From the soft, pulsing glow, the air seemed to shimmer and ripple, as though reality itself were bending. The crystalline forms split apart, fracturing with a quiet, crystalline chime, and from each emerged a Dryad. Six in total, each stepping gracefully into the space around the summoning circle, their presence radiating the essence of ancient groves.
Their skin was veined with silver sap that glimmered faintly in the cerulean light; their hair cascaded in living strands of vines and blossoms, drifting and curling as if stirred by a breeze no one else could feel. Eyes of glowing emerald fire met Anna's, each one alive with sentience, awareness, and an almost reverent curiosity. They moved as one, a perfect, harmonious circle around her, their steps silent yet precise.
A haunting, melodic chorus rose from them, voices intertwined with the hum of the summoning circle, threading together in a resonance that was at once alien and familiar. As they lifted their hands, the light at the circle's center deepened and shimmered, bending and twisting like liquid crystal. Threads of nature itself—the subtle pulse of earth, the flow of water, the whisper of wind through leaves—wove into the spell, knitting the Dryads and Anna into a single, resonant whole. The effect was mesmerizing, almost sacred, as if the arena itself had fallen silent to witness a ritual older than the empire, yet reborn in this quiet, impossible moment.
A collective gasp rippled through the arena, a stunned silence that carried not awe at sheer force, but the recognition of something wholly unprecedented—a magic that defied expectation, that belonged to no known school or tradition.
The Emperor's reaction was inscrutable. His glacial gaze remained fixed on the summoning circle, yet for the first time in memory, his expression hinted at contemplation, a rare flicker of introspection crossing his usually impenetrable features. Talia's perfect composure cracked, her eyebrows rising in genuine surprise—a fleeting betrayal of her habitual confidence. Elara's face was harder to read, a complex blend of astonishment and, perhaps, a grudging respect for the quiet, unyielding strength now manifest. At the edge of her seat, Empress Selene leaned forward, her heart a war between fear and anticipation.
The six Dryads swayed around Anna, their movements weaving into a ritual older than language. Limbs arched like living branches, bodies stretching skyward, deliberate and fluid as if tugging at unseen strands of power. The air itself thickened, vibrating with a rhythm not of this world, a pulse that resonated through stone, bone, and heart alike.
And then it struck—an invisible wave of energy slammed into Anna's chest. Her breath caught; her eyes flew open, the emerald of her irises swallowed by a blinding, incandescent white. Her body lifted, as though invisible hands had seized her very core and hoisted her skyward. Limbs hung loose, head lolling, while currents of shimmering force coiled around her like serpentine strands of light.
Empress Selene surged to her feet, jeweled robes whipping about her as though caught in the same unnatural wind. Her face, usually the epitome of control, was stripped bare: eyes wide, lips trembling.
"Get her out of there!" she cried, voice cutting through the roar of howling air and rumbling stone. Her gaze clung to her daughter, suspended at the heart of the summoning circle, fragile yet radiant, ensnared by forces unseen.
Even the Emperor, iron-willed and unflinching, could not fully mask the alarm flickering across his features. His hand clenched the armrest of his throne before he strode forward, voice sharp and commanding: "Guards! Break the circle—pull her free!"
But the Dryads' ritual would not be broken. The air itself twisted into a living barrier around the circle, invisible yet unyielding, hurling armored figures aside as if they were nothing more than straw dolls. The sound of clanging armor and crashing bodies echoed like distant thunder against the vaulted chamber, yet Anna remained suspended, caught between the pulse of her own awakening power and the ancient, resonant will of the Dryads.
Selene's fingers dug into the Emperor's arm, white-knuckled and desperate. "She'll be consumed! Stop this before it kills her!"
Above, the heavens roiled. Dark clouds twisted into a vast whirlpool, thunder rumbling in deep, ominous growls. Then came a crack—sharp, jagged—splitting the sky as if the world itself might tear apart. From the fissure spilled a luminous storm: a swirling tide of purplish-blue vapor, alive with energy, rolling downward like a sentient wave.
The Dryads lifted their arms, fingers elongating and fracturing into delicate, branching tendrils—more bark than flesh now. They guided the descent of the energy, their voices rising in whispers older than memory, carrying secrets beyond comprehension. The storm obeyed, coiling tighter around Anna, shaping itself into a translucent shell that grew denser, darker, until its outline gleamed like an egg forged from shadow and amethyst flame.
The shell pulsed twice, then sank into her chest as though her skin were no barrier at all. The instant it vanished, a blinding flare erupted, forcing even the Dryads to shield their eyes.
Then—silence.
Her body drifted downward, weightless, as if carried on unseen wings. The Dryads caught her with gentle, bark-textured hands, cradling her like a fragile sapling. They lowered her onto the stone floor with reverence, the ritual complete, though the air still quivered with the echo of what had been born within her.
The flash barely faded before Empress Selene broke free of the dais. She swept her silken skirts aside and ran, heedless of protocol, heedless of startled attendants. Her jeweled crown slipped from her head, clattering across the marble like a forgotten relic.
"Anna!" she cried, voice quivering, heart hammering louder than the lingering thunder.
The Dryads lowered their hands, the last threads of energy dissipating into the arena. They parted silently, their ancient eyes—glowing faintly with amethyst fire—regarding her with quiet inevitability, not malice.
Selene fell to her knees beside her daughter. Anna lay pale against the stone, chest rising and falling shallowly, lashes fluttering as if caught between waking and a dream too deep to leave. Trembling hands brushed strands of damp hair from her forehead.
"My child… my precious girl," Selene whispered, pressing Anna to her chest, desperate for warmth, for the steady rhythm of life. Relief came in a fragile exhale—but beneath her palm, she felt it: a faint, unnatural pulse. A heartbeat not entirely her own.
The Emperor arrived moments later, his stride cutting through the stillness like steel. He froze at the sight: his wife cradling their daughter, Anna's pale form trembling against her. His jaw clenched so tightly the muscle in his cheek twitched, his icy composure momentarily fractured by fear, awe, and an unspoken reckoning.
Talia's usual composure shattered first. She bent slightly, gaze locked on Anna, voice sharp with urgency. "Mother—how is she? Is she—" Her words stumbled as her eyes roved over Anna's fragile form, lingering on the faint, otherworldly pulse beneath her chest.
Elara fell into step beside her, her fiery aura dimmed in the shadow of their sister's vulnerability. Though she said nothing, the tense set of her jaw, the narrow of her eyes, betrayed the shock and worry she rarely allowed to surface. Even in her own mastery of fire and destruction, she could not summon a shield against the fear now gripping her chest.
"She lives," Selene said quickly, her voice ragged, eyes glistening. She looked up at him, face stricken. "But something is inside her. I can feel it."
The Emperor's gaze flicked from Anna's still form to the Dryads lingering at the edge of the circle. His hand went to the hilt of his sword. "Then we end it now. Whatever foul seed they've planted—"
"No!" Selene's cry cut through him like a blade. Her grip around Anna tightened as if shielding her from the very words. "If you strike in haste, you'll kill her as well. Can't you see? This… this thing is bound to her now. She won't survive its undoing."
The Emperor's eyes blazed with fury, but even his fire met the immovable truth in Selene's words.
Anna stirred faintly, a soft sound escaping her lips, though her eyes remained closed. Selene's heart leapt. She leaned closer, whispering into her daughter's ear, as though her voice alone could anchor her back. "I'm here, my love. I won't let them take you from me."
Talia's hand shot forward instinctively, hovering over Anna as her eyes darted between her father's rigid posture and her mother's desperate embrace. Her usual composure faltered, replaced with tension and fear. "Father… she's still alive! You can't—"
Elara stood slightly behind her sister, jaw clenched, fists tightening at her sides. Though she spoke no words, the fire in her eyes was unmistakable—a silent warning, a promise that any rash act would meet resistance. The Emperor's stance seemed to momentarily acknowledge the quiet storm of his daughters' defiance, though his jaw remained rigid.
Before the tension could erupt further, measured footsteps echoed across the chamber, cutting through the mounting storm. A tall figure emerged from the shadows: Archon Veynar, Director of the Magic Association, draped in deep indigo robes embroidered with silver sigils that glimmered faintly. His staff, crowned with a shifting crystal prism, tapped once against the marble, and the air seemed to still in reverence.
"Enough," he said, low and commanding. His pale eyes swept over the scene—the unconscious princess in Selene's arms, the taut Emperor, the wary daughters, and the Dryads who lingered at the edge.
Selene instinctively tightened her hold on Anna. "You will not touch her," she warned, voice cracking with fear and defiance.
Veynar inclined his head, a gesture of respect, though his gaze remained piercing. "Your Majesty, what has transpired here is beyond even an emperor's decree." His staff tapped once against the marble; the faint hum of ley lines in the arena seemed to respond, quieting as he spoke.
He allowed the silence to stretch, eyes moving from the Emperor's clenched jaw to the Empress's trembling arms, and then finally to the daughters whose expressions mirrored both awe and dread. His voice lowered, deliberate: "This is not the place for debate—not before an unconscious child, nor before so many ears eager to twist what they do not understand. The princess must first be seen by the Healers. Her body has endured a channeling no mortal frame was meant to bear."
Selene's arms tightened around Anna again, but Veynar raised a hand, palm open, his tone softening just enough. "I will not touch her, nor will the Association, until you give consent. But I urge you—this conversation must be continued in private, where truth may be spoken without fear of panic or misinterpretation."
The Emperor's voice rumbled like restrained thunder. "You presume to dictate when and where I discuss my daughter's fate?"
Veynar met his glare without flinching. "I presume only to caution. If word spreads too quickly, your daughter will not be seen as heir or child—but as a weapon, or a curse. The vultures of every court and kingdom will descend before dawn."
Talia stepped forward, her voice steady but edged with frustration and fear. "Father, listen to reason! She's our sister—you cannot act in haste."
Elara moved to her side, her voice quieter but no less firm. "She is vulnerable, and we are her family. Your anger cannot dictate her fate right now."
The Emperor's hand clenched, his gaze sweeping over his daughters' faces, his expression a tempest of pride, fury, and something he did not often allow himself to feel: uncertainty. Finally, after a tense heartbeat, he gave a curt nod.
Selene closed her eyes briefly, gathering her strength, then whispered, "Summon the medics. Now."
The guards moved swiftly, boots echoing against the marble as they hurried from the arena. Selene bent low over Anna, murmuring soft comforts that only a mother could provide. Talia and Elara lingered, flanking their mother and sister, protective, tense, and silently vowing that no harm would come to Anna—not while they stood.
The Emperor's gaze hardened, steel-cold, fixed on Veynar. Every line of his face was carved with authority, a warning unspoken yet undeniable. "We will discuss this matter later," he said, voice low but carrying through the tense chamber. His stride was deliberate, measured, each step echoing on the marble floor as he moved away from the circle. Then, just before he reached the dais, he turned sharply, his eyes narrowing like twin blades. "And let me be perfectly clear, Archon—never, ever question my authority again."
Veynar inclined his head slowly, unwavering beneath the storm of the Emperor's gaze. His voice was calm, even, carrying the weight of reason rather than defiance. "I do not seek to question you, Your Majesty. My purpose is only to offer a path that avoids needless harm and ensures the survival of the princess. Nothing more, nothing less."
Valerius said nothing further, letting the words hang in the air like frost over the arena. His expression remained cold, unreadable, but the briefest flicker of contemplation crossed his eyes as he exited. The tension in the chamber eased only fractionally, leaving behind a charged silence, heavy with the unspoken knowledge that this incident was far from over.