The wonder of the hidden world had barely sunk in when the ground trembled beneath heavy steps.
The tremor was gentle at first, a slow drumming through the bark-road that made loose leaves quiver and lantern light ripple in pools. Tian's team braced instinctively, shoulders tightening, boots angling for purchase on living grain. From the distance, something massive bounded toward them. At first it seemed like one of the small rittles they had watched scampering along the roots below—curious, fearless, as if wildness had learned mischief—but no.
What came was a beast of legend.
A rittle, yes, but magnified to an impossible size, its fur thick like rolling hills of moss, emerald and umber layers shifting as it ran. Each bound compressed the massive limbs like pylons, and the branch beneath accepted the weight without protest, as though the creature and the tree had grown up whispering to each other. Its eyes were clever and liquid, its whiskers long enough to stir the air like brushstrokes.
Riding upon its back, seated with ease between two gently curving ridges of fur, was not a warrior, but a man draped in a brilliant blue woolen cloak.
Golden threads caught the light as he drew near, embroidery hooking sun and lantern-glow into intricate Egyptian-like patterns that wrapped the hem and collar: lozenges, eyes, stylized feathers, rivers bound into lines. He looked more scholar than soldier—posture light, hands talkative even at rest, gaze bright and sharp as if the world itself were a page he was eager to annotate.
His eyes swept the newcomers, collecting details like treasure, and then landed on Tian's chest—on the harness, the shielded glow within.
Curiosity detonated across his face.
He practically leapt from his mount, landing in a soft skid of moss-hair, cloak flaring. He circled Tian with childlike energy, hands fluttering as if he might gesture himself closer to understanding. Words spilled from him in a tongue none of them knew, rapid bursts of excitement that rose and fell like a song too delighted to keep time. He leaned to peer at the orb, rocked back, tilted his head, smiled as if he'd just discovered a punctuation mark he'd been missing all his life.
Tian and his team stood frozen, unsure whether to laugh, bow, or run. The giant rittle snorted a polite puff and flopped onto its belly to watch, immense tail swaying like a lazy pendulum. The scholar's delight was undeniable; his curiosity was harmless, almost contagious. Even Elena, whose hands still trembled in the aftermath of everything, felt her mouth soften at the sight of someone so unabashedly alive.
At last, the man rummaged through his cloak and produced several pendants. Each was delicate, beautifully crafted—thin arcs of a metal that looked like bronze had dreamed of starlight. The chains were odd, flexible like fabric, warm when pressed into the palm as if the metal remembered fire.
One by one, he placed them around their necks.
The moment the pendants clasped shut, the air tilted. Sound shifted not in volume but in clarity, like moving from a hallway into a room with good acoustics. The man's voice changed—not in tone, but in how it arrived.
"I hope you can understand me now," he said clearly.
The words echoed inside their minds as if spoken in their native tongue, meaning fitting itself to familiar shapes. Tian blinked, then blinked again. Elena's breath hitched and then steadied. Even Kai gave up on cataloging the phenomenon long enough to marvel at it.
Magic, Tian thought, and then corrected himself with a small inward smile. Or what passes for it here.
The man bowed slightly, grin wide, delighted to have made sense intelligible. "I am Hisag," he introduced, hand to blue-cloaked chest. "The Seventh Elder told me you were special guests." His eyes drifted again to the orb, gleaming knowingly. "I can see why."
He tapped the pendants. "These are enchanted," he said. "So you won't be left out of any conversations." His laugh was bright and brief. "We are too fond of talking to keep our words to ourselves."
Turning, Hisag gestured to their guides with easy, practiced grace. "This is Yavia, granddaughter of our Third Elder, and member of the Feral Squadron." The woman nodded with quiet dignity; her gaze carried the memory of command, tempered now by hospitality. He pointed to the spearman. "Glyph." The man inclined his head, the haft of his spear snug against his shoulder. "And to the swordsman—Muan." Muan's blade was sheathed, his injured palm bandaged with the same neat powder-stiff wrap. His eyes measured and accepted in one beat.
Introductions complete, Hisag immediately unleashed a barrage of questions.
"Which clan are you from?" His hands mapped the idea of lineage in the air. "Your clothing—so unusual! Who enchanted them?" He plucked at a seam on Tian's sleeve with the kind of reverence usually reserved for scripture. "What sort of travel runes are stitched into the fabric? And that orb—why carry such a thing exposed? Is it a beacon? A binding? Does it sing when you sleep?"
His words came like arrows—fast, relentless, none meant to wound. Tian's team traded helpless, bewildered glances, Hisag's curiosity sweeping them along like a spring river. Elena tried to answer twice and laughed both times at the realization she did not have names to give for her tools now that they were miracles.
Yavia finally stepped in, her tone firm yet respectful, one hand lifting to trim Hisag's exuberance without cutting it. "Enough, Hisag. Please. They need rest. Lodgings have been prepared for them in Mosscall. Escort them there. Once they are settled, our elder will call for them."
Her voice brokered a truce between urgency and kindness. Hisag deflated for a heartbeat, then nodded vigorously, enthusiasm instantly rerouted. Yavia, Glyph, and Muan departed along another branch, their figures absorbed by the living architecture: the woman with her steady gait, the men flanking like parentheses.
Left in Hisag's care, the group was swept into his endless chatter.
He spoke as they walked—about his studies ("patterns in old ice, the way stories survive in minerals"), about the long history of Mosscall ("we used to grow farther down, then the miasma changed its teeth"). He explained the cranes' flight patterns — Sqacks, the rittles' games, the way water was coaxed to climb and fall singing. His excitement never dimmed, lighting their way as much as the lanterns.
Their journey stretched nearly thirty minutes across a vast branch that felt more like a living road than a limb—its bark grooved for feet and carts, its subtle undulations matched to the striding rhythm of beasts larger than men. Walkways braided off to smaller paths like tributaries. The air was soft, filtered through canopy and memory. Every so often, a breeze carried the scents of stew, resin, crushed leaf, and something floral that Tian could not name and did not want to fail to remember.
At last, the town of Mosscall came into view, nestled among leaves and branches like a jewel of wood and life. Houses grew from the tree not as parasites but as adornments, carved seamlessly from living growth, their windows dappled with leaf-shadow. Rope bridges sang low when crossed. Balconies held pots overflowing with herbs and blue-flowered vines.
Their new home was beyond imagination.
An immense wooden house, its walls and floors coaxed rather than constructed, awaited them near the curve where two branches met like cupped hands. The entryway arched high enough for beasts with antlers; the interior smelled of cedar and some clean, sweet oil. It held warmth without staleness, a held breath that did not choke.
Each member of the team was given a private room—a luxury none had dared hope for. Doors slid with a whisper. Windows opened to views of leaves and sky-veins. Beds—real beds—were layered with woven blankets soft as good moss, colored in gentle blues and greens. Basins shone, water waiting. Hooks lined the walls for armor that could finally be set aside without fear of forgetting where it was.
For the first time since the catastrophe, they removed their helmets.
The ritual began with hesitation, fingers lingering on latches as if the suits might take offense at being parted from. Then a click, a lift, a sigh like the end of a long-held note. Helmets came away. Hair fell and smelled of metal and human. The suffocating suits shed their authority. Faces met the air bare.
They drew deep breaths of pure, clean air. It slid into lungs like cool water, like forgiveness. Their bodies almost rebelled at the freshness, coughing once as if to make room for it, then drinking again, deeper. Some laughed—unexpected, foolish laughs that startled themselves. Others wept silently, shoulders trembling, grief washing out in a release so gentle it did not sting. Elena pressed both hands to her mouth and found her smile there, stubbornly alive.
It was more than shelter. It was life, comfort, humanity returning after endless days of survival in the dark.
Hisag hovered in the doorway with the giant rittle's head pushing in behind him like a curious moon, delighted to witness their first breaths of his world. "We keep the windows tight at night," he said, practical under the joy. "Crane drafts can be jealous." He set a bowl of small, sweet fruits on a low table, the skins matte and tender. "These are safe. Eat slowly. Your stomachs will want to run before your bodies do."
Tian touched the orb through the harness, feeling its hum even here, subdued but steady, as if the core recognized a place where it did not have to shield every living second. He looked around at his team—at faces loosened by air and softness—and let himself imagine, for a single breath, a future measured in dinners rather than in patrols.
That night, they slept in real beds, wrapped in warmth they thought they might never feel again. Wind moved through leaves and told old stories. Branches creaked like ships at anchor. Somewhere above, a crane called the hour in a low, liquid note. Mosscall breathed around them and did not ask them to earn it.
For now, Mosscall was their sanctuary.
Within its walls and along its living streets, hope—long buried under fear and exhaustion—finally began to bloom again, tender but rooted. And in a room with a window that opened onto a cradle of leaves, Amara slept without drifting for the first time in weeks, her spirit anchored by the quiet and the promise that after so much darkness, the world still knew how to make a place for light.