Chapter 128

I turned, my gaze landing on Elarion first, then shifting to the two bramble-formed figures closing in, and finally to a third as it peeled itself free from the trunk of a Weeping Gallows.

I opened myself to my Faith-scape and studied them. Their forms were different, but their essence was the same - beacons of deep black shot through with pulsing veins of green. Strong. Not god-strong. Not even close to my children. But stronger than most mortals I’d met.

I still didn’t know how other gods perceived Faith - whether they saw it in color like I did or felt it in some other way. My relationships with them hadn’t exactly fostered open discussion.

Over time, I’d learned what the colors meant. Red was anger - wrath, ****, something buried deep that refused to stay buried. My bloodchildren burned with it. Mirri’s blue carried her comion. Serah’s purple, her quiet sovereignty. Elise’s silver held memory, duty, reverence for what came before.

These creatures were different.

Black formed the core - will, selfhood, defiance. They were aware. Thinking. Choosing. The green threading through them spoke of growth - adaptation, survival, something still becoming. Not as strong as the black, but persistent. Alive.

“Nae draeth thaleneth sylveth,” I called as they approached. “We don’t want to hurt anyone.” I shifted back into Elithae. “Thalen vae enae?”

The one in the back hesitated.

I raised my hands slowly, palms open. Something in them understood. I waved Elarion back a step.

“Nae draeth vaelren,” I said. There’s no need for ****. I softened my voice. “Sael, thae.” Please stop.

The one in the back stopped. The other two didn’t.

“Keep your distance,” I said to Elarion without looking at him. “If they get hold of you, they’ll tear you apart. Be mindful of your surroundings. And don’t hurt the one in the back.”

He nodded, sheathing his blade and lifting his hands.

The whine of synthesizers rose around us, low and electric, followed by the steady pulse of drums.

Elarion’s fingers moved - sharp, precise - and a bolt of lightning cracked through the air, slamming into the creature on the right. Its shoulder exploded into splinters and it screamed - the sound like wood tearing under a saw. Brambles twisted and grew, knitting the limb back together in seconds.

“I’m the trouble starter…” I sang as fire roared to life along my arms and surged into Unity. I stepped into the swing, “...punkin’ instigator.”

The staff connected and the enchantment kicked in increasing the **** of the blow exponentially.

The creature was launched into the air, smashing into the side of a nearby house in a burst of flame and splintered wood. Embers scattered into the undergrowth, glowing and smoking where they fell.

The one pressing Elarion struck next, vines lashing outward in a sudden, vicious arc. He slipped aside and answered with another bolt of lightning. It punched through the creature’s chest, blasting a hole straight through.

“I’m the fear addicted!” I belted out.

Stone erupted from the ground between that bolt and the one still hanging back. The lightning shattered against it, spraying shards of rock across the clearing.

Elarion snatched up a fallen branch, slammed it against his forearm - and it ignited.

I blinked. That was new.

He surged forward, striking hard. The creature caught, smoldering rather than burning clean. Another strike, another bolt, and it collapsed.

Elarion stepped back, breathing hard.

I let the music fade and the fire along my arms guttered out - Unity dimming with it.

He looked at me. “Sorry.”

“You did well,” I said. “We’ll work on your spatial awareness.” I clapped his shoulder, then turned my attention back to the last remaining figure.

* * *

I handed Unity to Elarion. “Keep watch. These things weren’t too tough, but we don’t know how many are out there.”

He nodded and took the staff.

I raised my hands, palms open, and started toward the last of the bramble-formed figures. Slowly. Carefully. I knew how this could go - how quickly it could turn - but this one had hesitated. It had listened.

Or maybe I was seeing what I wanted to see.

I spoke in Elithae, keeping my voice low and steady. “It’s alright. We’re not going to hurt you. Don’t be afraid.” My movements stayed loose, nonthreatening. “Do you need anything? Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

It watched me without moving.

“I’m sorry about the others,” I continued. “We didn’t want to hurt them. They attacked us - we defended ourselves. But we won’t hurt you.” I took another slow step closer. “Do you understand me?”

Its head tilted, slow and uncertain. Then it nodded.

Relief flickered through me. I let a small smile show. “Good. Then we can talk. No ****. Just words. Is that alright?”

Another slow nod.

“Can you speak?”

It tilted its head again. Then a sound came - dry and brittle, like leaves dragged across twigs. Its hand rose to its throat, fingers brushing over the vines there. It paused, then seemed to notice its own hand for the first time. It turned it, flexed it, studied each finger as if it didn’t recognize it. Then the other hand. The same slow, fascinated inspection. Like it had just been given a body and wasn’t sure how to use it yet.

“Try again,” I said gently.

Its gaze drifted back to me. Another sound - rougher this time, like sandpaper across wood.

“That’s good,” I said, keeping my tone warm. “Better. Try again.”

“Sssssssae.” The word came out as a hiss.

I blinked. “Was that yes?” It sure sounded like sae - the Elithae word for yes.

It nodded.

“That’s great,” I said, a little more energy creeping into my voice. “Alright. Try ‘no.’”

A scraping noise. It stopped. Tried again. A harsh, grinding rasp. Then-

“Nnnnnnnnnnae.”

Nae. No. We were making progress.

I grinned. “You’re doing great. Really. How about your name? I’m Seth. What’s your name?”

It tried. The sounds came in uneven pieces. A grating sound, a low hum, then a rattling burst like a woodpecker against bark. A breath dragged over something rough. It tried again, faster this time, the pieces starting to connect.

“Nnnnnnnnvvvvvvvrrrrraaaaa…”

“Navra?” I offered.

“Naevira,” Elarion said from behind me. “Your name is Naevira.”

The bramble-formed person stilled. Then, slowly nodded.

“Naevira,” I said, smiling. “It’s nice to meet you.”

* * *

Naevira didn’t seem to know much - about the village, the trees, or even herself. It was possible she’d lost her memory. It was also possible she’d only just come into being, newly pulled from the Weeping Gallows she’d separated from. The fact that she knew her name leaned toward the former - but nothing about this felt certain.

And none of it answered the real question. What was she?

I’d never heard of anything like her. Not tied to the Gallows, not tied to anything. Some kind of twisted dryad? Or had she been a dryad once, her tree warped into one of those things?

I asked Elarion if dryads were even a thing here. He’d never heard of them.

Elise might know. Serah too. We’d already seen two others like Naevira, so she wasn’t unique. There were more out there. More of whatever she was. Gallowborn, for lack of a better word.

And we’d seen… the other one. The one that had looked like an elf.

A chill crept down my spine.

“Naevira,” I said carefully. “Can you… change your shape? Look like Elarion? Or me?” I wasn’t sure how to phrase it, but my hope was that it wouldn’t be offensive if she didn’t much about herself.

Her head tilted as she considered that.

“Can you make your body look like ours?” I clarified. “With skin?”

I held out my hand. She hadn’t reacted to my appearance the way the other one had, but we hadn’t actually touched yet. Elves were deliberate about - nothing casual, nothing assumed. Even a handshake required consent.

She reached out slowly and touched my fingertips.

Her body was made of dry, rigid vines wrapped in rough, dark bark, each strand about as thick as my finger. Thorns lined them - long and sharp - but hers were angled inward, as if deliberately turned away from harming others. Most of her form was a tightly woven mass, but her ts - fingers, wrists, ankles - were different. Those were loose, twig-like structures, articulated and connected by thinner, sinewy vines that flexed and shifted with movement.

Her face was only an impression of one. Slight hollows where eyes should be. A seam of parted vines where a mouth formed. No hair - just the occasional branch jutting at odd angles, like something grown without pruning or care.

Her fingers slid over my palm, rough against my skin. She turned my hand over, studying it with quiet focus. Bent each finger. Tested the ts. Traced the lines of my wrist.

Then her body shuddered. A low vibration ran through her, like dry leaves crushed underfoot. It traveled from her hands up her arms and through her frame. Then again. Stronger.

Something changed. Fine gray filaments bloomed along her fingers - like mold on fruit. They crept up her arms, across her chest, down her legs, weaving together as they went. The texture shifted. Smoothed. Lightened.

The brambles vanished under a layer of soft fungus. Over the course of a few minutes, the tangled mass of vines reshaped itself into the form of an elven woman.

She stood there, bare as the day she was born.

Her skin was pale, but not untouched - there was warmth to it, a faint sun-kissed tone that suggested life lived beyond shelter. Her face was heart-shaped, her chin tapering a bit sharper than a human’s would. High cheekbones caught the light without harshness. Her eyes - wide and almond-shaped - were a soft violet hue.

Golden hair fell in long, loose strands to her waist, framing her face and softening the lines of it. Her build was lithe, long-limbed in the way of elves - lean without frailty, balanced without effort.

I started to pull off my cloak, then stopped. It wouldn’t work for her - not unless she could channel both mana and Faith.

“Elarion,” I said, my gaze flicking to him. “Cloak, please.”

He flushed slightly but handed it over.

I stepped forward and draped it gently over her shoulders. “Very good,” I said, offering her a small, steady smile. “You look… beautiful.”

A faint blush rose in her cheeks - subtle, natural, and strangely human for something that had been brambles moments before.

“Come on,” I said, guiding her toward a nearby bench beside one of the living homes. “Sit for a moment. I need to write a quick letter.”

I wrote a letter to Master Iriandor, detailing everything we’d found in Noraethil - the Gallows, the empty homes, the things that had come out of them. I urged him to find anyone who had lived here and fled. We needed witnesses. Context. Anything.

I didn’t know how the Gallowborn were made, how many there were, or if they were dangerous. But we knew they could look like elves.

One had attacked without hesitation. Naevira hadn’t. I wasn’t confident enough in a sample size of two to make a decision.

I folded the letter and handed it to Elarion along with a small pouch of gold. “Step to Caelwynne and get this to Master Iriandor,” I said. “Then find some clothes for Naevira. Ask Nymeth for help if you need it - they’re about the same size.”

I paused, considering. “Three dresses. A pair of boots. Whatever else you think she needs. Give Nymeth whatever you don’t spend.”

I drew in a breath. “Then meet me outside the village. That place you showed me with the waterfall. That should be far enough away from prying eyes. Two hours.”

I reached out and clasped his shoulder. “You did well today. We learned a lot.”

He nodded, turning to go.

“And Elarion?”

He looked back.

“I’m proud of you.”

He held my gaze for a moment, then stepped away.

* * *

Naevira and I talked for the next two hours. Her voice came back to her in pieces at first, rough and uneven, but each sentence smoothed a little more than the last - until it carried a light, almost musical quality that felt entirely her own.

She said the village seemed familiar, but nothing in it would settle into memory. No faces. No names. No moments she could hold onto. And the Weeping Gallows - nothing at all. Her first memory was of us. Of Elarion. Of my voice telling her there was no need for ****.

The fight unsettled her. I could see it every time her thoughts drifted too close - her shoulders tightening, a shiver running through her. I steered us away from it when I could. Some things didn’t need to be dug up right away.

“How do you know Elarion?” she asked at one point, her voice soft, curious.

I smiled. “He’s my son.”

Her brows drew together, confusion plain on her face.

“I adopted him,” I explained. “Most of my children are adopted. Elarion and five others had been taken by some very bad people. We found them. Brought them home. Eventually, they stayed.”

“Who is we?”

“Ashlara, Mirri, and Serah,” I said. “Ashlara’s an orc. Mirri’s a goblin. Serah’s a… human.” I hesitated for half a heartbeat, then moved on.

“Elarion and Brinja are elves. Tib is a goblin. Torvek and Mak are orcs. And Issa is a naga. They were all taken by the bad people, along with Lilae, my first daughter. She’s a goblin, like Tib.”

Naevira blinked, trying to piece it together. “That is many children.”

I laughed. “That’s not even all of them.”

She tilted her head, listening.

“We also took in Moss, Clo, Tansy, and Nim. They’re… bloodchildren. The elves call them Caereth Valmyra - the Crimson Lost.” I paused, then added, “Vel and Thae are bloodchildren too, but they’re mine. By blood. And the youngest are Morien and Briva. Also mine.”

I shrugged, a grin tugging at my mouth. “I love them all. They’re… a lot. But they’re great.”

Naevira studied me for a moment. “You have fifteen children?”

I nodded. “I do.” My grin softened, just a little. “I hope you get to meet them someday.”

She smiled - small, a little shy, but real. “I would like that.”