The clearing was quiet save for the low hum of the demanaifying field that shimmered faintly in the forest's dense air. Mana flickers, once radiant around Oligar's and Haaskin's limbs, sputtered out like dying embers. Even the light that glowed naturally in Haaskin's fingertips when his pulse quickened was gone. It was as if the forest itself had swallowed their power whole.
The trees stood tall and silent, their ancient roots twisting through moss and loam, bearing silent witness to the confrontation that brewed in their midst. Birds had gone quiet. Insects buzzed low but avoided the open air, keeping close to bark and leaf. The very atmosphere felt suspended.
"You are unable to utilize your mana in this location, so I advise against any attempts to resist and urge you to respond to my inquiry with utmost diligence." the woman stated. Her voice carried an air of authority, indicative of a personality used to being obeyed. With her arms crossed over a tunic adorned with leaf and root patterns. Her long braid, intricately interwoven with bits of bark, as if it's an extension of her commanding presence. She regarded them with piercing eyes, the vibrant green of her irises contrasting sharply with the dim light filtering through the canopy above.
She added, almost as an afterthought yet with a hint of sharpness, "And I appreciate your efforts in damaging the edges of the forest."
Haaskin bristled, fists twitching by his sides. A flare of protest rose in his chest, but Oligar raised a hand without looking at him, halting his movement.
"It's not our doing, Madam," Oligar said, voice calm but deliberate. "You might not be aware of the outside world."
The woman's lip curled slightly. "Oh, I'm aware," she said, taking a step forward. Her leather boots made no sound on the forest floor. "The Democracy and the Authority are at each other's throats. And we folk of Whisperwood? We have no business with either. We don't care about Zedah as a nation. We don't want to intervene. We don't need to."
Oligar tilted his head, acknowledging her words, but his gaze was unwavering.
"You might not have a choice."
His words cut through the tension like a blade. Her brow furrowed. She motioned subtly to a few of her guards—painted in ash and bark, bows ready. Still, she didn't interrupt.
"The Authority has already sown its seeds in Zedah," Oligar said. "If we don't stop them from taking over the palace—if we don't rescue the king—war will break out at the outskirts. Whether you want to be involved or not, you will feel the effects. Authority doesn't respect borders. Or neutrality."
A breath of wind rustled the leaves. A branch creaked. The leader's expression shifted slightly—uncertainty flickered in her eyes.
"And I've already signalled the Democracy. Reinforcements are coming," Oligar added. "You may choose to remain isolated, but remember this—under Authority rule, this forest is nothing but ground covering untapped resources. And they will take them."
She blinked, glancing away. Her jaw worked as though chewing over the bitter truth.
Oligar took a measured step forward. "I believe more robots will follow us into this village. You'd better prepare yourself. So, please, give us the bike you have."
The woman laughed bitterly. It was not the laugh of someone amused, but of someone who'd just realized the cruelty of irony. "You come into my forest, dragging war behind you, and now you ask for our only powered vehicle?"
"We don't ask it lightly," Oligar replied. His voice held weight now, the edge of desperation beneath practised restraint.
The tension lingered, brittle as dried bark.
Haaskin clenched his jaw. Sweat dotted his brow as he closed his eyes, focusing. He tried to pull his mana inward, to summon even a spark—but the forest resisted. No aura flared. No energy answered.
His breath hitched. He opened his eyes and let out a grunt. "Useless…" he muttered, low and frustrated. His hands dropped to his sides.
The leader noticed. Her gaze softened a fraction, the hard lines of her face easing as she looked away. She took a few steps toward the edge of the clearing, as if seeking clarity from the trees themselves.
"If what you say is true…" she murmured. "Then we are on the verge of war if the king falls."
Her fingers traced the edge of a carved bracelet, worn smooth with age. She turned sharply back to them.
"Fine," she said. "I will grant your request. You can move through Whisperwood to the king's palace. And you may take the bike."
Oligar nodded, his expression respectful, but tense. "Thank you. We won't forget this."
The woman's eyes narrowed again. "But the child is not meeting her father."
"Why?" Haaskin stepped forward, each word edged with disbelief—his brows knit, jaw tense. "We've risked our lives to protect your village. We stopped those Authority machines from turning Whisperwood into scrap and cinders. You can't grant this little one her only wish?"
His voice cracked slightly, raw and unfiltered. "Why are you being so harsh on a kid like that? She's done nothing but survive—and hope."
The leader's expression didn't soften. If anything, it hardened like the bark of the ancient trees surrounding them. Her stance shifted subtly, weight braced, like she was preparing to take the blow of judgment and return it with equal force.
"Because she involved outsiders like you in the Whisperwood's affairs. Twice," she said, the words clipped like flint. "She broke the line that protects us. The line we've drawn in root and blood to keep the outside out."
Her gaze flicked to Anora. Something moved behind her eyes—not hatred, not fury—but a fierce, bone-deep rigidity. A refusal to bend, no matter the storm.
"At this moment," she continued, voice low and iron-bound, "you should be thankful I'm even leaving the door cracked. Once her task is done, there may be a path home for her. But until then, she is not of us."
She turned her eyes back to Haaskin, sharp and unwavering. "And once I make a decision, even I cannot undo it. These are laws, not rules—etched into the rhythm of this forest since our ancestors first stepped beneath its canopy. Laws that guard not just the people—but the very soul of Whisperwood."
Haaskin's eyes widened. His breath hitched. He didn't move for a moment.
Then he spoke—voice trembling, not with fear, but with fury laced in quiet heartbreak.
"Well, screw it," he growled. "You egotistical woman—so proud of your laws, so wrapped in the illusion of order that you can't even see your own hypocrisy."
Oligar's eyes snapped to him. "Haaskin—"
But Haaskin pressed on, voice rising with the wind.
"You're so desperate to show strength that you've forgotten what compassion looks like. Someone stole your sacred treasure, didn't they? That's what this is really about. You failed. And instead of facing that, instead of looking inward, you found an easier target—a girl. A child who just wants her father."
The leader's eyes narrowed into slits. Guards around the perimeter shifted uneasily.
"Haaskin." Oligar's voice was firmer now, measured but sharp. "That is not the way to speak."
"But Master," Haaskin said, turning toward him, hands balled into fists, "this woman isn't fit to lead anyone if she can't tell justice from fear. She hides behind tradition to mask her own shame. And she makes me—angry."
He exhaled, a sharp gust through clenched teeth. The kind of anger that simmered for years before finding a spark.
Then he turned to Anora.
She hadn't moved. She stood still as stone, shoulders drawn in, eyes wide. Her little fists were clenched at her sides, though they trembled with the effort to stay still. Her lower lip quivered ever so slightly, but she didn't cry.
"Anora," Haaskin said softly now, stepping closer, voice steadying, "go. Go see your father. If your leader won't put you first, then you don't owe her obedience. You don't owe anyone silence."
He knelt slightly to meet her eyes. "You have a right to your family. You have a right to your heart."
The girl looked at him, a thousand thoughts swimming behind her young eyes. She turned slowly, her gaze shifting to the leader—the woman she had once looked up to, the one who now stood like a wall between her and her origin.
Anora opened her mouth to speak—but no words came.
She simply looked down, shoulders lifting slightly as if bracing against some unseen weight.
And then… she let them fall.
The wind whispered. The forest watched.
And beneath it all, something in Anora shifted—not loudly, not visibly—but deeply. The quiet resolve of someone who'd learned that sometimes, your home doesn't keep you safe. Sometimes, you have to carve your own path.
The leader said nothing more. She didn't shout. Didn't argue. But the rigidity in her spine was unmistakable. She turned away, arms folding once more as she stared toward the deeper woods, where sunlight fell in thin spears between trembling branches.
Her silence said everything.
Oligar stepped beside him, eyes unreadable.
"You may have been right," he said, voice low. "But don't forget—words cut both ways."
Haaskin nodded, jaw tight.
"I just couldn't stand by and watch her be crushed by a tradition that doesn't care if she breaks."
They stood there, the three of them, caught between law and rebellion, duty and defiance.
And all around them, the forest whispered.
Watching. Listening. Waiting.