The grove whispered. Not with words, but with something deeper—roots groaning in ancient rhythm beneath the earth, winds curling like the breath of sleeping titans. Riven stood before the seeress, her blindfold shimmering faintly in the silver glow of the sacred glade. Her voice, ageless and cracked with the dust of centuries, filled the silence.
"You are a convergence point, Riven of Orthon."
Her words hung like fate itself, unblinking.
"A soul not bound to one destiny, but splintering across countless futures… each forged in battle. Some... ending in flame."
She raised a pale hand, touching the bark of the worldroot behind her. The tree responded, pulsing with luminous veins—light spilling from the earth into her fingers. Riven tensed, sensing a pull not of flesh, but of something inside his soul.
Then the vision struck him.
He saw himself—taller, heavier with power, cloaked in celestial flame. His arms were scorched, gauntlets cracked and broken. Corpses lay strewn across a blackened battlefield—some wore crowns, others bore holy insignias. His own eyes stared back at him through the vision—cold, emptied of mercy.
Riven gasped, staggering a step back.
But he didn't fall.
Instead, he met the seeress's gaze—or where her gaze would be—steadily. "If that is my future," he said, voice low and clear, "then I will bend it to my will. Fate doesn't rule me."
The trees seemed to still. The glade itself held its breath.
The seeress gave a slight nod, more sensed than seen. "Then be watched, not condemned. Marked, not judged."
She pressed her hand to his chest. A sigil of green and gold flared over his heart—a leaf crowned by flame.
"The forest will know your name."
When Riven returned to the caravan, dawn was breaking—a hazy gold bleeding into the fog. The guards looked up sharply, weapons half-drawn, but relaxed at the mark glowing faintly on his chest. Geller opened his mouth to speak, then shut it. No one questioned his absence. No one dared.
An hour later, they reached the Emerald Gates.
Massive trees, braided into towers by ancient magic, loomed ahead—each trunk thicker than a castle wall, shaped and hollowed into guardian spires. Vines wove themselves into bridges and stairs, and somewhere in the canopy, windchimes sang from the breath of nature alone.
At the gates stood the Elven Guard, plated in shimmering leafsteel. Their eyes were sharp, the color of polished emerald, and their expressions unmoving.
But they parted at the sight of the seer's mark. Not in welcome—only in recognition.
The caravan moved into Velarion, and silence followed them.
Everything pulsed with quiet power. The city didn't breathe like Orthon—it listened. The towers were alive. The ground was soft with moss but held more weight than stone. Magic laced the air like pollen, whispering songs Riven could not understand.
But he felt it.
Everything watched him.
A predator among prey.
Even the roots beneath the street curved slightly away from his boots.
Inside a crystalline hall suspended over a river of glowing water, trade discussions began. Riven stood behind Geller's ornate chair, arms crossed, eyes alert. He felt the tension in every flick of an elven ear, every glance thrown his way like a dagger not yet drawn.
Then he felt another gaze—heavier, colder.
Footsteps echoed across the bridge behind them.
An elven commander approached, his hair silver as moonlight, armor like etched marble, voice crisp and commanding.
"You."
Riven's gaze flicked upward.
"You carry the aura of a warrior," the elf said, tone cutting but precise. "By the Laws of the Old Forest, any outsider who walks as a predator must submit to trial. You will duel."
Geller stammered behind him. "Surely, my lord, we can come to—"
"I'll fight."
Riven stepped forward, voice calm, unwavering.
The elf's eyebrow barely lifted. "So be it."
The dueling ground lay beneath an open canopy of moonlight—circular, flat, ringed by woven trees that naturally shaped a perfect arena. A thin circle of bark had grown like a ring, unmarred and sacred.
On the far end stood his opponent: Sylas the Windpiercer.
Lean. Calm. Deadly.
He wore no armor, only a silver cloak. A single longbow rested across his back, but he stepped forward with nothing in his hands—only confidence and an aura of speed. The air around him bent, ever so slightly, as if even stillness was too slow for him.
Riven rolled his shoulders.
He couldn't use Flash Step—it hadn't recharged yet.
He wouldn't need it.
The bell rang.
Sylas moved first.
A blur. A whisper of air. Then he was behind Riven—leg sweeping low. Riven barely turned in time, blocking with a raised knee. Pain bloomed where Sylas struck, but Riven grunted, pivoted, and lashed out with a hook.
Sylas leaned just out of reach, hair fluttering, and tapped Riven's shoulder with two fingers.
A mocking blow.
Riven's eyes narrowed.
He stepped in—not chasing speed, but baiting it.
The moment Sylas struck again, Riven dropped low, Ssireum: Low Tackle activating.
Sylas barely evaded the initial slam—but that was the setup.
Riven's hand shot up, gripping the elf's thigh.
Ssireum: Back Hook.
The elf was thrown—not far, but enough. His foot barely caught the ground, but Riven was already on him, fists flying.
Muay Thai Combo: Elbow, Elbow, Knee, Hook.
The rhythm was brutal. Unrelenting.
Sylas blocked the first elbow, dodged the second, but the knee caught him in the side. He twisted, eyes wide—not in fear, but in surprise.
"You're no ordinary human," he muttered.
Riven smiled, just slightly. "You're not the first to realize that too late."
Sylas clicked his tongue and vanished—reappearing across the ring with a spin. His fingers danced. From his belt came a ripple of wind—arrows summoned from thin air.
Three bolts fired in a blink.
Riven ducked one, side-stepped the second, but the third scraped his arm.
Pain flared. Blood dripped.
The duel escalated.
For what felt like minutes, they danced—Sylas with speed and finesse, Riven with raw technique and brutal control. Every hit Riven landed made the audience flinch. Every graze Sylas delivered whispered how close death could be.
Then it ended.
Sylas landed from a leap, knees bent, breathing sharp. Riven stood upright, blood on his temple, knuckles bruised, but his spine straight.
The air stood still.
The seeress's sigil on his chest pulsed once.
Sylas lowered his bow.
"…I yield."
No cheer followed.
Only silence.
Then a single sound—roots curling upward beneath Riven's feet, cradling him for a heartbeat, then letting go.
The forest had judged.
And accepted.