just beyond that ridge.”

They reached the rise as the sun dipped low, its fading light struggling to pierce the dense canopy. The moment they crested the hill, something shifted.

The forest fell silent.

Then—arrows.

They appeared without warning. A dozen or more, emerging from shadow like drawn fangs. Not yet loosed—but ready. Their steel tips caught the dying light, each one precisely aligned with a vital point: heart, throat, eye. The air tightened, thick with restrained violence.

Star’s instincts surged. Her hand moved to her sword—

“Hold.”

Bhima’s arm lifted, steady but firm. His eyes remained sharp. “They’re watching.”

From the jungle, a figure stepped forward—and the forest seemed to yield to him.

He moved without sound, his presence fluid and controlled, like a shadow given form. Amber eyes gleamed beneath russet fur, sharp and assessing. Pale streaks cut through his features, trailing along his jaw, lending him an air of age—or perhaps simply hardship. Fox-like ears twitched subtly, attuned to every unseen movement. He wore no armor, only darkened leathers and cloth dyed to vanish into the jungle. Twin curved blades rested at his hips.

He did not reach for them

He didn’t need to.

“State your names,” he said.

The words were calm. The edge beneath them was not.

Seth and Erik stepped forward, hands raised in quiet peace. But their expressions shifted—recognition breaking through tension.

“Arjuna?” Erik said, disbelief threading his voice.

The warrior stilled. Suspicion faltered—then fractured.

“Seth? Erik?”

He stepped closer, the tension in his stance loosening, though not entirely gone. Something in his voice wavered—not fear, but something more fragile.

“By the spirits… you’re alive.”

Seth’s grin flickered into place, faint but real. “More or less.”

For the first time, Arjuna’s composure cracked. He crouched slightly, brushing a hand through Seth’s wind-tossed hair, as though confirming he was real.

“The last time I saw you,” he murmured, “you barely reached my waist.”

He turned to Erik, and this time his gaze tightened, something heavier surfacing beneath it.

“And you… you used to chase fireflies with my sister.”

Erik’s eyes lowered. His hands clenched at his sides. “I remember.”

For a moment, the jungle itself seemed to hold that silence. The wind stirred the upper branches, and something unspoken passed between them—time, loss, and the quiet burden of survival.

Then Arjuna straightened.

The moment closed.

The fox returned.

Around them, unseen archers lowered their weapons and vanished back into the canopy—never fully revealed, yet unmistakably present.

Bhima stepped forward. “We’re here for more than a reunion.”

Arjuna’s attention shifted.

It landed on Star.

Whatever warmth had surfaced vanished instantly. His amber gaze sharpened, cold and deliberate.

“And who is this?” he asked.

Star stepped forward without hesitation and inclined her head.

“Star Rosalind.”

Arjuna didn’t blink. “The Hero of Atlantia,” he muttered. “I’ve heard your name… carried by wind and war.”

“She’s with us,” Erik said quickly. “You can trust her.”

But Arjuna’s eyes narrowed. “Trust is a rare currency,” he said. “I’ve seen what happens when it’s given too freely.”

Star met his gaze without flinching. “I’m not here to lead you,” she said. “I’m here to help.”

Silence followed.

He studied her—her stance, her voice, the spaces between her words. Not just listening, but measuring. Searching.

For weakness.

For deceit.

For something that would justify doubt.

She gave him nothing.

“…Fine,” he said at last.

A single word. Controlled. Reserved.

“Come.”

He turned without another glance, slipping back into the jungle as though he had never fully emerged from it.

The others followed.

Star lingered a moment longer, her gaze fixed on the place he had stood.

There was something in him she recognized—pain, tightly bound beneath discipline.

And beneath that—

something sharper than suspicion.

Judgment.

And for the first time, Star understood:

One day, she would have to prove herself to him.

Not with words.

But with steel.