Chapter 1 of Book 2
Viliam
Viliam’s wings sliced through the night, each beat carving a silent rhythm against the sky.
The air was sharp and cold this high above the Empire’s lands, a stark contrast to the dense humidity of Al’tera.
Below, the sprawling cities of The Gilded Empire stretched like a scar across the earth, endless grids of stone and steel choking the land’s lifeblood.
Fires burned in iron furnaces, their plumes staining the stars, while rivers twisted unnaturally, dammed and redirected to feed The Empire’s insatiable hunger.
From this height, it should have been beautiful, a tapestry of lights shimmering against the darkness. But to Viliam, it was grotesque. A distortion. The land here did not sing; it wailed. The Empire had ripped the balance from its roots, replacing harmony with control, life with greed.
He tilted his wings, banking away from the glare of the cities and toward the shadowed contours of the mountains.
The Empire’s villages nestled at their feet, small and huddled, where fields stretched in unnatural lines, each crop bent to human will.
Even in the quiet places, The Empire’s touch was everywhere.
For years, The Empire had stolen from the sacred tree, twisting the sap of Mahōamorah into tools of destruction. Their greed did not just poison their own lands; it threatened the balance of everything.
The World Tree stood at the heart of the conflict.
An ancient god, its roots stretched deep beneath the land, connecting Al’tera and The Empire alike.
But where the Al’terans revered Mahōamorah as sacred, The Empire treated it as a resource to be exploited.
Their corruption was relentless, and now it had taken a new form.
Elora.
The girl was a paradox, a living fracture in the balance.
He should have killed her. It was his duty as a Thrask to eradicate anything that threatened the balance.
She was a walking corruption, an abomination born of Thorn’s perversion.
Thorn’s alchemy had used his essence, the sacred magic of the Thrask, to create a hollow imitation of Al’teran transformation.
The process had bound fragments of his power to her—a depravity, unstable and violent. She was not Thrask.
And yet... she had saved him.
The girl was a victim. Her shifting abilities were unstable, dangerous not just to herself but to the balance of the world.
And yet, in her fear and confusion, he had glimpsed something more.
She had fought for her freedom—and his—not with malice, but with a raw, steadfast will to survive.
No, she was more than a victim. More than an abomination.
She was a question he did not yet know how to answer.
Ahead, the mountains gave way to the edge of Al’tera.
Viliam’s heart stirred as the landscape transformed beneath him.
The sharp lines of the Empire’s dominance softened, fading into wild, untamed beauty.
Rivers coiled like silver snakes, weaving through vast jungles that pulsed with life.
Trees rose high and ancient, their roots plunging deep into the earth, their leaves shimmering with faint bioluminescence under the orange hues of the dawn.
This was balance. This was home.
Viliam descended, angling to ride the warm currents that rose from the jungle below.
The air here tasted different, clean, rich with the scent of soil, flowers, and rain.
The sacred trees stood tall, their roots entwined with the heartbeat of Mahōamorah itself.
It welcomed him, grounding him, even as his thoughts churned with unease.
The village of Korynthahl, nestled in the heart of Al’tera’s sacred jungle, The Myrrhshade Wilds, was alive with the quiet hum of morning.
At its center stood the colossal tree known as Nyt’morah, one of the great offspring of Mahōamorah itself.
The tree’s roots spread wide, forming bridges and natural pathways that wove through the village.
The homes and buildings of Korynthahl, constructed from woven vines, wood, and stone, seemed to grow organically around the roots and branches.
Their rooftops were covered in thick foliage, blending seamlessly with the canopy above.
Some structures rested on stilts among the roots, while others clung high in the tree’s branches, accessible only by rope bridges and ladders.
Viliam landed silently in the clearing at the edge of the village, his claws brushing against the soft earth as he shifted back into his human form.
The transformation rippled through him, muscles tensing, feathers melting into deep brown skin.
His sharp amber eyes, glowing faintly in the morning light, scanned the home he had longed to see, but what met his gaze was not the vibrant sanctuary he had left behind.
Something was wrong.
The air felt heavier than it should, and the usual vitality was muted.
The canopy above, which once shimmered with emerald and gold, was dull and withered in patches, its leaves curling in on themselves.
Splintered bark marred Nyt’morah’s trunk, dark veins of decay creeping upward like an infection, and the roots that once thrummed with life beneath his feet now felt brittle and fragile.
A chill settled over him. The balance here was breaking.
He strode forward, taking in the unease etched on the faces of his people.
The villagers moved slower than usual, their voices hushed.
Above, true nightgliders perched among the branches, their natural emerald and sapphire eyes flickering with unease.
Among them, the Thrask, marked by their golden gaze, lurked in silence, their forms tense and alert.
As he approached the base of their sacred tree, three Thrask dropped down in unison, their sleek nightglider forms blending effortlessly with the shadows. Even before they shifted back to human, he recognized them: Ilyn, Kaela, and Tarrik, his kin, his brothers and sister in spirit.
“Viliam!” Kaela cried out. Her golden eyes shimmered with tears she was clearly trying to hold back.
Her tightly coiled ebony locks adorned with small beads were still tangled from sleep.
The light filtering through Nyt’morah’s canopy glowed against her bare chest and shoulders, causing the golden markings on her bronze skin to sparkle.
She hadn’t changed a bit, still as striking as ever.
A beautiful combination of whirlwind and grace.
“You’re back.” Ilyn stepped forward and saluted, pressing his fist to his heart, a gesture mirrored by Kaela and Tarrik. But before Viliam could respond, his closest friend pulled him into a crushing embrace.
Kaela joined in, wrapping her arms around both men. “We thought you were lost to The Empire.” She pulled back and met his gaze, searching for an explanation. “It’s been so long.”
How long has it been? he wondered. He wasn’t sure. The dark cell of Thorn’s laboratory made it impossible to tell the passing of days.
Tarrik approached last, his towering frame casting a shadow over Viliam.
He was as steady and immovable as the sacred trees themselves.
His charcoal-gray skin mirrored closely to the nightgliders, and his face, carved with sharp angles and a deep, solemn frown, bore scars from countless battles.
Tarrik’s hair, long and bound in tight braids, framed his face like a lion’s mane, the strands adorned with small bands of polished bone and obsidian.
He was the oldest of them, and his wisdom guided them despite the few words he spoke.
Viliam had always respected Tarrik’s quiet strength.
Unlike Ilyn’s commanding presence or Kaela’s sharp wit, Tarrik’s power lay in his unwavering steadiness.
He spoke little, but when he did, his words carried weight, each syllable chosen with care.
Tarrik’s silence was never indifference; it was a reflection of his deep contemplation and connection to the balance they all served.
The hand Tarrik placed on Viliam’s shoulder was firm. No words passed between them, but Viliam felt the unspoken question lingering: What happened? What darkness follows you here?
Tarrik’s gaze flickered briefly to the sacred tree, the faintest furrow creasing his brow.
Of all the Thrask, Tarrik was the one who spent the most time meditating beneath the tree, listening to its whispers and feeling its rhythms. For Tarrik to see it like this, splintered and diseased, was as much a personal wound as it was a blow to their people.
Finally, Tarrik spoke. “The land feels your return, Viliam. But it also feels… fractured.”
Viliam approached the sacred tree that connected them to their God, Mahōamorah, and placed his hand against the splintering bark. “What is happening?”
“It began a few days ago,” Ilyn approached, his eyes narrowing as they traced the jagged cracks along Nyt’morah’s trunk.
“The bark cracked first. Then the canopy started to wither.” His face was hard, his square jaw set tight as he spoke.
Yet beneath his stoic exterior lay an unwavering dedication to his people.
His dark skin gleamed faintly in the filtered light, marked with faint scars that told stories of battles fought to protect Al’tera’s balance.
“We’ve tried everything we know,” he continued. “Prayers, offerings, rituals—but nothing works. Nyt’morah grows weaker by the day. If this spreads, the balance…” He trailed off, his jaw clamping as he swallowed the rest of the thought.
Viliam turned to face him fully, meeting his gaze.
Ilyn had always been the one to push him hardest during their training, their rivalry sharpening them both into better warriors.
But where Ilyn’s strength was outward, a shield raised high for all to see, Viliam’s was quiet, deliberate, and introspective.
Together, they were an unstoppable force until Viliam’s capture.
Kaela rested a hand on Viliam’s bicep. She knew this news would upset him greatly, and while she was a fierce warrior, she had a calming presence. “The other tribes are untouched, but the land is connected. If this sickness spreads…”
“I believe I know the cause,” Viliam said.
The Empire. Thorn’s experiments. Elora. The corruption running through her veins bore his essence, his blood, but it was not the sacred magic of Al’tera.
It was an imitation, unstable and unnatural.
Could their experiments have rippled back to Nyt’morah?
Could Elora’s corruption have fractured the balance in ways they did not yet understand?
“I cannot explain it here. We must convene with the elders. There is much to discuss, and the decisions we make will shape the future of Al’tera.”
Ilyn frowned but nodded. “I will send word immediately.”
Viliam’s presence had brought them relief, but his words now left them unsettled. Whatever plagued Nyt’morah was not an isolated sickness. The land itself was crying out, and the balance was slipping further with each passing day.
Viliam turned back to the tree, his gaze lingering on its withered canopy, as he pressed his palm against the bark once more. The energy that pulsed beneath his hand was faint and uneven, like a heartbeat on the verge of stopping.
The balance was slipping. And if The Empire’s hand was behind this, then war was coming.