The morning after the attack arrived heavy and gray, the light filtering through the canopy muted and sickly. The tree creaked more than usual, its massive branches shifting with slow, uneven movements. Arborys was adjusting—or failing to.
Lirion walked the damaged platforms, testing each step before committing his weight. Repairs were already underway. Villagers worked in pairs, silent and focused, reinforcing beams and replacing ropes. Their movements were cautious but no longer hesitant. Change had begun.
One of the Wardens approached him, her expression tense. "Scouts from the upper reaches have not returned."
Lirion stopped. "How many?"
"Two. They were sent before the attack to check the bindings above the Heart."
Lirion looked upward, toward the layers of branches and platforms lost in mist. "Then whatever stirred is no longer confined below."
As if in answer, a distant sound echoed through the canopy. Not a shriek. Not a roar. A deep, resonant call that vibrated through the wood itself.
Several villagers froze.
"That came from above," someone whispered.
Lirion felt it then, a presence pressing downward. Different from the bound entity below. Sharper. More deliberate. Something that had watched the chaos and learned from it.
"We are no longer dealing with strays," he said. "This is organized."
The Wardens exchanged grim looks. "The Skybound Courts," one muttered. "We hoped they would not notice the disturbance."
Lirion turned to him. "Explain."
The Warden swallowed. "Long ago, before the Heart was sealed, Arborys was divided. The lower reaches belonged to the people. The upper canopy to the Courts. Beings born of branch and wind. When conflict erupted, the Heart was bound to keep them apart."
"And now the separation weakens," Lirion said.
"Yes."
Another call echoed, closer this time. The branches above shifted, leaves raining down like green ash.
Lirion exhaled slowly. "Then you have three problems. The bound entity is below. A fearful population in the middle. And predators above who believe this tree belongs to them."
He turned toward the gathered villagers. "We will fortify the central platforms. No one moves alone. Runners only. Weapons at all times."
A young woman stepped forward. "And you?"
"I will go up," Lirion said.
The Wardens stiffened. "That is suicide."
"Perhaps," Lirion replied. "But if I do not show them that this space is defended, they will descend in force."
He began climbing before further objections could form, ascending along reinforced vines and narrow paths carved into the bark. The air grew thinner and colder. The light sharpened, turning pale and silvered.
As he climbed, memories surfaced unbidden. Wars fought among heavens. Territories claimed by right of strength. Gods who mistook dominion for order.
He reached a high platform overlooking a vast open stretch of canopy. Branches extended outward like highways through the sky. Mist rolled between them, slow and deliberate.
Movement rippled through the fog. Shapes emerged, tall and slender, their forms woven from bark, leaf, and pale light. Eyes like polished amber fixed on him.
One stepped forward, wings unfurling with a sound like wind through dead leaves.
"The Fallen One walks where he does not belong," it said, voice echoing through the canopy. "This domain is not yours."
Lirion straightened, pain from his wound flaring but ignored.
"It never was," he replied. "That does not give you the right to cull those below."
The being tilted its head. "You speak as if you are their protector."
Lirion's gaze hardened. "For now."
The wind rose. The canopy held its breath. The air thrummed with tension. Lirion's eyes never left the Skybound figure. Its wings, wide and delicate, shimmered in the pale light, moving as if they were extensions of the wind itself. Every shift in posture was precise and predatory, like a predator testing its prey.
"You know nothing of this place," the creature said. "You are mortal. Fragile. Your kind should remain below."
"I know enough," Lirion replied evenly, "to recognize arrogance and stupidity when I see it."
A ripple passed through the fog as more figures appeared, their movements silent but deliberate. They circled him, a patrol or hunting formation, keeping their distance but showing confidence in numbers.
Lirion's gaze swept across the platforms. The vines and bridges offered no cover from aerial strikes. Any rash move could send him plummeting hundreds of feet. Still, retreat was not an option. He had to demonstrate strength and purpose—not just for himself, but for the villagers below.
"Why do you interfere with the Heart?" the leading figure asked. "Its bindings keep balance. Without them, the lower reaches die."
"Balance maintained by fear is not true balance," Lirion replied. "You do not command life. You cage it."
The words seemed to irritate the beings above. They hovered closer, wings stirring the mist into swirling eddies. One of the creatures tilted its head, studying him as though trying to penetrate his thoughts. Lirion felt the weight of awareness pressing against him—the sense that the forest itself had sent them.
"You do not understand," the lead said finally. "We preserve. You destroy it."
"I preserve too," Lirion countered. "But I persevere through adaptation, not stagnation. If you refuse to allow growth, then your preservation will become extinct."
A long silence followed. The mist swirled. The creatures hovered, waiting for something to give. Lirion could feel the pressure in the air, a subtle warning that the situation could escalate at any moment. Their patience was finite, and his resolve would be tested soon.
He took a slow step forward. "I do not come here to fight you. I come to warn you. The Heart weakens. The creatures below sense it. The villagers below are learning. I will not allow any of them to die because of your arrogance."
The lead figure's amber eyes narrowed. Its wings shifted, creating a wind strong enough to push Lirion back a step. He caught himself, exhaling steadily. Mortality and pain reminded him of limits, but defiance reminded him of purpose.
"You are brave, mortal," the creature said, voice low and melodic. "But bravery is a fool's shield. If you ascend further, you will not return."
"I know," Lirion said. "And I will return, not because I am fearless, but because it is necessary. Life here matters. Even if you do not value it."
A rustle echoed from the branches behind the Skybound Court. More figures emerged from the mist. Not all aligned with the leader—some hesitant, observing. Doubt existed even here.
The lead figure faltered, wings fluttering uncertainly. Lirion pressed his advantage, stepping forward with calm, measured confidence.
"Then choose," he said. "Stand with life, or oppose it. Your decision will echo through the Heart. Choose wisely."
The creatures hovered, amber eyes fixed on him. Lirion felt Arborys respond beneath his feet, slow and deliberate, as if the tree itself weighed the outcome. This was no longer a warning. This was the first confrontation, and its consequences would stretch far beyond the upper platforms.
The mist thickened, curling like smoke over the branches. The hesitant figures shifted, their wings stirring gentle currents that tested Lirion's balance. Every step, every breath, was deliberate.
One broke from the formation, tilting awkwardly. Its amber eyes flicked from leader to Lirion. "Do we confront him?" it whispered.
"Do we obey?" another answered, tension coiling. "If we hesitate, the Heart will punish us."
The leader stiffened. "Enough. Mortal, you speak boldly, but words will not change the old order. Step aside."
"I cannot," Lirion said evenly. "Not when so much is at stake. The Heart will break. The lower reaches will fall. And if you remain blind, you will be responsible."
The creatures paused. The mist swirled, the forest leaning closer, listening. Lirion felt a subtle vibration in the wood—a response from the Heart. Not approval, but acknowledgment. Something deeper stirred.
The hesitant figure hovered closer. "You speak of balance, yet you interfere with forces beyond your understanding. Mortals are not meant to touch the bindings."
"I understand more than you think," Lirion replied. "I have seen power and gods, and I know what it costs to withhold action. Stagnation kills faster than any enemy."
A low hum spread through the mist. The Heart was aware. The bindings below shivered faintly but unmistakably. He had touched the seal before. Now, above, the arboreal entities felt it too. The forest responded.
The leader's amber eyes narrowed. "You presume to teach us lessons? Do you understand what happens if the Heart falters? The lives below are insignificant compared to the order we preserve."
"I understand more than you," Lirion said. "Order is meaningless if it destroys life. If you cannot see that, you are part of the problem."
A sudden gust from the leader's wings rattled the platform. One of the hesitant figures hissed, retreating slightly. Doubt had crept in, even without a threat. Lirion had shifted the balance with words alone.
The leader leaned forward, wings wide. "Then you will face the consequences of your defiance."
"I have already faced consequences far greater than falling from a tree," Lirion replied. "You will not intimidate me. The lower reaches will survive. You can choose to help, or you can step aside and watch them suffer."
The forest seemed to hold its breath. Leaves hung motionless. The mist thickened. The Heart's pulse slowed briefly before resuming its deliberate rhythm. The creatures above remained, amber eyes calculating, weighing instinct against doubt.
Lirion's gaze swept the formation. Hesitation flickered across the silent observers. Once doubt touched the Skybound Court, everything could change. The first cracks in the ancient order had begun.
"You are bold," the leader said slowly. "But words will not stop the inevitable. The Heart must be preserved, the balance maintained."
"And what happens when the Heart cannot hold?" Lirion asked. "When the bindings weaken? Will you watch everything below die while you cling to a false order?"
The question hung, sharp as any weapon. A faint vibration rolled through the branches. Lirion felt it in his chest, matching the rhythm of Arborys itself. He had touched the Heart before. He knew its limits, its weaknesses. Now he was testing them.
"You presume to lecture us on consequences," the leader said. "You, who have no allegiance here, no duty, no claim."
"I have duty," Lirion said. "To those who cannot defend themselves. To the villagers. To the forest itself, if that matters. I will not stand by while arrogance and fear dictate death."
The hesitant figure edged closer. Its amber eyes flickered with indecision. Tension radiated from it, like mortals confronted with impossible choices. Influence did not require force. Sometimes, only conviction was enough.
"And if you are wrong?" the leader asked.
"I will face the consequences," Lirion said. "But inaction will cost far more than courage ever could."
Silence fell. The mist wrapped the Skybound Court like a veil. Lirion felt Arborys's pulse shift subtly, the tree itself weighing the decision.
Then, one by one, the hesitant figures withdrew slightly, wings folding, eyes lowering. Murmurs passed among them, unspoken but understood. Doubt had taken root.
The leader remained, towering and imposing, but even its wings no longer generated a gale. The first fissure in the rigid order had appeared. Lirion's presence, his words, his unwavering stance had cracked centuries of dominance.
"Very well," the leader said finally. "You have unsettled them. But do not presume this grants you victory. Arborys will judge all."
"I do not seek victory," Lirion said. "I seek survival. And the chance for life to endure."
Above, the mist swirled. Branches shifted. The Heart pulsed faintly below. The creatures were cautious, uncertain for the first time. Lirion exhaled slowly, pain in his side reminding him of mortality, limitation—and influence. He had changed the first course of events in Arborys. For now.
And the forest, alive and watchful, waited for the next move.