Roots Beneath the Wild Sky

The Wild's Threshold

When roots are torn from beds of gold,

And morning's hand no longer holds,

The child shall walk where silence bites,

Where beasts and truth share whispered rites.

No crown of light, no forge to guide—

Just breath, and blade, and fear beside.

The Dawn of Parting

The estate gates stood tall—iron branches woven like thorned vines, streaked with early dew. Beyond them, the forest loomed in streaks of green and gray, its canopy rising like a cathedral of wild things. For the first time in his young life, William Denvers would walk past them alone.

Well… not alone.

Lamile waited near the path, her travel cloak resting over crisp leather armor, short silver hair braided back. Her longspear rested at her side like an extension of her soul. Her lips were tight. Her eyes, softer than usual.

William stood between Emil and Robert, his small pack secured, the practice sword sheathed at his hip. The moment tasted like ash and honey—pride and ache intermingling.

Emil crouched in front of him, brushing a strand of hair from his brow.

"You don't have to be brave every second," she whispered. "But do try to listen when Lamile says stop."

"I will."

She smiled, but her fingers trembled. "I packed you honey buns. One for each week."

"That's… a lot."

"So is how much I'll miss you."

William blinked quickly, then leaned into her arms. She held him as if she were anchoring something sacred.

Robert stood silent for a moment, then placed his hand on William's shoulder.

"You'll want to rush. To prove yourself," he said. "Don't. Grow with your blade—not ahead of it."

William nodded.

"I'll fill the Codex. I'll learn. I won't waste this."

Robert allowed a rare smile. "You're already doing better than I did at your age."

Then he turned to Lamile, stepping closer.

"You've guarded my house for years. Now I trust you to guard my legacy."

Lamile placed her fist to her chest. "With my life. With honor."

"And with mercy," Emil added softly.

She nodded once more.

Lamile turned toward William, lowering herself to eye level.

"This isn't about fighting monsters," she said. "It's about learning when not to draw your blade. When to breathe before burning. When to trust your senses."

"Will there be many monsters?"

"There will be many truths. Some with fangs."

William smiled slightly. "Then I'll learn to bare mine too."

Lamile's eyes softened. "Good."

The March Begins

The estate grew small behind them—stone, warmth, laughter now wrapped in memory.

They moved in silence for a while, William's boots crunching fresh path underfoot. Birds called above. Mist curled near the underbrush. The trees whispered stories no child had yet earned.

As they passed an old shrine, Lamile slowed.

"This is the border," she said. "From here, we enter untamed land. No guards. No messengers. Just nature."

"And monsters?"

She nodded. "They exist in classes. Just like swords and seals."

From her pouch, she handed William a folded leather booklet. A blank ledger, hand-bound.

"The Field Codex," she explained. "You'll fill this. Names. Behaviors. Sketches. Weak points. When your blade strikes, make sure your memory strikes deeper."

She lifted a twig, drew a rough shape in the dirt.

"A Gravetooth Hare lives nearby. It's Feral Class. Your first kill."

"A rabbit?"

"A rabbit with stone fangs and speed faster than most men. If it bites your ankle, you limp for a week."

"Oh…"

She smirked. "Surprised? Never assume softness from silence. Same applies to people."

In the Quiet Between Trees

They walked deeper.

Past the moss-choked ruins of an old stone well. Past clawed bark and bent branches. William's breath grew heavier—not from exhaustion, but from pressure.

Aura... was different here.

It wasn't in the wind or in people. It pulsed in the trees. It lurched from the soil. It whispered through water.

"You feel it?" Lamile asked.

He nodded slowly. "It's everywhere."

"Good. Aura isn't meant to be used. It's meant to be understood. Your job is to listen first. Then respond."

They stopped at a clearing shaped like a broken ring—an old training circle used by guards decades ago.

"This is base camp," she said. "We pitch here tonight. Tomorrow we begin conditioning."

She turned, hand on his shoulder.

"Six months, William. You will cry. You will bleed. You will want to run home."

He looked up, steady.

"But I will walk. I promise."

Lamile allowed herself one brief smile.

Then the forest closed around them.

And training began.

The Crimson Truth

The scent of mint and metal lingered in the room. Pale light filtered through the stained-glass window of Ariadera's clinic, painting fractured rainbows over the bodies still wrapped in prayer-cloth.

Robert stood silently as the head medic removed the final rune-lock on the containment case.

"We've confirmed," she said, voice clinical. "The wounds were made postmortem. No signs of struggle. No adrenaline spike in the girl's bloodstream. They were taken unaware—likely paralyzed first."

Robert's jaw tightened.

"Drained clean?"

"Yes, but not by organic fangs. The punctures are angled, irregular. Some kind of forged tool. The blood was... extracted, not consumed."

Robert narrowed his gaze. "And the aura traces?"

The medic sighed. "Vampiric in nature. But laced. There's a secondary aura pattern—faint, woven like thread into the first. It's masking the true energy."

"A mimicry spell."

"More like a layer. Someone didn't just want to hide. They wanted to blame."

Robert closed the case, gently.

"Thank you. No public disclosures."

"Understood."

The Guild of Ariadera – Hall of Blades and Bonds

The city's guildhall rose from the center of the Upper District like a fang of marble and ironwood. Banners of completed quests lined the high archways. Twin statues of the founding warmaidens—Gyla and Fenn—guarded the entrance with scythes crossed.

Inside, adventurers milled about in ranks of leather, scale, and bravado. Some laughed too loudly. Others sharpened weapons or haggled over coin shares.

A single desk stood at the heart of it all, framed beneath a chandelier made of wyvern bones.

And behind it sat Herena Vale.

Busty, bold, and utterly composed, Herena was a walking contradiction—steel-penned precision beneath layers of curve and flirt. Her scarlet corset was embroidered with silver thread, her hair tied into a cascading side braid of obsidian strands. A quill danced between her fingers as she locked eyes with Robert's approach.

"Well, well," she said, her voice a husky purr. "If it isn't the Stormlord himself. Come to grace the gale-blind?"

Robert didn't break stride. "I need to post a mission. High-class. Eyes-only."

Herena smirked. "Always business. Never breeze."

"I'll pay double to keep it silent."

"Ah, there's the romance I was waiting for."

She flipped a heavy tome open and slid a parchment toward him.

"Mission type?"

"Investigation. Disguised as containment. Monster activity linked to unnatural sealing. Classify it as C at the front. In truth, treat it as A."

Her pen froze mid-stroke. Her voice dropped.

"Who do you think it is?"

"I don't know yet. But whoever they are... they know how to fabricate history."

Herena leaned in, her full figure pressing over the desk as her eyes narrowed with intrigue.

"And if it points to the vampires?"

"Then we keep it quiet until I confirm. If we shout 'fang' too soon, we'll start a war no one survives."

She nodded once, then pulled a wax seal from a hidden drawer.

"Filed under the code: Whisper Fang. Priority Tier: Black Feather. You'll get ping updates every phase."

Robert signed the form.

Then paused.

"The sealed archive. I want access."

Herena blinked. "The Apocalypse records? Robert, those are Grandlock-restricted. Even I can't pull that curtain."

"You have sway."

"And you have a storm's timing. This is political fire—if you push too hard, someone's going to notice."

Robert's voice cooled. "Let them."

Herena sighed, then slowly leaned closer. Her tone turned serious.

"If you die chasing ghosts, who's left to hold the wind?"

He met her gaze.

"My son."

Roots Beneath the Wild Sky

Beneath the Pines

The first days passed not in battle, but in rhythm. Lamile made William walk—then breathe, then walk again. Not for distance, but for awareness. They rose with mist and slept beneath trees that whispered old names into their roots. No monsters. No metal. Only the hum of the wind and the quiet weight of learning how to feel before striking.

By the fourth day, they had climbed into the northern pine ridges of Ariadera, near the edge of the Verge—where even maps grew hesitant and legends became memory. There, beneath needled boughs and mountain stone, the silence changed.

That was when the monsters came.

The forest changed as they climbed higher. No longer the soft, breezy glades near the estate, this was the northern ridge of Ariadera, where pine trees grew tall as towers and their branches crowded the sky into slivers. Shadows moved even when the wind didn't. The ground, layered with centuries of fallen needles and mountain moss, muffled their steps like a natural hush.

Here, silence wasn't absence. It was listening.

Lamile stopped beneath a crooked pine and scanned the underbrush. Her eyes narrowed.

"We're near the edge of the Verge," she said. "The last place maps pretend to understand."

William's fingers tightened around the hilt of his training sword. The forest air was colder here, sharper. But he felt the familiar tingle in his chest—the gentle hum of his Nexuses aligning beneath his breath: Genesis, Pyron, Lumora, Mindra. Each one ready. Or pretending to be.

They stepped forward, and the underbrush rustled.

✦ The First Hunt – Gravetooth Hare

It came fast—a blur of gray muscle and sharp teeth, bounding low across the slope. Its fangs gleamed like shards of shale, and its eyes gleamed amber in the dark.

William saw it just before it lunged.

He exhaled, soft and slow. His aura sparked—Tempest Veil flickered down his arms like silver lightning. The world narrowed. His foot moved without conscious command—Breeze Step, a glide across the moss.

The hare twisted mid-air, claws angled for his throat.

"Mirror Gale."

The words barely left his lips. His arms moved in a spiraling arc, redirecting the beast's leap with a surge of energy. The impact curved, not crashed. The hare was flung aside, tumbling across the roots.

William followed. No hesitation now.

He struck once. Cleanly.

The creature twitched. Then fell still.

He stood there, breathing hard. The pine wind whistled overhead like a sigh.

Lamile approached quietly from the tree line.

"You were almost late," she said. "But not late enough to lose."

William crouched beside the creature. Its fur was matted near the jaw. Its eyes stared, empty now.

He pulled out his Codex and scribbled:

Gravetooth Hare – Feral Class.

Fast. Jaws built for piercing. Weak at the base of the neck. Do not hesitate.

✦ The Second Trial – Glowdrake Cub

They walked further, climbing a ridge where mist gathered like old breath. At its base, nestled between boulders and water-fed moss, a faint glow pulsed.

The Glowdrake Cub rested near a shallow pool. Pale-blue scales shimmered along its spine, pulsing gently like a heartbeat made of stars.

"Don't let it flash you," Lamile said from behind. "Use Sightbloom. It won't save your eyes, but it'll help you feel when to move."

William nodded.

This time, he didn't charge. He slid through the rocks, slower, quieter, one hand brushing the earth.

He tapped into his Mindra Nexus, and his awareness expanded—his heartbeat slowed, the sounds of the forest came alive. He felt the moment before the cub's body tensed.

He dove to the right.

The light blast followed, a blinding arc of radiance that singed bark and left glowing streaks across his vision. But he had already moved.

The cub turned, growling, but it was too late. William's sword danced in a tight cross—Criss Cross, a clean pair of shallow slashes over its ribs. Enough to warn. Not to kill.

The drake snarled once. Then hissed and limped away, vanishing into the misted wood.

He didn't follow.

When Lamile reached him, she said nothing for a moment.

"You let it go."

William sheathed his blade. "It knew I could kill it. That was enough."

Lamile nodded. "Mercy and control. Those are harder to master than any strike."

✦ Camp Beneath the Ridge

They made camp beneath a half-fallen tree, its trunk curved like an arch that had once tried to reach the stars and failed. The fire burned low and steady, casting orange light on the stones and roots. Above, the sky peeked between the pine needles—dotted with stars.

William sat cross-legged on his bedroll, a cloth wrapped around his shin where the hare's claw had grazed him. The Codex lay open in his lap. Two entries now—scratched with notes, smeared with sweat and ash, but alive with his hand.

He wasn't sure he had ever felt this tired.

He wasn't sure he had ever felt this real.

Lamile handed him a bowl of broth—simple, warm, made from dried roots and herbs they had gathered.

"No honey bun?" he asked, voice quiet with a half-smile.

"You get your bun after your third win," she said. "And only if you don't die getting it."

He chuckled, staring into the steam. It curled upward like spirit threads.

After a while, he spoke again.

"Do you think… do you think they'd be proud?"

Lamile didn't ask who. She just nodded.

"I think they already are."

William looked toward the treetops. The stars there looked like gaps in a black curtain.

He could still feel his Nexuses—warm and slow. And something else. Fainter than before, but not gone.

He felt the forest pressing in. Watching. Listening.

He didn't feel unwelcome.

Just… tested.

He pulled his cloak tighter, curled beside the fire, and whispered to himself:

"One breath at a time."

 Pines That Watch

Beneath the pines where mist does cling,

A boy begins with breath and swing.

Two strikes, two truths, and fire low,

In shadowed woods where calm winds grow.

Not yet a storm, not yet the flame—

But whisper now… they know his name.