Adrasteia Forest was more breathtaking than I'd dared imagine.
The moment I stepped beneath its ancient canopy, everything sharpened—leaves glowed with emerald fire, bark shimmered with veins of silver, wildflowers pulsed like heartbeats. It was as if the forest jolted something awake inside me. Colors burned brighter. Details cut like glass. The air thrummed with magic—an electric charge crackling through leaf and bone.
Laboritus and Torglel had split off to scout a town a while back, leaving Alythiel and me to press forward alone.
I followed a winding path, eyes wide as a kaleidoscope of wonder unfolded. Each step revealed some new marvel: luminous mushrooms glowing like scattered stars, a spiderweb strung with dew like pearls, a stream whispering secrets through the roots.
The magic was alive here. Ancient. Feral. Watching.
Back then, I didn't realize how potent magic was—
Or what it would cost me later.
Then the forest shattered.
A voice roared through the trees: "I HAVE GUARDED THIS FOREST FOR SIX HUNDRED YEARS. LEAVE NOW OR DIE BY MY HAND!"
The sound shook the ground beneath my boots.
I froze, hand twitching toward my swords, eyes scanning the branches for the beast surely coming to devour me whole.
Then I saw it in a clearing.
A raccoon. Yes. Seriously. A raccoon. I can not make this up. I wish I was.
Draped in moss-green and earth-brown robes, he clutched a mahogany staff carved with curling runes. His eyes blazed with a feral gleam, somewhere between wisdom and madness.
He raised his staff and bellowed: "Assem whoopus!" Equal parts menace and manic glee.
Before I could fully register the absurdity, he launched across the clearing—blindingly fast.
I blinked and he was on me.
His staff swung wide—aimed straight for my skull.
I dropped fast. Something sliced the air above me—close enough to part my hair.
I drew Celerius and Mors—black and white steel flashing in the forest light.
I lunged, blades slicing in a clean, deadly arc toward his throat.
His staff snapped up—sharp as a whip—deflecting both blades with a crack like splitting bone.
He leapt back—graceful, maddeningly nimble—voice rising with joy. "And challenge, oh sweet chaos, is my favorite sport—especially after centuries of silence."
The playful edge in his tone clashed violently with the threat—and completely threw me off.
I didn't back down.
He moved through the canopy—blurring from branch to branch, impossible to follow.
His foot slammed into my chest. Like getting kicked by a boulder that hated my life choices. I was starting to agree.
I flew—air torn from my chest, ribs shrieking. Then came the tree. Bark ripped up my back as I crashed through, spine lighting up like a bonfire.
I lost count of how many trees I hit that day. Felt like each one took it personal.
He howled: "Whoopitus maksimum!" Like my crash landing was the punchline of some ancient forest joke.
He came from above—staff whistling down like a falling star with murder issues. Vision clearing, I locked eyes with my smug, fuzzy assailant. I rolled just in time. His staff obliterated the tree I'd been slumped against; it erupted into chunks that tore through the air. A mess of wood and sudden pain. I deflected them with wide sweeps. Most bounced off my blades. The stubborn ones found skin.
One mistake, and I was done for.
The forest wanted blood—
And I was strung up like a boar for slaughter.
His shadow flickered left—then vanished.
I scrambled up. No time to brace—a fist crashed into my gut. Solid. Deep. My soul briefly left to find a snack. I doubled over—then he uppercut me enough to make gravity forget I existed.
My flight stopped short as I slammed into a branch, sending leaves raining down. Somewhere mid-impact, I decided trees had it out for me personally. I still don't trust them.
He came from the right—staff swinging wide. I caught it with Mors, the blade ringing like defiance, then slammed a kick into his chest. He hit a boulder hard enough to split it clean in two.
I followed with another swing. He dodged. My blade buried itself in yet another tree.
I grumbled. These trees were on his side I swear. He bounced off a branch—because of course—and launched at me again.
I sidestepped, caught his staff mid-swing, and slammed him into the dirt.
I tossed the staff, and moved in for the kill.
"Prestani!" The voice—high, sharp as shattering glass.
Something hit me. Not fist, not steel. Magic. Stillness, heavy as stone, rooted me in place.
Raw magic like that doesn't ask permission. It just takes. That's when I realized how little I actually knew.
From the brush behind him, a field mouse stepped out.
Tiny. Regal. Yes. A literal mouse. Because of course that's what comes after a raccoon monk duel.
The raccoon groaned, brushing himself off. "I told you I didn't need your help." His tone: equal parts smug and petulant. Like someone very used to being wrong, and even more used to pretending he wasn't.
The mouse bristled. "Looked like you needed it." Her voice was tiny. Sharp. Unapologetically commanding.
Their voices—his low rumble, her high squeak—bounced around like two bickering squirrels arguing over who got naming rights to the biggest tree.
Something stung my neck. My vision swam—then snapped back into focus. I could move again.
Alythiel stepped into view, calm as ever.
I flexed my fingers, rolling my shoulders. "What was that?"
"Boletus Tempus," she said. "Rare mushroom. Cancels paralysis. Might cause temporary sarcasm."
I yanked the dart out, rubbing my neck. "Did you just....dart me in the neck?"
Alythiel didn't blink. "This time, yes."
"I'm starting to think you enjoy this."
"Only slightly more than watching you lose fights to deranged raccoons."
I muttered, "Maybe they know who Petrus is."
Alythiel arched an eyebrow. "Didn't you just try to kill him?"
"He struck first," I growled. "I was defending myself against mystical woodland violence."
The raccoon turned, beaming. "That was the most fun I've had in decades!" Then, with a dramatic flourish: "I assume you were expecting me. I've waited a long time for you."
I blinked. "...Expecting you?"
"Of course." He bowed deeply—tail flicking like punctuation. "You came seeking Petrus, did you not?"
I stared at him. Then Alythiel. Then back to the raccoon-shaped hallucination in front of me.
"...You're Petrus."
"Indeed!" With the enthusiasm of someone who thinks this is entirely reasonable.
"So the ancient mentor I crossed a continent for... is a raccoon who pile-drives trees and yells made-up spells?"
He nodded. Dead serious. "With flair."
"This forest is cursed," I muttered. "And I will die on that hill."
To this day, I'd still rather fist-fight a dragon than re-enter that cursed grove. By the time I left, I had a deeply complicated relationship with that forest.
"Let us train!" Petrus cheered, practically vibrating with excitement.
"How long is this supposed to take?" I asked, hesitating.
He grinned. "One week." Then, brightly: "Time is of the essence, after all."
"A week?!" I sputtered. "You expect me to go from surviving sword to mythical juggernaut in seven days, courtesy of raccoon hospitality?"
The clock was ticking. And Zolphan didn't wait for catch-up sessions.
A voice cut in—sharp, small. "Let's see here." The mouse stepped forward, carrying a spellbook nearly as large as she was. She flipped it open with surgical calm and whispered: "Sanctus orbis terrarum."
Light erupted—blue and brilliant. The clearing vanished in radiance. Time held its breath. When the glow faded, the air thrummed with something... changed.
"What did you do?" I whispered.
She glanced up, eyes gleaming. "I slowed time outside the forest. One day out there equals a year in here."
I stared.
A week of training—seven years of progress. It was daunting. Exhilarating. Exactly what I needed.
Adrasteia became a place of hard remaking, every second would burn away the doubt. Every second would burn away the doubt. I'd push myself to the brink. Learn fast. Bleed faster.
Even chaos has its teachers.
And when I walked out of that forest?
I wouldn't just be ready. I'd be a blade drawn in the dark—sharp, silent, waiting.