The Great Forest north of Norland swallowed light and sound alike.
Ancient trees rose like pillars, their canopy so thick that midday felt like twilight.
Moss clung to everything, and roots, trunks, even the air itself, seemed damp and green.
Fanática marched ahead with cheerful purpose, and behind her trudged Thrain and Gorzod.
The dwarf muttered constantly about "pointless detours," while the barbarian kept one hand on his axe and scanned the surroundings intently.
They had a task ahead of them that seemed simple: to escort an herbalist who was going to gather a rare moonflower near some ancient elven ruins.
Easy money, low risk.
Faná insisted on leading the way.
"I know the way, the Goddess guides my steps," she had said brightly at the forest edge.
That was twenty minutes ago.
Now the path had disappeared, and the trees looked exactly the same in every direction. The birdsong they had heard had fallen silent.
Thrain stopped walking and planted his hammer haft-first into the moss.
"Lass," he said with dangerous calm, "where exactly are we?"
Faná turned, still smiling. "We are… in the forest."
Gorzod folded his arms. "You said you knew the way."
"I do! The Goddess-"
"The Goddess doesn't read maps," Thrain snapped. "Neither do you."
Faná tilted her head, halo flickering uncertainly.
"I… may have misremembered the turn at the forked oak."
"There was no forked oak," Gorzod growled.
Faná blinked. "Oh."
Silence stretched.
Thrain sighed, "We're lost."
Gorzod looked around. "We're venturing deeper into elven territory. Without permission."
The man in the green robe, whom they were supposed to escort, timidly raised his hand.
"I know where we are. And where we're supposed to go."
"Yes," "Yes!" "But…" - came the words of Thrain, Gorzod, and Fana.
The dwarf smiled insincerely. "That works out perfectly. If you know the way… You lead, and we'll cover you."
"But-" Fana began, but the angry glances from both her companions silenced her.
"Whatever you say, but I KNOW the way," she muttered.
They walked on.
Or rather, Thrain, Gorzod, and the herbalist walked on.
Somewhere between one step and the next, Faná simply… vanished.
Gorzod stopped dead. "Thrain."
The dwarf looked back.
"Where's the nun?"
They both turned in a slow circle.
Faná was gone.
And there were no tracks.
Thrain stared at the empty space where she had been. "…She's lost us."
Gorzod exhaled through his nose. "Perfect."
---
Liora had always been lazy.
Even among elves - a people already infamous for taking centuries to decide on anything - she stood out.
She slept in sunbeams.
She napped on branches while others patrolled.
She once spent three weeks perfecting the art of doing absolutely nothing while still technically "guarding" a border post.
Her clan sighed and called her "Moon-Sleeper."
They never truly scolded her.
The Elves live long lives; let's say that laziness is just another flavor of eternity.
Everything changed when the orcs came.
They did not announce themselves with drums or banners.
They came at dawn - in disciplined formations, silent, moving like a dark tide of iron.
The raid struck Liora's village without warning.
It wasn't even close to the official border - the orcs had slipped through hidden trails, guided by scouts who knew the forest like their own homes. Or better.
The elves fought a desperate fight.
And Liora - for the first time in her long, idle life - fought with everything she had.
Her bow sang, felling one orc warrior after another, and when she ran out of arrows, her knives flashed, finding throats and eyes.
She killed a few, but there were always more.
The elves were being overrun.
But it's not like they wanted to strip them or anything. Orcs just raided both elves and humans for centuries.
Then the orc general - massive, scarred man, wearing armor forged from black iron and bone - bellowed across the clearing.
His voice carried over the screams.
"Elves! Hear me! I am Korran, son of Bragar, War-Chief of the Iron Spears!
If one of you defeats me in single combat, my warriors will withdraw.
I swear this on the God of War's name - on blood and honor!"
The elves hesitated.
The mighty orc laughed in a deep, mocking tone. "No champion among you? Then die!"
Liora stepped forward.
The others tried to stop her.
"Liora, no - this is madness!"
She didn't listen.
She jumped down into the circle the orcs had formed, daggers in her hands.
Her green eyes burned with something no one had ever seen in her before.
General grinned, "A small one. Very well."
The duel was over quickly.
Liora was fast - impossibly fast - but Korran was stronger, crueler, and vastly more experienced. He battered her daggers aside, slamming her to the ground with a mighty backswing.
She felt her ribs snap as she tried to get up.
He pressed his boot against her chest.
"Yield, elf."
Blood dripped from her mouth.
She spat in his face.
Korran raised his axe for the killing blow.
Then-
"Excuse me."
The orcs blinked.
A young human woman in nun robes strolled casually through their ranks.
"Excuse me. Pardon me. Coming through."
Bewildered, they parted.
Fanática stepped into the circle just as the axe began its descent.
The eyes of the Liora, the orc general, and all the warriors of both races watching them turned toward her.
She pointed at Korgul with one finger.
"Is he evil?"
Liora - coughing blood, her ribs screaming - looked up at the stranger and answered by reflex.
"…Yes?"
Faná nodded once, satisfied. "Very well."
That was all she needed.
Her halo erupted.
The prayers covering the enormous maul glowed with holy energy.
"O Goddess of Unrelenting Justice and the Smashing of Wicked Skulls!"
She swung.
The impact was apocalyptic.
Korran's body launched skyward like a shooting star - armor crumpling, bones shattering, a trail of golden motes streaming behind him as he vanished into the clouds.
Silence.
The orcs stared upward.
Then at Faná.
Then at the sky again.
One muttered: "…She won, right?"
Another: "It was… technically one-on-one…"
The nun took a step toward them.
They looked at each other.
Then they ran.
Very fast.
Faná turned to Liora, halo dimming to a soft glow.
"Are you hurt, my dear?"
Liora stared up at her and managed one deadpan sentence: "…Minimum effort."
Faná beamed, "The Goddess is merciful!"
She knelt and placed glowing hands on Liora's wounds.
Golden light flowed.
The elf's wounds had healed, the pain had subsided, and her vision had returned to normal.
Liora exhaled slowly.
Silence settled, broken only by groans of wounded elves.
The villagers emerged - first one by one, then in groups.
They poured from hidden doors, from behind trees, from the upper walkways of the treetop homes.
Men with bows still half-drawn, women clutching children - all staring at the smiling human woman in nun's robes who had just ended a massacre with one swing.
An older elf - silver-haired, his face lined with centuries - stepped forward first.
He bowed deeply, his right fist over his heart.
"Stranger… you have saved us. Your Goddess's light shines through you."
Faná beamed and waved cheerfully. "It was nothing! The Goddess is merciful!"
The exhausted elf huntress stared at the scene in exhausted disbelief.
"Unfortunately, we don't have much with which to show our gratitude…" - at that moment, the older elf's gaze fell on Liora. And a broad smile spread across his face.
The silver-haired elder approached her next.
"Liora Moon-Sleeper," he said formally, voice carrying across the clearing. "You fought bravely. But it was this human who turned the tide. By our oldest traditions, when a life is saved selflessly, the saved owes a vow."
Liora's eyes narrowed.
The elder continued, implacable.
"You will swear to aid and care for your savior until the end of her days. To stand at her side, to guard her path, to share her burdens."
His face was solemn.
"This is the Oath of the Lifedebt. It is not asked lightly. It is not refused."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd.
Liora looked up at Faná - who was now cheerfully accepting flower crowns from elf children - then back at the elder.
"I decline," she said instantly.
The elder's face did not change.
"You cannot. The tradition binds us all - refusal will dishonor the village, and dishonors the one who saved us."
Liora's jaw tightened.
Still shaking from adrenaline and blood loss. Guilt, gratitude, exhaustion, and something uncomfortably close to awe warred inside her.
Faná finally noticed the tension. "A holy vow? That sounds lovely! Why not?"
Liora stared at her.
"It's… technically…" She swallowed. "It's a lifelong oath. Until one of us dies."
Faná brightened even more. "Then we'll be companions forever! How wonderful!"
Something inside Liora cracked.
She exhaled the longest sigh of her very long life.
"…Fine."
The elves began to chant softly.
Liora rose, wobbling, and placed her right hand over her heart.
In clear, formal Elvish, she spoke the words the tradition demanded:
"I, Liora Moon-Sleeper, swear by the stars, by roots and by wind, to stand at the side of my savior. To guard her path, to share her burdens, to aid her until my last breath or hers. This I vow before my kin and forest spirits."
Faná clasped her hands in delight.
"Thank you, my dear! We're going to have so many adventures!"
The elves cheered.
Liora sighed again - deeper, wearier, more resigned than any sigh she had ever sighed before.
And that - more or less - was how Liora joined the party.