The deeper they went, the less the forest felt like a place.

It felt like something watching.

Something remembering.

And something… waiting.

The camp was better hidden than Bhima’s—almost invisible until they were standing within it. Nestled in the embrace of colossal jungle trees, it was more a part of the forest than a separate creation. The roots of the ancient trees twisted above like living architecture, forming natural arches that shielded the camp from the sky. Moss, vines, and bark had been woven into rooftops and walls, making even the structures breathe with the jungle’s rhythm.

Hammocks swayed gently between thick trunks like hanging cocoons, while earth-toned banners marked hidden pathways. Fires were buried deep in the soil, their smoke cleverly funneled through hollowed roots to avoid detection. Below ground, chambers carved into the rich loam housed stores of food, medicine, and sleeping quarters, all reinforced with roots and branches that pulsed faintly with the jungle’s life. The air smelled of damp earth, herbs, and quiet survival.

Star moved carefully, noting how seamlessly the camp blended with its surroundings. It didn’t feel like a military post. It felt like a memory—preserved, defiant, and alive.

Nakula and Shadeva, who had accompanied them alongside Bhima, nodded with quiet familiarity at the few guards who emerged from the trees. Here, even allies tread with caution. The moment Arjuna had confirmed their identities, his soldiers vanished back into the forest like mist, leaving only silence and unseen eyes.

Within a short time, the group was led down into one of the underground chambers—a war room lit by soft lanterns fashioned from glowing mushrooms and sunstone shards. The table at the center was hand-carved, its surface worn smooth by maps, blade marks, and the pressure of too many heavy hands.

Bhima stood at the head, flanked closely by Nakula and Shadeva, while Arjuna stood opposite, his arms crossed but his eyes sharp. Star, Siegfried, Erik, Klara, and Seth took their places around the table, listening.

Bhima placed a weathered map down, its ink dark and precise. “We don’t have much intel,” he began, tapping a spot east of Pratishthana Mountain, where a small crater was marked with a faded symbol. “But here’s what we do know: the Fallen Star didn’t fall.”

The room hushed, attention sharpening like drawn blades.

“It was sent,” he said.

A murmur passed among Arjuna’s scouts, but he raised a hand and they stilled.

“There are conflicting theories,” Bhima continued. “Some say it’s Riftwalker tech—a probe, a relic, maybe a weapon… or maybe just a broken piece of a world that no longer exists. Its casing is made of a strange metal. Our mages claim the aether around it pulses—like it’s… alive.”

Klara leaned in, her brow furrowed. “You think it’s conscious?”

“Or remembering how to be,” Bhima replied grimly.

Arjuna’s eyes flicked toward the map. “There are older stories. From the Felinari elders. They don’t say the Riftwalkers came to conquer.”

Shadeva scoffed faintly. “Then why raze our cities?”

Nakula, more composed, asked, “What do they say?”

“They say the Riftwalkers came here because they had no home left,” Arjuna said, voice low. “That something—something older than war drove them out.”

Erik exhaled slowly. “So they’re not just enemies… they’re exiles.”

Bhima nodded. “If that’s true, then the Fallen Star may be the key to understanding why they’re here. Not just what they want… but what they fear.”

A silence settled, thick and uncertain. Seth shifted his weight, tail twitching, ears alert.

Star looked over the map, her fingers brushing the edge of the parchment. “So the investigation starts soon.”

Arjuna’s gaze snapped to her. “Yes,” he said. “But not tonight.”

He stepped away from the war table, his voice softer now, but not less guarded. “Star Rosalind… walk with me.”

The others exchanged glances, but no one spoke. Star gave a small nod, falling into step beside him as he led her up toward the roots and night air, where old wounds still echoed in the rustling leaves.

Later that night, long after the meeting around the war table had scattered into tired silences and flickering torches, Arjuna sat alone at the edge of the encampment. His back leaned against the gnarled root of a colossal jungle tree, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the faint orange glow of Pratishthana Mountain painted the sky like a scar.

The jungle air was dense and humming—alive with the nocturnal orchestra of crickets, whispering leaves, and distant animal calls. But where Arjuna sat, it felt quiet. Still. A place between breaths.

Star found him there, his silhouette framed by hanging vines and shadowed moonlight. She approached softly, her footsteps light on the moss-covered ground.

“I figured you'd come,” Arjuna said without turning.

“You didn’t stay for the food,” she said gently, settling a few paces behind him.

“Wasn’t hungry,” he replied, his tone even, but dull around the edges—like steel left out in the rain.

She hesitated, then moved to sit beside him, crossing her legs, laying her sword within arm’s reach. She didn’t speak at first, letting the night settle around them.

“I want to understand,” she finally said. “Not just the camp. You.”

Arjuna didn’t answer right away.

The jungle breathed around them—slow, patient.

Then, at last…

he spoke.

And everything Star thought she understood about this war…

began to unravel.