From the moment Juniper was cradled in her family's arms, the forest seemed to embrace her with gentle warmth. She slept in a cradle woven from vines and soft leaves, her green hair brushing against petals and bark as she stirred. Wind hummed through the branches like a lullaby, and her parents whispered ancient songs as they rocked her beneath drifting fireflies.
Even as an infant, Juniper's senses were attuned to life. Her bright green eyes tracked glowing beetles instead of toys. Flowers leaned closer when she laughed. When rain fell, she reached up, giggling as droplets kissed her freckled cheeks. Every breath she took seemed to draw her deeper into the rhythm of the world.
As she grew, her family began simple rituals—small playful lessons meant to introduce her to the language of the forest. They showed her how to feel the difference between living soil and tired earth, how to cradle a sprout without breaking it, how to listen when the wind warned of storms. These moments were not lessons so much as invitations, and Juniper accepted them instinctively.
By the time she was two, the forest no longer merely surrounded her—it responded to her.
When she laughed, blossoms opened wider. When she cried, rain softened the ground beneath her. Birds perched on her shoulders. Deer stood unafraid. At night, as she slept, roots beneath the great oak shifted gently, as if cradling her dreams.
Juniper did not know what she was yet.
But the forest did.
Far beyond the trees, Pyrrha was growing in a very different world.
From her earliest days, the stronghold watched her just as closely as Juniper's forest watched her. Stone pillars etched with glowing runes loomed over her cradle, and ancient wards whispered softly when she stirred. The fortress did not merely shelter Pyrrha—it recognized her.
As she grew from newborn to infant, faint sigils shimmered in response to her touch. Her laughter made lights flicker in the walls. When she cried, protective spells tightened subtly around her.
By two, Pyrrha walked with startling steadiness, her small feet finding balance on stone floors that had humbled grown warriors. By three, she had begun to listen—not with her ears, but with something deeper. She could sense when magic shifted, when relics stirred, when hidden doors waited behind walls.
Her family guided her gently. They taught her that knowledge was sacred. That power carried responsibility. That silence could be as sharp as any blade. Pyrrha absorbed these truths not as rules, but as something natural.
Even in childhood, she carried quiet strength.
While Juniper learned the language of leaves and flowing water, Pyrrha was learning the language of stone and memory.
Two girls growing beneath the same sky, nurtured by forces older than either could understand.
And somewhere beyond forest and fortress, an ancient celebration was drawing closer.