Chapter 23: the village of roots

Sienna
The caravan begins to slow down among twisted roots and shadows that stretch like sighs. The air here is denser, but not oppressive. It’s an impossible mixture: the solidity of the Earth Court and the fluidity of the Water Court. I smell moss, but also crystal-clear moisture. I hear waterfalls in the distance. The forest feels split into two natures that coexist without killing each other.

The soldiers search for places to rest. Those from the Earth Court settle efficiently. They roll up blankets, place their weapons, light campfires with ignition stones that seem to hold memory. I see Captain Aldrion giving orders with firm movements, as if he had the forest tied to his fingers.

I sit close to one of the fires. From here, I can see Astrid. My sister is a parrot. Literally. She’s telling stories with her hands, her eyes, her whole body. The soldiers—yes, real soldiers, rough and silent—are spellbound. They laugh, nod, lean in toward her as if drinking in her light.

And they’re not the only ones.

Even Bastian. Leaning against a tree, arms crossed, wearing a smile that slips out without permission. He can’t take his eyes off her.

But when my eyes search for Aldrion... I find him already looking at me.

His expression isn’t obvious. There’s no clear desire, no judgment. Just… attention. An attention that unsettles me and intrigues me all at once.

So I do what feels natural: I break the rules.

I walk toward him without asking permission.

—Do you always look at your soldiers like that? —I ask, stopping beside him.

—Only the ones who keep me up at night a little —he replies without turning his head. His voice is deep, calm… and layered with double meaning.

—And how many have kept you up?

—Few. But none like you.

I raise an eyebrow but smile. This isn’t the moment to give in—but neither to run away.

We sit near one of the fires. He tends the flames with a wooden stick. They spark and crackle, as if eager to listen too.

—I want to understand something —I begin—. Why do the creatures change so much from one Court to another? Why does this forest make me feel so… watched?

Aldrion stays silent for a second. Then he speaks slowly, as if each word must pass through a sieve.

—Because it is alive.

—The forest?

—All of this —he says, gesturing around at the roots, the mist, the light—. The Courts, the creatures, the land. Everything is alive. Everything breathes. Everything remembers.

—You didn’t answer about the monsters.

—Because they’re not monsters. Not in their origin. Do you want the real story?

—Always.

He sighs, as if brushing the dust off an ancient truth.

—Over a thousand years ago, the Courts were in balance. Each held a purpose in the Mother: Earth preserved, Water healed, Fire renewed, Air liberated. Together, they sustained the cycle of life. But the Lords… —his voice drops, turning to shadow—. The Lords fell.

—Fell into what?

—Ambition. Power. Greed. They thought they could take more. Expand their dominions. Shape magic to their will. Sweetness turned bitter. Goodness became poisoned.

—And Mother Nature?

—She warned them. First with storms, then with warped cycles. But no one listened. So she stopped warning. And began punishing.

I swallow. His words feel like an ancient weight.

—Punish how?

—Each Court was visited by creatures. Beasts shaped by the very imbalance they created. Beings that obey no laws or hierarchies. Only instinct and memory. The nimbaris are not the enemy. They’re the mirror.

—And why don’t they scare me anymore?

He looks at me, long and intense.

—Because you’re becoming like them.

I blink.

—What…?

—Untamed. Wild. Maskless. —His smile isn’t mockery; it’s certainty.

He turns back to the fire, his tone dropping to a whisper.

—My grandmother used to say that when everything falls apart, the Mother chooses daughters disguised in beauty. Nymphs, she called them. Beings that seem to carry light, but truly bring war, power… and chaos.

—A prophecy?

—A warning. Centuries ago, the healers received it. It said that when they were born, the world would be ready to break… and be born again.

—And you… do you believe in that?

Aldrion nods solemnly.

—My village awaits it. My people believe everything must hurt first, so we can learn to value it after. The earth cannot heal without bleeding.

—What village?

—The Village of Roots. In the Earth Court. Where stories are passed mouth to mouth, where tales are grown like crops. I… was born among elders who could recount the origin of the wind with their eyes closed.

—And why didn’t you stay?

—Because I was rebellious. Knowledge without action suffocated me. So one day, I left. Walked to the Lord’s castle and enlisted as a soldier.

—And Bastian?

—Trained with me. At first, he couldn’t stand me. I defeated him in combat, earned his respect. He asked me to be his guard. I accepted. I’ve followed him ever since.

We’re quiet for a moment.

—Where can I read about that prophecy? —I ask in a lower voice.

He lets out a short laugh, something almost tender.

—Curious. One day I’ll take you to my village and you’ll see that not everything needs to be read. Some knowledge is sung, some is dreamed. Elders who see beyond time. You’d be surprised by what they can teach without a single word.

My lips curve before I notice.

—You’re tempting me, captain.

—I’m not trying not to.

We look at each other.

And then, the sky breaks into wonder.

The night doesn’t darken—it lights up. The upper branches begin to glow with amber light. Vines of transparent sap drip liquid stars. The stones on the ground light up when stepped on. The water in the distance reflects turquoise like it, too, is dreaming. The entire forest breathes… in magic.