Season 1. Chapter 86: Cylde II

Chapter: Threads in the Grove

The afternoon sun had thinned to a pale gold, spilling like honey through the highest boughs of the ancient forest. Birds called lazily across the canopy, and insects buzzed in listless spirals. The deeper Cylde and Basil walked, the more time seemed to unravel around them. Here, the air was thicker, ancient—and somehow, it always felt like someone, or something, was watching.

Basil, silent for the last hour, suddenly stopped beside a thick trunk twisted with emerald vines and deep moss. He knelt, brushing aside a veil of leaves. Beneath them, half-buried in roots and fungus, was a wooden chest bound in tarnished brass.

"Haven't opened this in a while," Basil muttered, gently tugging it loose from the earth with a slow grunt.

Cylde blinked, wiping sweat from his brow. "W-what is it?"

Basil offered no answer. He simply set the chest on a low, flat stone and clicked the lock open. A dusty whoosh escaped as the lid creaked back.

Inside?

Tea packets.

Dozens of them—wrapped in elegant, timeworn parchment. Lavender-mint, pine blossom, fireleaf... the scents rolled out in warm waves. Cylde leaned forward, entranced.

"Ooooh... is that cinnamon chai?" he murmured, fingers twitching toward the nearest packet, a deep maroon with golden calligraphy.

He was inches from picking it up—

Snap.

An invisible pressure curled around the tea—thin, impossibly precise.

Threads.

They shimmered just for a moment, catching the sunlight in a ghostly shimmer, then pulled. The tea packet lifted from the box and glided through the air, slow and deliberate, before halting directly in front of a figure that hadn't been there a second ago.

Zack Erebus.

The rogue stood casually between two trees, leaning against one of them like he had all the time in the world. His black hair spilled behind him in a disheveled ponytail, and his trademark white headband sat just above narrowed eyes. His gloves flexed once, and the thread coiled back into his sleeve like a tamed serpent.

"Still jumpy, Cylde," Zack smirked.

Cylde yelped, stumbling backward and knocking over the entire chest. "Z-Zack!? What—where—how long have you—!?"

Zack raised the tea packet in mock toast. "Long enough to see you almost steal my favorite blend."

Before Cylde could retort, another presence emerged—a tall, poised figure in a white cloak, a smooth white mask obscuring his face entirely. Every movement was precise, elegant.

Oliver Woods.

He lifted a hand in a polite wave, voice calm, musical, and without arrogance. "Pleasure. I've heard a little about you, Cylde."

The demon swallowed nervously, eyes darting between them. "Who—who are you supposed to be? Why do you look like a—like a ghost from a forgotten opera?"

Oliver only chuckled. "Let's keep names simple for now. I'm an outsider, just like you... technically. Except I'm a little more... deliberate about where I step."

Behind him, Fern emerged from the mist like a wraith. She wore a cloak of green-gray bark and dandelion fluff, her dreadlocked hair woven with feathers and stones. She said nothing at first—just studied Cylde with a flat, unreadable stare.

Cylde shrank slightly. "And... who's this?"

"Fern," Oliver answered for her, "is a druid. And my guide."

Basil had not spoken, but the second he laid eyes on Fern, something in the air thickened. He stood slowly, his moss-hat tilting back. His expression was not hostile—but wary, expectant.

Fern's gaze didn't move from his. "You're the other one, then."

Basil raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. "So it seems."

There was a long, heavy silence between the two druids, as though the trees themselves were listening.

"I need help," Fern finally said, voice low but firm. "We're growing a surveillance forest. Something... big is coming. A land beast. August."

Basil slowly nodded, no words, just understanding. They both knew what that meant.

"I'll help," he said.

Cylde, who had been watching this entire exchange like someone trapped between two gods, raised his hand half-heartedly. "Wait—what exactly is this land beast everyone keeps whispering about? And why do I have to be here for it?"

Zack stepped beside him, clapping a hand on his shoulder—perhaps a little too hard.

"Because you're coming with me, now," he said casually.

Cylde's expression dropped. "Wha—wait, what? W-we just got here! I just found the tea!"

Zack turned him around and started walking, dragging the smaller demon behind him by the back of the coat. "And now we're leaving. Basil's got what he needs. Fern too. And we've got dwarves to annoy."

Cylde dug his heels in, flailing. "But—but I don't want to go back to the mist village! It smells like burning metal and overcooked mushrooms!"

Oliver offered a courteous nod as Zack dragged Cylde away, the demon still complaining. "We'll rendezvous before the forest reaches phase two. Let me know if any roots bite."

Fern remained silent, watching until the two disappeared into the fog.

Then, at last, she turned to Basil. "He's loud."

"He's alive," Basil replied with a shrug. "That's more than most in these woods."

Together, the two druids stepped deeper into the grove, the moss curling beneath their feet, already listening for the call of the land beast's footsteps.

And far behind them, Cylde's voice still echoed faintly through the trees—

"Zaaaaack! At least let me keep the cinnamon—!"

-----

Chapter: The Druid's Senses

Fern's Point of View

I led the group through the forest, my steps quiet, steady. The others followed behind—Zack, Cylde, Oliver... their presence small compared to the ancient hum of this place.

My druidic senses pulsed softly beneath my skin, brushing the edges of every tree, leaf, and root. Vita. Life energy. The forest was full of it—far more than a single human could ever carry. The moss underfoot breathed slowly. The trees whispered their quiet songs of growth and decay. Even the mushrooms on the bark pulsed with a rhythm older than language.

Then, I felt it.

Heavy. Warm. Close.

A massive bear stood just beyond the ridge, its fur thick with dirt and leaves, eyes locked on us.

I didn't flinch.

I simply raised my hand.

The bear froze, ears twitching. My aura touched its spirit—not with force, but with understanding.

It lowered its head, gave a soft grunt, then turned away, disappearing into the brush without a sound.

We Druids are not hunters. We are not prey.

We are Flora and Fauna's will made flesh.

The forest remembers that.

So do its children.

-----

Chapter: The Misted Gate

Morning light filtered through the high canopy, silver-gold rays catching on beads of dew that clung to every fern and frond. A breeze rustled the leaves, and in that quiet, sunlit moment, Oliver Woods tilted his head upward.

His masked face reflected the dappled sunlight.

"…It's morning?"

He blinked, confused. They had entered the deeper wood during twilight—shadows long and soft—yet now, the air had shifted, alive with birdsong and warmth. He hadn't noticed the passing of time, hadn't felt the shift of night to day.

Behind him, Cylde gave a tired sigh, brushing back the black side of his two-tone hair with shaky fingers. "Demon presence causes temporal drift," he muttered. "Lost time. A phenomenon when you forget to be aware. Blink, and hours go by. Especially around me."

Oliver turned slightly toward him. "Useful, if incredibly inconvenient."

Cylde chuckled dryly. "It's not as fun as it sounds. I've missed meals. Sunsets. Entire birthdays."

As the path widened, a low fog slithered up around their feet—cool and heavy. The dense mist that had long since crept into the trees thickened here, rolling in quiet tides. Ahead, the shape of stone dwellings emerged, carved into the mountainside and half-swallowed by moss and fog.

The Dwarven Mist Village.

Steam hissed from vents carved in the rocks, while mechanical gears churned in the deeper chambers. The scent of mineral water and burned coal hung in the air. Pipes snaked along stone walls, dripping and clinking like rusted wind chimes. The entire village pulsed with a quiet, stubborn heartbeat—ancient and enduring.

Waiting near the entrance gate was a figure, arms crossed, one foot tapping impatiently against the dirt.

Nico Finnikin Faelwyn.

Foxkin. Sixteen. Bright orange hair wild as autumn leaves. A bushy, flicking tail swayed behind him with clear irritation.

"You're late," Nico said flatly, amber eyes narrowing. "I've been standing here since moonfall."

Cylde threw his hands up. "Blame the trees! Or me! Or... demon phenomena!"

Nico huffed and didn't bother hiding his grin. "I was going to. You're welcome for the warm greeting."

Oliver gave a curt nod of acknowledgment, stepping aside. "We're here now. Fern. Basil. This is your stage."

He meant it. Whatever was next—whatever needed to grow to face the August beast—would begin here.

Fern stepped forward first, cloak rustling softly behind her. She knelt at the edge of the mist, pressing one hand into the moss-carpeted stone. Her expression remained unreadable, but her focus was absolute. She whispered in a tongue older than stone.

Beside her, Basil joined without word or ceremony. He reached into the soil, tugging free a clump of moss and vines. The plants in his hands twisted slightly—listening, eager to obey.

The two druids didn't speak.

They didn't need to.

Roots began to pulse beneath the ground. The fog around the village thickened, now crawling up the stone walls like slow, intelligent snakes. Trees beyond the gates shifted unnaturally—leaning inward. Listening.

They were making something.

Not just a surveillance network.

A living forest. A wide-eyed observer.

A defense system for the fight no one else could see yet.

Nico watched with crossed arms, impressed despite himself. "You sure they aren't summoning a nature god?"

Oliver remained silent, eyes on the Druids.

Cylde, watching vines creep along his boots, muttered, "I really don't like this part…"

The forest didn't care what any of them thought.

It was already beginning.

And the land beast?

It was still on the way.