The wind no longer whispered.
Lyriel stood at the same edge of the living platform where she had stood a year ago, her bare feet pressed against bark that felt unchanged beneath her soles. Below, the world spread out as it always had—verdant valleys, winding rivers, great mountain spines slicing through the land. But to the southwest, where smoke had once been a distant smear, black scars now cut through the land like claw marks.
The ruins of what had once been forest.
The platform beneath her feet pulsed with the familiar vitality of Yggdrasil, but something in the air had changed. The petals of bark that formed the seats remained elegant, but Lyriel noticed they had been recently regrown. Fresh. As if the tree itself understood that old comforts no longer sufficed.
"They're coming," Selvanna said behind her.
Lyriel turned. Her patron stood three paces away, and for the first time since Lyriel had known her, Matriarch Goldleaf wore simple robes. No flowering vines wove through her hair. No precious ornaments caught the light. Only the living sigil of her House coiled above her heart, marking her station.
"Even Matriarch Thornweave?"
"Especially her."
The name alone made Lyriel's stomach tighten. Thornweave had been the one to volunteer last time, the youngest of the Matriarchs. The one whose forces had been scattered like leaves before a hurricane while she watched from afar, helpless.
They took their positions as before—Selvanna claiming her seat while Lyriel and the two other attendants stood behind. But where last time anticipation had made Lyriel's heart race with excitement, now a heavy weight settled in her chest like iron.
The first to arrive was the Treemother herself, and she moved with the same timeless grace as always. But her eyes no longer drifted. They focused, sharp and calculating. She took her seat without ceremony.
Next came the one with robes of mist and starlight, though the fabric hung differently now—less like decoration, more like armour. Her attendants walked closer together, their whispered conversations urgent rather than idle.
Then another, and another, each arriving with less flourish than the year before.
When Thornweave arrived, silence followed her like a bad stench.
The youngest Matriarch, who only a year ago had stood here radiating ambition and confidence, now appeared a shadow of her former self. Every movement was hesitant, tinged with fear, as though the slightest motion might cause her to flinch.
A year of public mockery, condemnation, and accusations had worn her once-proud facade to nothing. Three attendants flanked her, their faces masks of practiced neutrality, yet Lyriel noticed how their eyes never quite met those of anyone else.
She took her seat without acknowledging anyone, her spine straight and her hands folded. The very picture of composure—save for the faint rhythm of her jaw clenching and unclenching, visible only to those who looked closely.
The circle filled steadily. Some Matriarchs exchanged measured glances, others stared into the distance, lost in their own calculations. When the last of them settled, the platform itself seemed to draw breath.
“We are gathered,” the Treemother said. “Let none say later that we did not face this with clear sight.”
No one laughed. No one scoffed. The time for such indulgences had passed.
“Thornweave will speak.”
The youngest Matriarch rose from her seat.
"One."
She spat the word with such venom it grated on the ears like a curse.
"One human. Not an army. Not a legion. Just… one." Her gaze swept the circle. "I sent ten thousand. Warriors who had spent five centuries perfecting their craft."
She paused, and Lyriel noticed her hands tremble before she clasped them tightly behind her back.
"He didn’t fight. Fighting implies they were opponents. He simply…" Her voice faltered. "Existed. And they died."
Lyriel recalled the reports that had trickled back, stories too absurd to believe. Because if they were true, then everything the elves believed about their place in the world was a lie. A human who had stood unmoving against an army. Who had turned the very air into a weapon. Who had killed with the casual indifference of a farmer harvesting wheat.
Her gaze swept the circle of Matriarchs. They were Exarchs, every one of them—the elite of the elven race. Yet instead of reassurance, Lyriel felt only doubt as she looked upon their majestic forms.
Who among them could stand against that human Exarch, who seemed bred for slaughter?
“Show us,” the Treemother commanded.
Thornweave raised her hand, and light pooled above her palm. An elegant piece of jewelry on her wrist shimmered, conjuring the illusion. The image unfolded above the dais, shapes forming slowly until the scene of a distant battle came into focus. The first thing Lyriel saw was…
Wind.
But not wind as she understood it. This was something else, something moving with terrible purpose. At its heart stood a figure, humanoid in shape but not in presence. Silver-white hair caught the light like spun moonlight. He wasn’t commanding the wind. He was the wind. It bent around him like a loyal servant, flowed through him as if it were his very will made manifest.
The elven forces charged, their forms strengthened by Life, their weapons singing with power. The wind answered with vortexes dropping from clear skies, each one precise, surgical, devastating. Bodies didn’t fall with grace; they were flung aside like leaves caught in a hurricane.
Then came the blades. Each one the size of a building, visible as distortions in the air itself. They moved slowly, almost lazily, giving the elves time to see death approaching. Not that it mattered. Within the Exarch's domain, their magic simply ceased to function.
When the first blade hit the right flank, bodies didn't fall so much as simply cease, bisected with such clean precision that some took steps before realizing they were dead. The second carved through a desperate shield wall like it wasn't there. The third, fourth, fifth—Lyriel lost count.
The memory ended with the shattered remnants fleeing toward the forest, their commander’s final words echoing across the blood-soaked field: “The Matriarchs will answer this outrage.”
With these final words, the crystal on Thornweave’s armband dimmed and cracked apart.
Silence hung over the gathering, a sharp contrast to Lyriel’s raging thoughts. Doubt pressed harder against her mind now. That commander had believed with certainty that the Matriarchs would avenge the slaughter, but Lyriel was not so sure. The longer she sat among these vaunted leaders, the more she realized how lacking they were in the ways of war.
“We believed Augustus Geistreich was the Empire’s only weapon,” Thornweave said into the silence. “…We were wrong.”
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She tried to speak the words casually, as if stating a simple fact. But the undertone of raw pain was so heavy it nearly drowned the words themselves. They had been wrong—and ten thousand of Thornweave’s brothers and sisters now lay dead in the fields, their bodies slowly returning to nature.
“So what if they have one more Exarch?” one of the Matriarchs said. “Every one of us here has reached that level.”
There it was again.
That established, agreed-upon truth every elven child heard from birth: the elves were the strongest. The elves had the most talent in Magic. The elves were the pinnacle of evolution, shaped by nature itself into the perfect form.
A lie.
One that had grown so large it now reached even into the minds of their highest leaders, who still clung to a superiority that had never been proven in reality.
But who would dare speak against such a consensus? Who would risk criticizing their own people in a gathering of Matriarchs?
Lyriel couldn’t think of a single soul bold enough to correct that misunderstanding—
"Have we?"
A familiar voice—too familiar. Lyriel’s head snapped toward the speaker seated beside her.
Selvanna Goldleaf rose to her feet, her gaze sweeping the circle. She met every astonished look with grim determination. Not only Lyriel, but every Matriarch was taken aback. Selvanna had always been a moderate, a voice of reason when tempers flared. No one had expected her to speak now.
“When did you last face death, sister?” she asked the previous speaker. “When did any of us last test our power against an equal?”
"Our magic is deeper—"
"Our magic is softer." The words fell like stones. "We are gardeners who mistook ourselves for warriors, only because we had never faced a soldier."
“You…” The Matriarch stared at Selvanna in disbelief. Perhaps for the first time in their people’s history, one of the Matriarchs had spoken such words in council. Unsurprisingly, no one knew how to respond. “What happened to you in the Human Lands, Goldleaf?”
The question carried both accusation and genuine curiosity. What indeed? What could have transpired during her journey to Tradespire that had turned the council’s voice of reason into the woman they now beheld?
Lyriel, of course, knew. She had been there through all of it. And yet even she hadn’t foreseen how deeply the experience would reshape her patron’s mind.
This was a variable she had not accounted for.
“I have woken up, sisters,” Selvanna said softly. “I have woken from a dream that has gripped my mind for centuries.”
The entire assembly hung on her words, even the Treemother leaning forward ever so slightly.
“We have all been dreaming,” she continued, “imagining a world that exists only in our minds. But outside this forest, outside our lands, the real world is nothing like we picture it to be…”
“What makes you speak such words?” one of the Matriarchs asked, her voice laced with concern. “Surely, you weren’t intimidated by the human Mages?”
Selvanna shook her head. “I have encountered the Exarch of Light, the Exarch of Storms, even our dwarven neighbors. They were formidable, on par with our finest. But if that were all I had seen, I would not speak as I do today…”
She paused, a visible shudder running through her body. The fear in it was so stark that many of the Matriarchs gasped, yet none dared interrupt.
“I have seen Death,” Selvanna said, her voice carrying the raw, childlike terror of something far beyond her. “Death so absolute it made my own light feel like nothing more than a candle in a storm, struggling just to keep its flame alive.”
Faces turned pale.
“…I have encountered schemes and machinations so intricate that I did not see the trap until my head was already on the chopping block.”
Expressions of disbelief spread through the circle.
“…And I have met a child, younger than my latest hair-cutting, who lectured me on the intricacies of policy until I truly believed he could see the future.”
Selvanna swept her gaze around the circle, meeting every eye in turn. “Whether we like it or not, the world has moved on while we remained isolated. The brutish races of the past have grown refined in their use of Mana,” she said, nodding at Thornweave. “They have advanced in their tools, sharpened their swords, and honed their wits in war. Meanwhile, our people have done nothing, changed nothing, discovered nothing.”
A mocking smile curved her lips. “When I walk the towns of Yggdrasil today, I see the very same sights I saw as a child, centuries ago.”
The words hung heavy in the air. They stung all the more because they were difficult to refute, striking at the very heart of elven culture. Tradition and hierarchy had always been their highest values, but now one of their own had exposed how those ideals had become the chains that bound them.
The world had moved on, leaving the elves behind—relics of history, refusing to adapt to the present.
“So we surrender?” another Matriarch asked. “Bow to these cretins who slaughter our kin as we speak?”
“Kin?” Thornweave’s voice dripped with bitterness. “Half-elves. Mongrels. We call them kin only when their deaths wound our pride. If you wish to save their kind, do not expect me or mine to spill more blood for such unworthy cause.”
Her words, though spoken in spite, revealed another pressing truth. The Empire had won its trial and gained the continent’s tacit approval to unleash its Exarchs against the elves without consequence. Under such conditions, who among the Matriarchs would even dare to act?
“And yet, the insult remains,” the Treemother said softly. “Truth or not, we cannot allow the continent to perceive us as weak.”
Silence stretched, and only now did Lyriel truly understand how accurate her patron’s words had been. The minds of these powerful figures had grown sluggish from years of disuse. Without threats to their power or serious conflicts, they had let idle hobbies and vain displays of wealth consume them.
Compared to the human elites, it was a pitiful sight. Even the shoeshiners outside the von Hohenheim estate showed more guile and cunning than these Matriarchs.
“…There is a way.”
The words came from Selvanna once more, and every head turned toward her.
"Speak, sister," the Treemother urged.
Selvanna’s fingers stilled against the armrest. “We cannot face their Exarchs. That much we know. But who ever said we had to move ourselves?”
“Mercenaries?” someone scoffed. “You think hired swords can do what even we cannot?”
“I am not speaking of common sellswords, but of those who have stood aside despite having the power to act.” Selvanna rose from her seat with the first graceful movement Lyriel had seen all day. She stepped into the circle’s center, and Lyriel noticed how the other Matriarchs leaned forward despite themselves.
“Let us call upon those who already oppose the Empire. Let us make their enemies our instruments.” Her gaze swept the assembly. “Let human blood spill human blood.”
That garnered a few hesitant nods. Yet, the council as a whole remained unconvinced.
“You speak of making humans into puppets,” said the Matriarch with eyes like burnished steel. “If they are as cunning as you claim, what makes you think they won’t see the strings?”
“Let them see. What matters is they dance when we pull.” Selvanna spread her hands. “We will offer them what they desire—power, wealth, knowledge—in exchange for actions that serve our purposes.”
“And when the Empire comes for these puppets?”
“…Then humans will die instead of elves.”
The brutality of it silenced even the skeptics.
Thornweave was the first to speak, her voice heavy with approval. “You’ve thought about this before today.”
It wasn’t a question.
“I’ve thought about many things of late,” Selvanna replied. “Most of all, about our place in this world.”
That drew the attention of the entire council. As the only one among them who had ventured beyond their borders in recent years, no one was better suited to judge the truth of such matters than the Goldleaf Matriarch.
“Though we have declined, a starving dragon is still larger than a snake. We still hold secrets, treasures, and advantages that could allow our people to thrive—if we choose to use them wisely.”
Selvanna’s smile turned cold. “Each of us has cultivated relationships over the centuries. Trade partners. Scholarly exchanges. Diplomatic channels. We treated them as diversions…”
She let the silence linger, letting her words sink deep.
“Now, let those connections become weapons. Everyone here knows humans who hunger for power—ambitious lords, desperate merchants, idealistic fools who believe they can change the world. We know their desires, their fears, their… price.”
“You propose we act independently?” a quieter Matriarch asked.
“Independently, but in concert,” Selvanna answered. “Together, we weave a web of human ambition that will act where our hands cannot reach.”
The air shifted for the first time since the gathering began. Not Yggdrasil’s sacred breath, but true wind, carrying with it the scent of rain and distant thunder.
One by one, the Matriarchs began to nod. Not with enthusiasm, nor with the casual confidence they had carried a year ago, but with the grim acceptance of those who had begun to remember that pride mattered less than survival.
“Each of us will choose an instrument,” the Treemother declared. “Our enemies must be contained, balanced, eventually weakened. Not by our hands, but through human ambition guided by elven wisdom.”
She rose, and the others followed.
“Sister Goldleaf has spoken it better than even I could: we are no longer the masters of this world,” she said, her voice carrying the weight of centuries. “But that does not change the truth of what we were—and what we still are. We were here before their first kingdoms. We will be here after their last.”
The platform pulsed once, acknowledging her words.
As the Matriarchs dispersed, each moving toward their own schemes and preparations, Lyriel caught a glimpse of Selvanna’s face. Her patron was not looking at the others, nor at the scarred land below.
She was looking northwest. Toward the human lands.
Toward her chosen instrument.
“Come,” Selvanna said to her attendants. “We have seeds to plant…”
As they descended from the platform, leaving behind the empty seats and the memory of ten thousand dead, Lyriel wondered if the humans truly understood what they had awakened. Not the fury of the elves—that had already proven toothless.
But their patience.
Their memory.
Their ability to plant seeds that would not bloom for decades, to tend grudges like gardens, to water revenge so carefully it would turn into a flood.
The Empire had won the battle with wind.
The elves would win the war with time.