Escape

Asa’s breath comes in short bursts. The air inside the cave grows hotter, not from the fire, but from the way the roots groan and shift, pressing in closer by the second. The flickering flame beside her sputters, almost swallowed by the thickening walls. She wipes sweat from her brow, eyes darting from ceiling to floor, calculating.

She grabs the small metal pot they’d boiled water in earlier. It still holds a finger-width of liquid. Without hesitation, she swings it, making a waterfall-like structure in motion.

Asa quickly touches the water, making it stiffens instantly, expanding into a jagged column of colorless ice. It doesn’t stop the forest’s movement, but the wood slows down, adjusting around the sudden, unnatural spike.

Asa kneels, pressing both hands to the ground.

The soil around her sizzles, becomes faint and cloudy, revealing what lies below.

A knotted lattice of roots pulsing faintly, weaving through the earth like veins. Some coil tighter as she observes, twitching like they’re aware of her gaze

Asa sighs, so even digging down is not the way. Nevertheless, an idea starts to form in her head.

If the forest can move, if it chooses to trap me…then it has awareness.

And if it’s aware…

“It will fear harm.”

Her voice is barely a whisper.

Behind her, the fire cracks one last time. The final branch breaks into ash as the last bit of fuel.

No time left.

Asa moves quickly. She thrusts her right hand into the dying flame, using it as a fuel. And just before instinct screams at her to recoil, she has solidified the fire so it doesn’t burn her.

It hardens around her skin, clinging like glowing amber. Her arm becomes a torch - a twisted shard of living flame frozen in form, and yet still burning. The heat radiates outward, fierce and painful.

Yes, really painful.

Without hesitation, Asa slams her burning hand into the roots.

They twitch and split, then slowly retreats from that area. The wall loosens, just barely enough.

Asa jumps forward, putting her other hand on the remaining rocks.

They burst into vapor. A narrow path opens in the chaos.

She dives, rolls, scrapes her knees on the rough ground. The solid fire shatters off her hand, extinguishes right that moment.

Behind her, the cave collapses inward.

…

Spidaract’s limbs bound tight, body swaying with each wingbeat of the massive owl-creature that has taken him. Its feathers are perfect to blend in the shadow and allow it to fly silently, so there is no way for anyone to notice and help him. The pressure around his torso is too strong that he can’t even twitch an inch.

After almost thirty minutes of screeching and struggling, Spidaract realises it is much better to use that energy to observe the creature.

He notes the way it banks slightly on each left wingbeat. It’s subtle, Spidaract may not be able to notice without any of his six eyes.

Creatures born to the sky don’t fly like that unless they have to. It’s just instinct to save as much energy as possible, but this one drifts slightly with every stroke of its left wing, like it’s compensating for a weakness it has long grown used to.

Spidaract shifts his gaze upward, narrowing his many eyes.

The tip of its left wing…thinner.

There are fewer feathers at the edge, not like being pulled out, but absent altogether. It seems like a long-standing injury, perhaps a scar that prevents new growth.

He wets the inner of his mandibles, embeds his string in the poisonous substance that is his own saliva.

In a burst too fast for human eyes to catch, Spidaract spits a fine line of web to the very tip of the creature’s wing.

The beast shrieks, throwing its own balance. It jerks in the air, one wing stuck awkwardly mid-beat. A hard flap sends it veering sideways. The creature crashes, claws first, into a massive tree branch, shattering bark as it scrambles for a grip.

Spidaract is still held in its talon.

The creature lets out a furious screech and lifts him, beak drawn back.

Another spit, this time aimed at its eyes.

The web hits.

The owl shrieks louder, wings flailing, eyes blinded. The talons loosen. Spidaract twists, finally breaking the bind around his midsection, and then jumps down from the hundreds-meter tree.

He spits his web to the tree, reducing his falling speed, and lands with two broken limbs.

…

Arthur presses his back against the damp trunk of a massive tree, trying to slow his breath. Every breath is heavy. Sweat trickles down his neck, annoying, but he doesn’t dare move.

Just beyond the thick roots, footsteps crunch softly - two sets, moving apart, then circling again.

Carrie and Uta.

A branch cracks somewhere to his left.

Then comes Carrie’s voice, sweet and cruel.

“Oh no… did the prince’s punching bag run away? I thought he wanted to be a hero.”

“Carrie, focus,” Uta says, worried that Enger may catch them doing this in his back.

Carrie blinks at Uta, then continues. “We should leaves this coward slug alone, you are just to

Arthur grits his teeth. His chest twists from shame.

He is the chosen one, he is the destined hero.

But now, he is hiding like a coward, like his old self hiding from the crowd.

His knuckles tighten.

“No,” he mutters. “I’m more than that!”

Arthur pushes off the tree and crouches. The forest is thick with shadow, even the moonlight struggles to pierce the canopy. A perfect setting for stealth.

Arthur makes mana spreads down his arms like ink bleeding through water, cooling his skin as it goes. In seconds, his body darkens to match the bark around him.

Arthur tries to charge, his movement is somehow naturally quiet.

The first strike comes fast, a sudden flash from the dark. The retreat is even faster from fear of getting caught.

His fist slams into Carrie’s side.

She stumbles with a curse, spinning to swing back, but Arthur’s already gone.

The second strike lands on Uta’s ribs. The boy flinches, but doesn’t yell. His eyes just narrow as Arthur fades into the dark again.

Carrie growls. “Where is he?!”

Uta blinks twice at. “You tell me.”

Arthur watches from above this time, perched halfway up a slanted trunk. His chest burns from effort, but his pride is roaring. He’s not a coward, he doesn’t run, he fights like a true hero.

He drops down and slams a third blow into Carrie’s back. She yelps and whips around.

She smirks. “Here you go.”

Arthur grins. He steps back into the dark, preparing for another ambush. But…

The ground shifts.

Suddenly, his foot sinks into soft earth where there was none a second ago. His weight tips.

A trap.

Before he can react, the ground beneath him bulges upward, warping unnaturally and then hardens around his ankles like sudden stone.

Arthur gasps. “What?”

It’s just right now that Arthur sees a red light on Carrie’s palm, which flows directly into Uta. His eyes meet Arthur’s with eerie calm.

“You’re smart,” Uta says. “But inexperienced.”

Arthur doesn’t have time to wonder - Carrie is suddenly in front of him, too fast, fist flying like a spear.

Arthur tries to dodge, but the ground holds him.

The punch hits him hard.

His head snaps back.

The second hit crashes into his gut. Arthur’s breath flies out in a sharp wheeze. The third comes from below, lifting him off his feet.

Suddenly, Eterna Sylva…dies.

One blink ago, Arthur is trapped in the land of a nightmare. Now he lies on open earth beneath the pale morning sky, breath sharp in his chest. The trees that had loomed and twisted now crumble into dust, vanishing like ash caught in reverse wind.

Across the clearing, Uta and Carrie freeze in place, then bolt.

They don’t look back. Their eyes are locked on a lone figure staggering in the distance.

Enger.

He clutches a glowing blue sphere wrapped in splinters of wood, barely standing. Blood runs down his face - from his ears, eyes, and nose - dripping onto a shirt torn open by deep, raw scars. His usual swagger is gone, replaced by a quiet desperation in every trembling step.

Carrie shouts his name. Uta runs faster than Arthur’s ever seen.

Arthur doesn’t move. He watches them go.

Then a voice echoes through the still air, unnaturally calm.

“Guess that’s the end of Eterna Sylva.”

It’s Mike.

He hovers above the clearing, staff across his shoulders, cloak trailing in the windless space like smoke. His expression is unreadable.

“Only one team used their bottle.”

Arthur looks up.

“Which means only one team fails.”

His chest tightens as Mike looks directly at him.

“…Sorry, kid.”

The silence that follows is louder than any roar the forest could’ve made.