The wind among the trees was nothing like Belgrán's. It carried a wild, ancient murmur, as if the forest itself were breathing.
Arata's body lay on a bed of soft roots, panting, while his blood seeped through the damp leaves. Every heartbeat echoed like a distant bell, dragging him toward the abyss. The wound in his abdomen burned like liquid fire. He tried to move, but a brutal pain left him paralyzed.
"Where… am I?" he murmured, lips cracked and dry.
He remembered Elinne's dagger, the coldness in her eyes, the exact moment the blade slipped beneath his rib. He also remembered her voice.
"Nivhan… does not forgive."
That name—"Nivhan"—resonated within him like an ancient echo, as if he had heard it before. He didn't know what it meant, but something inside him twisted at just the thought of it.
And then came the doubt.
Elinne… why?
She was Akiharu's assistant. What if he was involved too?
No… he saved me. He… he can't be part of this… right?
Confusion was a swamp swallowing him whole. The world spun in blurry spirals. The rustle of leaves turned into heavier, crunching sounds. It wasn't the wind.
They were footsteps.
Something big was coming.
Arata turned his head with difficulty. Between the shadows of the trees, a beastly creature appeared. It had the massive body of a bear, but its limbs were disproportionate—long and bony—covered in stony skin with mineral-like spikes. Its snout was broad, lined with reptilian teeth, and dry roots protruded from its back, writhing like tentacles.
"Tch… not… yet…" Arata growled, gritting his teeth.
He tried to get up. One hand on the ground, the other pressed to his wound. He barely managed to sit up before dizziness struck like a hammer.
The creature had seen him.
It advanced slowly, savoring the scent of its prey. A dull growl rumbled from its throat. Arata tried to stand. But he had no energy. Only pain.
Then, a gust of wind cut through the air.
SHUNK!
An arrow struck the monster's hind leg. But it wasn't a normal arrow—it was made of green wooden thorn, and as it embedded in the muscle, it began to grow inward, as if the wound were sprouting.
The monster howled. It spun sharply toward the direction the shot had come from, sniffing. But there was no one there.
Only forest.
Arata looked up. His squinting eyes barely caught sight of a silhouette descending from the branches.
Like a dancing shadow, the figure dropped from the treetops and lunged forward. The glint of a spear made of vegetal bone flashed through the air and embedded itself directly into the beast's head.
CRACK!
The skull split with a dry sound. The monster's body trembled, then collapsed with a dull thud, kicking up dirt and dust.
The figure straightened. Slim, agile, its body was covered in braided leather and living leaves. A hood of moss draped over her braided hair, and the spear she still held seemed alive. It pulsed with green energy, as if it were breathing.
Arata tried to focus his vision, but his eyelids weighed a ton. He heard a murmur.
"Niralveth, fix it…"
His consciousness broke before he heard the rest. Hours passed—or perhaps an entire day—lost in a feverish stupor. Silence. Darkness.
The sound of water. The touch of something warm on his forehead.
Arata opened his eyes.
Both of them.
For the first time since he'd awakened on that distant battlefield, his left eye didn't hurt. It was no longer swollen shut or scabbed over. The scar remained, but something was different. He felt a strange vibration in the nerve, as if the world looked sharper through it.
The ceiling was organic. Giant leaves interwoven. Roots hung like living curtains. The scent of damp earth was strong but not unpleasant. And his body…
The wound…
It no longer bled.
He tried to sit up and saw that his abdomen was wrapped in a bandage—but it wasn't cloth. It was made of fine roots, like living threads, braided with precision. They moved slightly, in rhythm with his breathing.
"You're awake, short-ears," said a soft voice.
Arata turned slowly. Sitting on a rock, legs crossed and body still tense from the recent fight, was the figure who had saved him.
An elf.
Her skin was dark, with an earthy warmth that caught the light as if she belonged to the forest itself. Her hair, long and white like cold ash, fell in two thick braids framing her sharp face. Bone and wooden beads were woven into the strands, and her elongated ears—elegantly curved backward—bore metal rings that jingled in the wind.
Her eyes were a vivid gold, almost feline, gleaming with calm alertness. There was no doubt they were used to the jungle's darkness and constant danger. She carried a simple but sharp spear resting on her shoulder, and her outfit consisted of minimal natural leather pieces, held with braided straps and decorated with small fangs. Her body was marked with intricate tribal tattoos that snaked along her arms, belly, and thighs—ritual marks or symbols of her clan.
There was a wild, dangerous beauty in her, as if the jungle itself had shaped her. She didn't need words to command respect. In her hands, she held a bowl with steaming liquid.
"Don't move. The roots are still working," she said calmly.
"Who… are you?" Arata asked, still dazed.
"I'm the one who found you before a Zargron could devour you." She shrugged. "And the one who asked Niralveth not to let you die."
"Niralveth…" he repeated. That was the name he had heard before fainting.
"My Familiar." The elf gestured toward a vine growing nearby, with flowers that resembled listening ears. "She's a creature of the Forest. She's part of me. And I of her."
Arata swallowed.
"A pact?"
The elf smiled.
"You… know about pacts?" she asked, narrowing her golden eyes. "What are you?"
You don't have long ears like the Elfae. No scales like the Drakari, no Faunir tail. Your skin doesn't glow like a Myrr, nor is your body marked like the Orrin.
So… what are you?
"I…" Arata tried to sit up, but the pain in his side still burned. He looked down, as if searching for something within his own body.
"I'm not really sure."
He paused. Took a deep breath.
"I don't have long ears, or scales, or a tail. I don't glow, I'm not strong."
"They call what I am… human."
He placed a hand on his chest, where that fragile, living heart beat strongly.
"But even among humans… I'm not like the others."
"I lost my memories. I woke up on a battlefield, with no past, no name."
He looked up at the elf, not with pride or pity, but with something deeper—a kind of searching.
"I don't know exactly what I am."
Arata lowered his gaze. His body was weak, but he no longer felt like he was going to die.
"Thank you… for saving me."
The elf nodded, nothing more.
"Rest. Later, you can tell me who you are… or who you think you are."
Arata looked at the roots that held him, then closed his eyes.