Matriarch's Test

River counted the seconds like a prisoner awaiting judgment.

Fifteen.

Fourteen.

Thirteen.

The woman's arms around him hadn't loosened. If anything, her grip was tighter now, her head resting against his shoulder like they'd known each other for years. The same hands that had tried to crush him minutes ago now held him with terrifying affection. It wasn't romantic. It was obsessive. Claustrophobic. Like being hugged by a bear that wasn't quite sure if it wanted to keep you or kill you.

Ten.

Nine.

"Please, for the love of—" River muttered, sweat beading on his forehead. "Let this timer end before my spine snaps."

And then—

The warmth drained from her body.

Her breath hitched.

She let go.

A soft ding echoed in his mind:

[Touch of Death Expired] [Cooldown: 24 Hours]

River sagged forward like a deflating tent, wheezing out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Thank whatever gods are watching," he muttered, brushing sweat from his brow. "I'm never using that thing again."

His ribs ached. His back screamed. His pride was somewhere lying in a fetal position beneath the dust. Around him, the crowd didn't cheer. They didn't boo. They just watched, a sea of sharp eyes studying him like a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit.

He took a step forward—then froze.

A gust of wind whipped behind him.

He turned.

The woman—no, the tank in human skin—was already airborne. Her shadow loomed overhead, fists clenched, a scream of rage tearing from her throat. Her war paint streaked across her face, her eyes locked on him with all the fury of a betrayed lover.

"Oh, come on!" River snapped, already stumbling backward. "I thought we were past the killing stage!"

She came down like a hammer—

"STOP."

The word cut through the air like steel.

The Matriarch's voice.

It wasn't loud.

It didn't need to be.

The woman twisted mid-air with inhuman control and landed hard just beside him, knees digging into the dirt, her fists barely missing River's shoulder by inches.

She knelt, breathing hard, but unmoving.

River blinked, still half-expecting a sudden elbow to the jaw. "I swear, if anyone tries to hug me again, I'm biting back."

The Matriarch stood at the edge of the arena platform, her silver armor gleaming under the noon sun. Her eyes didn't blink, didn't waver.

"I've seen enough," she said.

She turned.

"Follow."

River hesitated, looking around at the crowd of Amazonian warriors. Most of them still looked like they wanted to flay him alive and wear his skin as a training sash. But none dared move or speak while the Matriarch was walking.

He looked at Alara.

She offered a silent nod. Her face was calm, but there was amusement behind her stoicism—a ghost of a smirk hiding in the corners of her mouth.

Gritting his teeth, River followed.

They didn't return to the throne room.

They didn't return to the village.

Instead, they walked. Away from the crowds. Away from the platforms and warriors and smoke. Deep into the forest where the trees grew tall enough to blot out the sun and the roots rose like sleeping dragons from the earth.

Branches clawed at his robe. Thorned vines scraped his forearms. At one point, a beetle the size of his hand landed on his shoulder, stared into his soul, then scuttled away without explanation.

He glanced up ahead.

The Matriarch was gliding over the terrain like she belonged to it. Her silver hair shimmered under what little light escaped the canopy. Her armor didn't clank or creak. She moved like a spirit, silent and sure.

River, by comparison, walked like a blindfolded ox through a maze of barbed wire and stumbled like he'd just been dropped out of a library and into a war zone. Which, to be fair, wasn't far from the truth.

"This is how I die," he said under his breath. "Dragged into the woods by a woman who could crush me with her pinky. Probably to be sacrificed to a tree god. Or worse—another hugger."

But he kept walking.

Because the only thing more terrifying than Caelira's silence was the thought of disobeying her.

Eventually, the trees began to shift.

The trunks curved unnaturally. The roots twisted into spirals. The air thickened, like the forest itself was holding its breath. Strange lights flickered in the distance—glows that pulsed like hearts.

Then, they stepped into a clearing.

And everything changed.

The trees formed a perfect circle, their limbs arched overhead like a cathedral. The grass was blue. The ground, soft and pulsing beneath his boots, almost like it was breathing.

In the center of the ring were cages.

"What can you make out of this, Wizard?"

River stopped.

His blood turned cold.

There were warriors inside. Or—what was left of warriors.

Some sat slumped in the corners, skin pale and eyes vacant. Others paced with slow, robotic steps, muscles twitching. They were broken. Hollow.

But they weren't old.

Not really.

They looked old—like decades had passed since the last time they'd held a blade. But something was wrong with that idea. River could feel it. Magic clung to their skin like cobwebs. Their eyes glowed faintly, like remnants of who they once were.

He turned to the Matriarch, his voice suddenly low. "What… what happened to them?"

Caelira stepped beside him, her arms folded.

"Would you believe," she said quietly, "that some of them were larger than you just yesterday?"

River stared at her. "Yesterday? But they look—"

"Drained. Hollowed. Devoured by something you don't understand."

River took another look at the cages, and his stomach twisted.

They weren't just prisoners.

They were warnings.

He turned back toward Caelira, the question already forming. "What did this?"

She didn't blink. Didn't move.

"We are at war," she said. "With the Northern Amazon Domain."

She stepped closer to the largest cage. A warrior inside stirred weakly, her skin clinging to her bones.

"They call themselves the Lione."

River swallowed hard.

Caelira's voice was calm. But it cut deep.

"And this," she said, motioning toward the caged figures, "is their weapon."