Dawn had not yet touched Lethrien when Mask woke Kael.
There was no voice, no hand on his shoulder—only the sudden, instinctive certainty that he was no longer alone. Kael's eyes snapped open, his fingers curling toward the relic blade before his mind fully caught up.
Mask stood near the doorway, motionless, his presence filling the room like a held breath.
"You have a habit of sleeping lightly," Mask said.
Kael sat up slowly, ribs protesting. "You have a habit of appearing where you shouldn't."
Mask turned away. "Get up. Pain fades. Opportunity doesn't."
Kael exhaled through clenched teeth and stood, pulling on his boots. The injuries from the Rootbound attack still lived in his body—sharp reminders with every movement—but something else lived there now too. A faint tension beneath his skin, like a storm waiting for permission.
They left without speaking.
The Greenwood before sunrise was a different place. Without light, the forest shed its beauty and became something older—branches like reaching fingers, roots exposed and twisted, mist clinging low to the ground as if hiding secrets it did not trust the day to keep.
Mask led him far below the platforms of Lethrien, past areas Kael hadn't known existed. The air grew colder. The soil darker. The trees thinner, as though even they had chosen to keep their distance.
Finally, they reached a clearing.
It was wrong in a way Kael couldn't immediately name.
The forest had pulled back from it, forming a wide, perfect circle of bare earth. Stones stood embedded at uneven angles, each carved with markings worn nearly smooth by time. No Elf runes. No noble sigils.
Human work.
Kael swallowed. "This place… they don't come here."
"No," Mask agreed. "Because they don't control it."
Mask stepped into the circle. The air shifted subtly, like water disturbed by a submerged movement.
"Sit," he said.
Kael obeyed.
The ground was cold—unnaturally so. It crept through his clothes, into his bones, draining warmth faster than it should have.
"Before we begin," Mask said, "you will understand this: human magic is not a gift."
Kael lifted his gaze. "Then what is it?"
"A debt," Mask replied. "One the world always collects."
He paced the edge of the circle. "Elf magic is inherited. Regulated. Protected by bloodlines and laws. Dwarves bind magic into stone. Pandoras bargain with the wind itself. Even the Downys let the sea carry the burden."
"And humans?" Kael asked.
Mask stopped.
"Humans carry it alone."
Kael frowned. "I didn't choose this."
"No," Mask said quietly. "That's why you survived."
He crouched in front of Kael, close enough now that Kael could feel the weight of his presence, heavy and deliberate.
"You will not cast," Mask said. "Not today. You will not shape, summon, or command."
"Then what am I doing here?"
"Learning what it costs to listen."
Mask straightened. "Close your eyes."
Kael hesitated—then obeyed.
At first, there was nothing. Just the ache in his ribs. The sound of his breathing. The faint rustle of distant leaves.
Then came pressure.
Not external. Internal.
It felt like standing at the edge of a memory that didn't belong to him—something vast and ancient pressing gently, insistently, against the edges of his awareness.
His heartbeat quickened.
"Breathe," Mask said calmly. "You are not reaching. You are allowing."
Kael inhaled slowly.
The pressure deepened.
Images flickered behind his closed eyes—not visions, not thoughts, but impressions. Stone sinking. Roots tightening. Time folding inward.
Pain blossomed behind his eyes, sharp and immediate.
His jaw clenched.
"Do not resist," Mask warned. "Resistance increases the toll."
Kael forced his muscles to relax.
The pain didn't lessen.
It changed.
Something tugged at him—not strength, not blood, not breath. Something more fragile. A sense of duration. Of moments slipping past unnoticed.
His chest tightened.
"How long—" Kael gasped.
"Hold," Mask said.
The pressure surged.
Kael felt it then—the truth of what Mask meant.
Magic wasn't drawing power.
It was drawing time.
Tiny pieces. Seconds, minutes, fragments of potential he would never notice were missing until one day he wondered why something felt shorter than it should have.
His vision darkened.
"Enough," Mask said sharply.
The pressure vanished instantly.
Kael collapsed forward, palms digging into the cold soil as he gasped for air. His body shook uncontrollably, sweat soaking through his clothes despite the chill.
"That—" Kael choked. "That almost broke me."
Mask's voice was even. "No. That almost taught you restraint."
Kael looked up, eyes burning. "That was nothing?"
Mask nodded once. "Less than nothing."
He turned away. "Real magic doesn't announce itself with pain. It erases quietly."
Kael stared at the ground, breath slowly steadying.
"So every time I use it…" he began.
"You lose something," Mask finished. "Not immediately. Not cleanly. But permanently."
Kael clenched his fists. "And you still expect me to do this."
Mask looked back at him.
"No," he said. "I expect you to decide whether saving this world is worth being less whole in it."
Silence settled over the clearing.
Far above them, unseen beneath layers of root and soil, the Greenwood shifted—subtly, uneasily—as if it too were listening.
And somewhere far away, something that had been waiting smiled.
Light filtered through the upper canopy in fractured beams, casting shifting patterns across the living platforms. Elfs moved along branch-bridges with practiced grace, their expressions calm—but Kael felt the tension beneath it. Whispers followed him. Glances lingered too long.
He was no longer just a guest.
He was a question no one wanted to answer.
Two Greenward sentinels stepped into his path as he approached the central rise.
"You are summoned," one said, voice neutral but firm.
Kael nodded. "I assumed as much."
They escorted him toward the High Bough chamber, where the heartwood of the ancient tree opened into a vast hollow shaped by centuries of deliberate growth. The chamber felt smaller than before—or perhaps Kael's awareness had expanded beyond what it was meant to contain.
Elmyra stood near the entrance.
She looked relieved when she saw him alive.
She looked angry when she saw him standing.
"You trained," she said quietly as they walked side by side.
"Yes."
"You didn't wait."
"No."
Her jaw tightened. "You promised—"
"I promised I'd try to survive," Kael replied. "Not that I'd stay still."
She said nothing after that.
The High Bough nobles were already assembled, robes glowing faintly with layered enchantments that marked rank and lineage. At the lowest tier stood three Rootbound representatives—silent, ancient, their presence heavy with memory rather than authority.
The presiding noble rose.
"Kael of the Human Kingdom," they said. "You stand accused again."
Kael lifted his head. "Then say it clearly."
Murmurs rippled.
"You practice magic without inheritance," the noble continued. "Without sanction. Without allegiance to the Greenwood's laws."
"I practice survival," Kael replied.
"That is not your decision to make."
"It already was," Kael said calmly. "The moment corruption reached your roots."
The chamber stirred uneasily.
One noble leaned forward. "You speak as if you understand our magic."
"I understand fear," Kael said. "And I see it in how tightly you guard power."
Elmyra inhaled sharply beside him.
The presiding noble's eyes hardened. "Magic exists to maintain balance."
"No," Kael countered. "It exists to be used. Balance is just what those in control call peace."
The words echoed dangerously.
A Rootbound elder shifted, bark-like skin creaking softly.
"The human is not wrong," the elder said. "We have felt the imbalance growing for cycles."
The noble turned sharply. "Your role is observation, not judgment."
"Our role," the elder replied evenly, "is memory."
Silence followed.
The presiding noble returned their gaze to Kael. "You are dangerous not because you wield magic—but because you do so without permission."
Kael met their eyes. "The Kidnapper doesn't ask permission either."
That name fell like a blade.
Several nobles stiffened.
"You dare invoke him here?" one demanded.
"He already stands at your borders," Kael said. "And while you debate bloodlines, he recruits."
Elmyra stepped forward. "The human attackers last night were trained. Organized. This is not chaos—it's strategy."
The presiding noble hesitated. Just briefly.
"You will remain under watch," they said finally. "Any further unsanctioned magic use will be considered an act against the Greenwood."
Kael bowed—not submissively, but deliberately. "Then may the Greenwood judge me fairly."
As they dismissed the council, Kael felt the weight of unseen eyes linger.
Outside the chamber, Elmyra stopped him.
"You challenged them openly," she said. "They won't forget that."
"I don't want them to," Kael replied.
She searched his face. "You're walking into danger willingly."
Kael looked past her, toward the vast forest stretching endlessly beyond Lethrien. "Someone has to."
Elmyra hesitated, then spoke softly. "You don't have to do it alone."
Kael turned back to her.
The words hung between them—heavy, unspoken.
Before either could say more, a young Elf messenger hurried past them, face pale.
"The Rootbound district is sealed," the Elf said urgently. "Something is moving beneath the lower roots."
Kael felt it then—a distant pull, faint but unmistakable.
Magic listening again.
Far away, in a land of stone and shadow, the Kidnapper stood before a gathering of kneeling figures. His mask caught the torchlight, revealing nothing beneath.
"The Elfs argue," he said calmly. "The humans awaken."
He turned slightly, as if sensing Kael across impossible distance.
"Let the boy struggle," he murmured. "Struggle sharpens the blade."
Night settled over Lethrien like a held breath.
The Greenwood did not sleep—not truly—but it grew quieter, as if the forest itself were listening inward. Lantern-fruits dimmed along the platforms, their soft glow casting long shadows that twisted unnaturally across bark and leaf.
Kael stood alone at the edge of a lower bridge, staring down into the darkness between roots.
He could feel it now.
Not strongly. Not clearly.
But constantly.
Magic no longer arrived in sudden moments. It lingered—pressed gently against the back of his thoughts, waiting for acknowledgment. It felt less like power and more like a question that would not stop being asked.
"Still awake."
Elmyra's voice came from behind him.
Kael didn't turn at first. "I don't think sleep wants me tonight."
She stepped closer, resting her hands lightly on the railing beside him. Moonlight caught in her hair, silver threading through the darker strands.
"You scared them today," she said.
"I meant to," Kael replied.
She looked at him then—not with anger, not with command, but with something raw and unguarded.
"You scared me too."
That landed harder than any accusation.
Kael turned to face her fully. "I don't want to."
"I know," she said softly. "That's what makes it worse."
Silence stretched between them, heavy but not empty.
"You didn't see yourself," Elmyra continued. "When you spoke in the chamber. There was no hesitation. No doubt."
Kael frowned. "Is that bad?"
She shook her head slowly. "It's dangerous."
He exhaled. "Mask says magic takes things quietly."
Elmyra's gaze sharpened. "What has it taken from you?"
Kael opened his mouth—then stopped.
The answer was there.
Just… incomplete.
"I don't know," he admitted.
Her hand tightened on the railing. "That's what frightens me."
Below them, deep within the Greenwood, the roots shifted.
Kael felt it sharply this time—a sudden tug, brief but insistent, like a thread pulled too tight. He winced, pressing a hand to his temple.
Elmyra noticed instantly. "Kael?"
"I'm fine," he said automatically.
She didn't believe him. "You're lying."
Before he could respond, the shadows behind them moved.
Mask emerged silently, as if the darkness itself had decided to take shape.
"You felt it," Mask said.
Kael nodded. "I didn't call it."
"No," Mask agreed. "Which means it's learning you."
Elmyra stiffened. "That wasn't part of the agreement."
Mask turned toward her. "There was no agreement."
Kael stepped between them instinctively. "What's happening?"
Mask's voice was lower now. Serious. "Magic is beginning to recognize you as a path. That means two things."
Kael waited.
"First," Mask said, "it will answer you faster."
"And second?"
"It will stop asking permission."
Elmyra's breath caught. "Then stop teaching him."
Mask didn't hesitate. "I can't."
Kael looked at him sharply. "You said this was my choice."
"It is," Mask replied. "But the choice is no longer whether you learn. It's whether you learn correctly."
Elmyra turned to Kael, eyes shining with restrained emotion. "This path ends with you breaking."
Kael met her gaze steadily. "So does standing still."
The words hung between them.
Slowly, Elmyra stepped closer. "Then promise me something."
Kael hesitated. "I don't like promises I can't keep."
"Then listen when I tell you to stop," she said. "Not when the world tells you. When I do."
Kael swallowed. "I'll try."
She almost smiled. Almost.
Mask turned away. "We leave Lethrien soon."
Elmyra stiffened. "You can't just decide that."
"I can," Mask said. "And so can he."
Kael's heart sank. "Leave?"
"The Kidnapper's influence is spreading beyond the Greenwood," Mask said. "Human cities. Borderlands. Places where Elf law means nothing."
Elmyra looked between them. "You're walking into his reach."
"Yes," Kael said quietly. "Because he's already in mine."
She closed her eyes briefly, steadying herself. When she opened them, her expression had changed—not softer, but stronger.
"Then I'm coming with you."
Kael stared. "Elmyra—"
"I won't be protected behind laws that failed," she said. "And I won't wait to be taken again."
Mask studied her for a long moment. "This path does not spare royalty."
"Good," she replied. "I'm tired of being spared."
The forest shifted again—stronger this time.
Kael gasped, staggering as something tore free inside his awareness.
A memory slipped.
Not gone.
But blurred.
For a brief, terrifying moment, he couldn't remember the sound of his mother's voice.
He grabbed the railing, breathing hard.
"Kael!" Elmyra caught him.
Mask's posture stiffened. "It's begun."
Kael's voice was hoarse. "What did it take?"
Mask didn't answer immediately.
"That's the worst part," he said finally. "You won't know until you need it."
Far away, in a chamber of stone and shadow, the Kidnapper traced a glowing fracture across his map.
"The cost has been paid," he murmured. "Now the world will collect interest."
He looked up, unseen eyes fixed on a distant forest.
"Run, boy," he said softly. "Every step brings you closer."
End of Chapter 13