The trees finally began to thin, and the suffocating canopy gave way to the sprawling silhouette of the capital. Even at this hour, the city was a living, breathing organism, pulsing with a low hum of activity that stretched to the horizon.

  Elma felt a sudden, inexplicable surge of relief. For the first time, the world felt too big to be controlled by a single family.

  As they reached the outskirts, a skeletal structure loomed to their left—a burned temple, its charred rafters reaching toward the sky like blackened ribs.

  On the scorched earth before the entrance, a gold sun sigil had been inlaid into the stone. It was scarred by soot and heat, but the design was unmistakable.

  It was the same sigil Elma had seen on the pendant Christa prayed to.

  Jorm continued walking, her shoulders pulled tight toward her ears. Her gaze remained glued to the dirt, her mind clearly trapped back in the woods.

  "You're leading the way, not me," Elma said, her voice cutting through Jorm's spiral.

  Jorm jumped slightly, snapping her head up. "Hehe—yea. Right." She forced a shaky smile, adjusting the strap of her bag. "This way."

  They stepped fully into the capital.

  The transition was a sensory assault. The silence of the forest was replaced by a chaotic roar—the clatter of iron-rimmed wheels, the shouts of merchants in the night markets, and the rhythmic thrum of thousands of people existing in a space that never slept.

  The noise was so thick Elma had to raise her voice just to be heard over the din.

  In the very heart of the capital, a structure rose that defied the local stone-and-mortar logic. It was a tower, heavily guarded and pulsing with a rhythmic, clinical white light. It didn't flicker like the torches of the city; it hummed with the vibration of technology that felt wrong—alien.

  "What's that?" Elma asked, her head tilted back until her neck strained.

  Jorm looked at her with genuine surprise. "You don't know? That's the Tidewarden Aurethion. It’s what keeps the rifts from opening right on top of Veraxys."

  Elma's eyes traced the giant spire. "Who built it?"

  "The Remnants," Jorm said. "The people from the worlds the Tide already swallowed. They fought it for a long time before they lost. They came through the rifts a hundred years ago."

  "Worlds?" Elma repeated. The scale of the manor she had lived in felt even smaller now.

  "Yeah," Jorm said.

  "How do you know all this?"

  Jorm’s gloom vanished for a second, a spark of pride returning to her eyes. "It's common knowledge. Plus, my mother is a storyteller. She knows like, everything about history."

  Storyteller?

  "Let's keep going," Jorm said.

  The deeper they marched, the more the city’s grandeur began to fray. The polished granite and reinforced stone of the central districts gave way to a dense, leaning maze of timber and thatch. The air here was thicker, smelling of brine, cheap coal, and the sweat of thousands packed into too little space.

  Elma’s legs had long since gone numb. The smooth streets of the capital were an improvement over the treacherous roots of the forest, but the sheer distance was pushing her four-year-old frame to its absolute limit.

  Finally, Jorm stopped in front of a structure that Elma struggled to categorize. It was a "wooden thing"—a lopsided building that looked like a shop had been swallowed by a house and then spit back out.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “We’re here!” Jorm said, a wide, triumphant grin carving through the soot and fatigue on her face.

  They stepped inside.

  The interior was a cluttered sanctuary. Walls were obscured by stacks of worn books with peeling spines, and cheap, vibrant paintings hung at odd angles. The scent of old paper and dried herbs was heavy in the air.

  In the center of the room sat a woman in a wheeled chair, a heavy volume resting on her lap. She looked up as the door creaked, her eyes sharp and intelligent behind thin-rimmed spectacles. Jorm didn't wait; she bolted forward.

  “Mama!” Jorm cried, throwing her arms around the woman.

  The woman’s face lit up immediately. “Oh, Jorry,” she sighed, hugging her daughter back with a mixture of relief and exasperation. “What did I tell you about these visits?”

  “It’s fine,” Jorm mumbled into her shoulder. “The other maids do it all the time. No one notices.”

  “Please, promise me you won’t do it again?” the woman asked, pulling back to look at Jorm with a worried furrow in her brow. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “But... I missed you.” Jorm lowered her head.

  “I missed you too,” her mother whispered, smoothing Jorm’s hair. “Now, tell me everything. Was everything alright at the manor?”

  The woman’s voice trailed off. Her gaze shifted over Jorm’s shoulder, her eyes narrowing as they landed on the small, hooded figure standing silently by the door.

  "Oh, is this your friend?" she asked, her voice soft but carrying a sharp edge of curiosity.

  Jorm’s eyes snapped to Elma. "Uhh—"

  Elma’s heart skipped a beat. A cold sweat prickled at the back of her neck. She had been so preoccupied with the physical journey and the mob in the woods that she had neglected to give Jorm a cover story.

  Jorm. Think.

  Jorm stared at Elma for a long, agonizing moment, her brain visibly churning.

  "Yea…" she said at last.

  Elma let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

  "Well, come closer, little one," the woman said, gesturing with a frail hand.

  Her brow furrowed as she took in Elma’s stature. "She's way too young. I can't believe they make you work at this age."

  "You can call me Merideth," the woman continued. "What's your name?"

  Elma didn't answer. She remained a silent, hooded statue by the door.

  "She does that sometimes…" Jorm interjected quickly. "Anyway, I have a surprise for you, Mother!"

  Jorm dropped the heavy bag to the floor with a muffled thud. She stood tall, her face scrunching in a mask of intense concentration.

  Slowly, the bag began to shiver. Then, with a jerky, unrefined motion, it lifted three inches off the wooden floorboards.

  "Tada!" Jorm chirped, the strain evident in her voice.

  "Oh, god," the woman whispered, her face paling.

  "That's right… I'm awakened," Jorm said, her chest puffing out with pride. "Now I don't have to be a maid forever."

  The woman let out a long, weary sigh that seemed to deflate her entire frame. A faint, fragile smile touched her lips.

  Elma had seen that look before.

  "Well... you should continue being a maid until you're of age, you know," Merideth said gently. "You need to read carefully about resonance... and that can take years of study."

  "I know," Jorm said, dismissive of the warning. "I'm training now."

  The woman went rigid. It was as if her soul had momentarily flickered out of her body. "Training? With who?"

  Jorm didn't hesitate. She pointed a blunt finger directly at the hooded figure by the door.

  "Her."

  Jorm. Elma’s jaw tightened. She was going to kill this girl.

  "She's a resonant, too?" the mother asked, her eyes wide with a new kind of shock.

  Elma stepped forward, her voice cutting through the woman’s rising panic.

  "I am," Elma said. "We're teaching each other."

  The woman’s posture slumped slightly in her wheeled chair. The explanation seemed to land well; it sounded like childhood play.

  "Oh. Okay," the woman said, visibly relieved. "As long as you're being careful."

  Strange. Pride would have been the expected response. Celebration.

  Merideth looked as though a clock had just started ticking.

  Maybe, it wasn’t the awakening itself that frightened her.

  It was Jorm.

  Jorm disappeared into the back room, the heavy bag thumping against her leg. "Where’s Father’s sword?" her voice echoed from behind the thin wooden partition.

  The mother didn't seem to notice the bag’s weight—or perhaps she was too tired to care. "It’s beneath the bed, Jorry. What do you want with a piece of old iron?"

  Jorm didn't answer.

  Left alone in the front room, Elma finally let her guard slip. She slumped onto a makeshift stool, her legs trembling from the sheer exertion of the journey.

  Her gaze traced the cluttered walls, moving past the stacks of paper and the flickering amber light of the oil lamp.

  Then, the air thinned.

  Her eyes locked onto a painting tucked into a shadow-drenched corner. It was crude, painted on a piece of scrap wood, but the subject was unmistakable.

  A dark, towering silhouette emerged from a void of deep indigo, and in the center of its featureless face were two burning, emerald orbs.

  The storyteller rolled her chair closer, the wheels creaking against the floorboards. She watched Elma’s reaction with the predatory interest of a scholar.

  "Did you see it before?" the woman asked, her voice dropping into a low, melodic register.

  Elma didn't move.

  The woman chuckled lightly. "Well... I think it’s story time then."

  She leaned back, her spectacles catching the light as she looked into the distance.

  "The story about The Shepherd."