The timber rested wrapped in a suffocating silence that hung over Zepp's skin like a living thing. The mayhem of devastation that had raged seconds before—the screaming gusts, the booms of splintered trees, the crackling boom of searing lightning that had torn through the very fabric of existence itself—had all vanished, leaving only an unsettling stillness that was darker than any tempest.
The acrid smell of ozone and smoldering wood clung to the air, mixing with the loamy fragrance of earth overturned and burned by forces beyond nature's will. Where massive oaks had stood for hundreds of years, only blackened stumps remained, their broken forms reaching toward the darkening sky like the broken fingers of subterranean giants. The ground itself under her feet was scarred with the signs of her rising—deep channels etched into stone and soil, warm to the touch and still faintly glowing with lingering power.
Zepp struggled through the ruins that she had made, each step a titanic effort against exhaustion enveloping her like a heavy cloak. Her legs quivered beneath her with each stride, threatening at any moment to give way beneath her, and she breathed in trembling, anguished sobs that seemed to scald her throat. The power that had exploded out of her—that impossible, terrifying ability that had remade the world itself around her—lived still beneath her skin like a second heartbeat, a wild reminder that she wasn't that same girl who'd brought healing plants and saved lost kittens.
What am I? She asked that with every hard step, but there was no answer from the ruined forest that stood around her.
Her apprentice robes hung in tatters, the richly woven fabric that Selva had ensorcelled with gentle protective charms now scorching rags of little value to keep the cold night air at bay. Cuts and scrapes covered her arms and legs where she had stumbled through thorns in wild flight, and mud hardened on her boots, every step heavier than the last.
But she could not stop. Not yet. The memory of the three robed men—their professional demeanor, their flipant discussion of grabbing her, their terror when her power had smote them—inspired her forward in spite of the overwhelming weariness which seemed to threaten to weigh her down into blissful nothingness.
She is his blood. That is all that counts. The words kept replaying in her mind, fragments of a dialogue that meant nothing yet had consequences too awful to fully think about. Whose blood? What did they perceive in her that she saw nothing in herself?
The vision she had seen at waking still seared within her mind with searing clarity. That vast battle-scene scored in hues of desolation, the extended arm that had felt so agonizingly familiar, the voice that had spoken words of possession in the face of an unspannable gulf. It had been stronger than life, more real than memory, as if she had seen but a fleeting glimpse through a window into events which existed outside the normal course of time and space.
The cold night air nipped at the exposed skin, bearing odors she was unfamiliar with—the familiar forest odors of pine and wildflower, to be sure, but something else, something that informed her of distances greater than the miles she had walked from the tower. Magic lay on the air like invisible mist, and her nascent senses stirred with a knowledge of forces she could neither name nor define.
And then, through the storm of her thoughts and haze of exhaustion, the forest opened before her.
A glade filled with otherworldly silver light spread out like a natural cathedral, its boundaries drawn by trees that had survived the destruction she had unleashed. Moonlight streamed down through the leaf cover in an odd intensity, as if the celestial body above kept its eye focused on this one single part of earth. The grass under such bright light was nigh on silver in itself, every blade appearing to hold and reflect light with an otherworldly beauty that made the piece of land holy, cut away from the dull world beyond its boundary.
On the edge of this moonlit plain was a figure that froze Zepp's breath in her throat.
A woman, perhaps young, no more than a year or two older than her, but with a sense of poise and presence that bespoke somebody much older. She was standing stock still, stock balanced, as if she had been waiting in the same position for hours, or perhaps years, without so much as a flicker of impatience or tiredness.
Her dress was unlike anything Zepp had ever seen, even in the picture books that Selva kept in the library of the tower. Alongside a dress of whitest silk that reached her ankles in flowing folds, she wore armor that looked to have been made by masters rather than ordinary smiths. The breastplate, pauldrons, and vambraces glittered to a mirror sheen, their surfaces glazed with inlaid engravings so finely cut that they reflected the moon and sent glints flashing back in patterns too intricate to follow with the eye. The metal was so fine, so accurately proportioned, that it enhanced rather than hid the feminine lines of the body it protected.
Over one hip was buckled a sword, carried in a worked leather and silver scabbard, the weapon's presence less threatening than ceremonial. Still, Zepp could sense the power in it—not the raw, untrained brutality she had seen too recently, but something honed, some strength controlled, tempered by practice and dedication over many years.
Most remarkable of all was her hair—silver as moonlight and bound up in a brief ponytail that bobbed gently in the gentle air that stirred through the clearing. The color was too pure, too bright to be a natural one, suggesting either magical conception or some blessing that had altered her from the run of ordinary men. Under that waterfall of metal-colored silk, her face was the sort of beauty that would be found in ballads and myth—strength, not softness or delicacy, with high cheekbones and a jawline that broadcast determination tempered by kindness.
Her eyes, when they looked into Zepp's, were a deep blue-gray that reminded him of storm clouds, wide awake and observant in the manner of someone trained to size up possible dangers or persons in need. There was surprise in that gaze—not shock, exactly, but tempered surprise from a woman who hadn't expected to see a disheveled, mud-caked girl stumbling out of what appeared to be a devastated forest. Her face shifted in the blink of an eye from wary reserve to alarm as she absorbed Zepp's obviously traumatic state.
For what seemed like forever, neither moved. Zepp stood frozen on the edge of the clearing, her chest tight with exhaustion and sheer confusion at all that had just occurred. The knight did not move, however, her posture that of someone deliberating something before she acted, deciding if this stranger was in danger, in need of rescue, or both.
The voice of the knight shattered the enchantment, his words even and distinct with the educated cadences of the kingdom's aristocracy but tempered by something warmer than politeness itself.
"Lost?" The question was not commanding or demanding but a gentle inquiry posed without expectation of immediate response. The tone conveyed the demeanor of one who worked among refugees and stranded wayfarers, one whose responsibility was to protect rather than interrogate.
Zepp could only nod, her throat shut by fear and confusion that went well beyond where she stood at the moment. She was lost in ways that had nothing to do with forest paths and geographical signs—lost in the simple understanding of what and who she was, lost in a world that was suddenly full of danger and complexity she had never imagined.
The knight stared at her for a good long time, storm-colored eyes drinking in the clean evidence of distress—the torn clothes, the heaviness that slumped on her shoulders, the little dance she was performing on her feet as if attempting to remain upright. Whatever had been done to this girl, it was clear that she had suffered some greater ordeal than bad fortune.
"You're not from around here," she said, the comment made with gentle question rather than distrust. Her language flowed with the refined rhythm of the gentry, but tempered by genuine concern. "And you appear to have had. difficulty."
As she advanced, her pace was that of silk moving smoothly, with no indication of urgency or aggression. Even in armor as she moved, she possessed the natural poise of one well-trained in combat and courtly manners, one in which physical beauty was worth as much as military skill.
Zepp did not know what to do. Her heart was racing with a confused mixture of fear and something else—something that lay very close to hope. The presence of the knight broadcast calm authority, the kind of stability that spoke of training and discipline but of compassion. There was about her stance an implication of someone who took seriously the duty of protecting those in need, regardless of station or circumstance.
Silently, the knight advanced again, her step careful and non-threatening. The moonlight fell on the shining surface of her armor, sending soft glints over the silver grass of the clearing.
"Come with me," she breathed, her voice carrying the soft authority of one accustomed to being obeyed, yet tempered with kindness.
It wasn't an austere command, but not an offer. It was the tone of a woman who had paced out the circumstances and made the right decision—spoken with the firmness of duty but offered with compassion. The words held a promise of certainty: that whatever had caused this stranger such apparent misery, she would never again have to suffer it alone.
Zepp stood frozen, still shaken from the horror of her wake, her mind reeling from all that had happened in the brief course of a few catastrophic hours. The day had begun like any other— simple things—passing herbs, helping with healings, following the simple routine that had been her entire life. And now she stood amidst the devastation of a forest that she had razed, before a stranger whose presence seemed to hold the promise of answers to questions she dared not ask.
But as she looked into the knight's unyielding eyes, she discovered that she trusted him. Not the profound, mystical pull of destiny or fate, but the simple, human recognition of an individual genuinely trying to help. The posture of the knight described honor and duty, a man who would provide aid to a stranger with no expectation of reward.
Something in the quiet professionalism reassured her, cutting through the tempest of fear and bewilderment that had overwhelmed her mind since the assault. Behind her was all the devastation; before her was the unknown; and the terrible consciousness she bore of power she could not seize or command. Nonetheless, she started to move on slowly.
And through the tempest of fear storming in her mind, she walked slowly, uncertainly towards the shape, trusting in the simple human decency she had seen in the fury-blackened eyes more than in the crushing fear. Each step over the silver grass was burdened, as if she was crossing more than spatial distance—as if she was entering from one region of her existence into another.
The knight watched her approach with an air of calculated professionalism, the sort of cool measurement that betrayed one trained to handle refugees and displaced people. Since the distance between them had reduced to feet, Zepp was able to read more details which testified to the woman's experience—the minute scratches and dents on her armor more characteristic of actual practice as compared to ritual, the calluses on her sword arm which attested to her being a serious practitioner of her craft, the silver pendant on her neck which could either be a religious symbol or family crest.
"Who are you?" Zepp drew breath, her tone no louder than the gentle susurr of wind through the scant trees.
The knight paused, and for a moment something flickered across her features—uncertainty, perhaps, or the consideration of someone weighing protocols against compassion. "I am..." she began, then stopped, tilting her head slightly as if listening to something Zepp couldn't hear. "Perhaps it's better if names wait until we're somewhere safer. These forests can carry voices farther than intended, and you seem to have encountered trouble already."
The response was pragmatic, not magical, the sort of discretion that the discussion of military training rather than magic. But there was a penitent note to her voice, as though she regretted that precautions were needed.
"Where are we going?" she asked instead, adopting the woman's discretion but still needing some sense of direction, some point of reference in the breakdown her life had hit.
"There's a camp not very far from here," was the thoughtful answer. "A camp where knights go to train in field exercises and border patrol duty. It's well-guarded and well-equipped to deal with unexpected situations." The knight's gaze raked Zepp's tattered robes and obvious fatigue with a clinical assessment. "You look as though you could use medical attention and a safe place to recover. The healers at that camp can assist you."
The reaction was prosaically flat after everything Zepp had been through, but perhaps that is precisely what she needed—plain, functional support from a person who was not trying to keep her in or unlock potential within her. Simple plain human empathy from a knight doing her duty.
"You know what I am?" The words tumbled out ahead of Zepp's ability to catch them, driven by desperate hope that someone, anyone, would have answers for questions that tormented her.
The knight did look genuinely perplexed by the question, her brow creasing. "You're someone who's had a pretty terrible day, by the look of things," she replied warily. "Is there anything further you should be told?" There was a hint of curiosity in her voice now, the first sign that Zepp's question had raised genuine interest rather than mere professional concern.
The disappointment should have been clear on Zepp's face, because the knight's expression eased with something that was close to sympathy. "Sorry," she said quietly. "I wish I could have answers for you, but I don't think you're asking me questions. What I can offer you is sanctuary, at least tonight, and hopefully between us we can figure out what's troubling you."
The path forward still uncertain, still enigmatic, but perhaps that was right. Not all appointments were arranged by destiny, not all salvations had universal significance. Sometimes help was given in the simple guise of a dutiful knight doing her job, offering practical aid to someone in trouble with no hidden agenda or mystical motivation.
But for the first time since her reality had fallen apart and red lightning, Zepp sensed the vibration of something that would one day be hope—not because she had discovered someone who understood her mysterious gifts, but because she had discovered someone who would help without needing to understand.
And from that simple human beginning, things continued. No great fate hung over them, no destinies to be bound—only the plain generosity of one human to another, which perhaps could have been more valuable than all the worldly destiny in the world.
The next chapter was in store to be enacted, and perhaps it was sufficient that she would not have to suffer it alone.
Behind them, in the charred-out glade of the woods, there were lingering smoldering remnants of red power amidst the charred-out stumps like smoldering coals. And in the distance, where lines between worlds grew thinner than a breath, ancient powers felt the commotion and awakened with wicked curiosity.
The awakening had barely begun.