The continent of Len'Caria was a paradox: where beauty bloomed beside danger, and serenity masked wild magic. Unlike the gray, industrial spires of Draventa, Len'Caria's cities were woven into nature. Its towers were grown, not built—sprouting from crystal-rooted trees, shaped over decades by druids and lightweavers.
And here, in a region called the Valemere Basin, the wind carried not just scent—but memory.
Above the valley, on a glimmering ledge known as the Moonstep Ridge, stood a lone archer.
She knelt silently, one boot planted against a rootstone, the other flexed for balance. Her cloak was stitched from spectral silk—changing hue with the weather. Her lavender eyes reflected the basin below: a half-shattered lake frozen in time by ancient magic, surrounded by fallen constructs that still twitched with residual aether.
Her name was Iris Sorell. Sixteen years old. Enclave-ranked Archer of the Third Petal. Daughter of House Sorell—the least noble noble family in Vyreleaf, but the loudest at parties.
And today, she was annoyed.
"Seventy-three," she muttered. "All synthetic. No real challenge. I swear, if one more eyeball drone floats into my line of sight, I'm going to—"
Her bow pulsed in her hand.
Not the usual warm hum of acknowledgment, but a thrumming resonance. A ripple of awareness.
"Oh?" she blinked. "That's new."
She rose, brushing off the dust from her hips. The Starwood bow, a relic of her grandmother's era, responded only to bloodline. But sometimes, it felt like it had a personality—and that personality had just picked up something big.
Iris tapped her ear crystal, connecting to the local ley-comm node.
"This is Iris. Sector 12, Ridge Outpost. I'm getting a flare. Not enemy—something… else. Something strong."
A crackly voice responded. "You have permission to investigate, but do not engage. Return by duskfall."
She didn't respond.
Because she was already running.
The forests of Len'Caria were living mazes—trees that moved slightly when you blinked, mushrooms that whispered, vines that snored. But Iris knew them better than she knew her own bedroom. She leapt between glowing roots, her boots barely touching moss, as if gravity itself forgot to hold her down.
Ten minutes later, she skidded to a halt near the banks of the Whispering Fen.
There he was.
Kael Virek.
Not that she knew his name yet. But the second her bow picked up his aura, she saw it—his connection to weapons. It wasn't just magical affinity. It was resonance. As if the steel itself remembered him.
He was standing on the edge of a broken bridge, sword in hand, facing down a malformed beast made of discarded alchemic armor and moss-grown circuitry.
He was also… shirtless.
"…Huh."
Her brain short-circuited for half a second.
Kael moved with terrifying grace—each motion a conversation with the blade. His sword was chipped and dirt-streaked, but in his hands, it looked royal. The construct lunged—and Kael ducked low, twisting with a sweeping arc that sliced through its knee joint.
The creature collapsed, screeching.
And then, of course, his foot slipped.
SPLASH!
Kael tumbled into the shallow mud beside the bridge, sputtering. His sword flew upward and landed point-down in the dirt beside him.
Iris… snorted.
"He looked so cool a second ago."
She stepped out from the shadows and clapped twice.
"Nice dive. Did the mud offend you?"
Kael froze.
Still on his back, half-covered in muck, he craned his head toward her.
"Who… are you?"
"Iris Sorell. Local archer, plant whisperer, and deliverer of sarcastic commentary."
She walked closer, eyeing the sword. It vibrated faintly—still resonant.
"You're the Echo-Blood, huh?"
Kael sat up, scowling. "Don't call me that."
"Why? It's a compliment." Iris tilted her head. "Or is that mud in your ears?"
He groaned and stood, shaking his arms out, muck dripping from his collarbone. He realized a moment too late that his pants were stuck. When he tried to move, they slipped down just enough to reveal the top of his—
"Okay, easy!" Iris shouted, spinning around with flaming cheeks. "This is not the kind of echo I wanted to see today!"
Kael cursed and yanked them back up. "Could've warned me!"
"Could've worn a belt!"
A brief, awkward silence.
Then she laughed.
Not mockingly—but genuinely. "You're not what I expected," she said over her shoulder. "All that mythic prophecy talk, I figured you'd be… taller."
"And I figured bow-wielding elves would be less judgmental," he replied, wiping grime off his jaw.
"I'm not an elf."
Kael blinked. "But your ears—"
"Slightly pointed," she said, turning back and pulling her hair aside. "It's a Len'Carian trait. Not elven. Gods, everyone from outside thinks we're all tree-hugging fae."
He cracked a smile. "You are hugging a tree right now."
She looked down, realized she'd leaned against one without thinking, and huffed.
"Anyway," she said, crossing her arms, "I've been tracking your aura for three days. You're dangerous. You need a guide. Or you're going to die the first time a Wylderbeast farts in your direction."
Kael sheathed his sword, the metal sighing as it returned to stillness.
"So… you're offering to help me?"
"Help you not die," Iris said. "And maybe see what this whole 'Weapon Mastery' thing is about. Honestly, I'm curious. You've already bound sword and bow, haven't you?"
Kael nodded slowly. "And staff. I'm working on grimoire next."
Her eyes lit up. "Gods, you really are a freak."
She held out her hand.
"Come on, Echo-Blood. Welcome to Len'Caria. Don't step in anything that glows."
Kael shook it.
"Let's try not to fall into anything else either."
High above, in the crystal scrying chamber of the Vyreleaf Citadel, a council of masked seers watched the interaction through a pane of visionglass.
"They've met," one whispered. "The Bow has joined the Blade."
Another voice responded, deeper and colder.
"Good. Let them believe they have a choice. Let them gather. When they reach the ruins of Thermeos… we'll show them what true alchemy looks like."
The screen faded.