Episode 1: A Mother Clenching, the World Breathing

  Chapter 001 - Chains and Currents

  15 Years Ago — The Valley of Roots, RathNah

  The storm rumbled low, a usual sign that rain would come. But long before the first raindrop struck the nation of RathNah, the skies were trembling… oddly. This fearsome growl echoed far in the nimbus, crawling through her bones.

  Parsabelle stood barefoot in the Valley of Roots, her eyes lifted to the silent rhythm pulsing beneath the storm. She listened to each pulse of fear that rolled above her ghost-white hair, hidden in the storm’s breath. Thunder rumbled within the clouds, shaking the heart that saw the vision awakening.

  Temperament Slate — 2/18 Awakened

  Augursight ? Lv. 24: They look familiar, don’t they? Like the clouds in your dreams.

  Augurtongue ? Lv. 7: Unclear… yet I see a child pulling the storm’s veil.

  Her system reacted to the unfamiliar sensation. Systems always respond to their users’ calls. If a man wanted to haul a hefty plank, the system popped up and granted him magic for an easy carry. Or if someone else wanted to sweep the floor before guests arrived in a minute, the system woke up to aid in the cleanup. But not this time. In this strange occurrence, the system seemed to rouse without any input. This has never happened before.

  “So this is how the story begins…”

  “What’s wrong?” asked Levan, hiking up the jutting roots. “Something wrong with the sky or a—oop.” His foot caught one, his body jerking forward to a fall. He quickly caught himself before making a fool of himself. Ignoring his slip-up, he gazed up to Parsabelle.

  Her feet drifted close to the large stump. It reached above both of their heights combined. She looked up to the edge of the stump, and warm light bloomed across her skin, growing brighter until only her white silhouette remained.

  Adaptation Path — 1/10 Activated

  Fluttermorph ? Lv. 48

  Parsabelle shrank to the size of a palm. Traces of vibrant mist followed, the transformation completing in a shimmer of mist. Fluttery wings extended—three pairs, rapidly flapping to catch herself. And with those wings, she ascended. She rose higher and higher with a steady pace and landed on top. Her insect form reshaped to her usual silhouette an instant later. Like smoke blown from a candle, the glowing mist expanded, revealing the slight frame just beneath it.

  There she stood. Clouds traveled west, leaving streaks of light flickering for her to observe.

  “It is moving, the weather,” Parsabelle said, her voice a lilted hush.

  He squinted at the sky. “I know. Storms do that.”

  “No, not the typical weather,” she said, a thread of impatience beneath her calm. Eyes closed, she basked in the coming wind. Her porcelain white dress flared, caught by the whispering vision Levan could not see. “This current… It's monumental. It moves toward the Lady, the one they call the Matron of the Hearth.”

  Levan glanced skyward, caught beneath a storm that refused to rain. “Ah, the one your mentor mentioned. The Lady and her baby. I remember. Sounded interesting at the time.”

  “It is,” she murmured, eyes drifting back to the clouds. “Matron, distress must be upon you. You carry a child the world has been expecting long before my founder’s time.”

  She closed her eyes and felt the ache, that same hollow weight after speaking a prophecy she only half understood.

  For her, the visions came too fast to follow. Shapes without meaning. Faces without knowing. Voices lost in fog. The Matron… she had never seen her clearly. Only the storm was tangible. And it was always the storm, the constant. She pressed her lips together, aware that most of what she “knew” had come secondhand.

  “I hope I haven’t mistaken the signs,” she thought. “This story shall begin with the Matron and her child.”

  The stump rose several meters, far too high for Levan to climb. Not that he’d try, not in front of Parsabelle. He leaned against the wall with much thought. “Uh, this talk of the child…” he said, glancing up. “How much of an influence are we talking about? Sounds like a big deal, doesn’t it?”

  “I would not know for certain. Every prophecy has some sort of significance, yet the level of influence is up in the air,” she replied.

  He sighed. “Gee, sounds quite informative.”

  She let out a breathy chuckle and said, “I am a weak prophet compared to others. My Augurtongue temper is too low for a deeper clarity on the visions I am seeing.”

  He looked up at the clouds. All the clouds appeared to move in unison. When gazing far into the horizon above the trees, they all seemed to press together the further they went to their destination. It was as if they were converging on a single point; he was simply seeing the edge. This made him hum and face Parsabelle.

  He asked, “Where are the clouds traveling?”

  There was a slight pause before she answered, “To RrodKa, to the Lady, the Matron. The storm is centering there.”

  “So, what are we going to do now?”

  She faced him below, her white dress spinning elegantly. “Perhaps we wait. Let the storm pass, and maybe we can assess afterward.”

  Levan and Parsabelle faced each other in a thread of silence. They exchanged one last glance, then moved on. A gust whipped past them, carrying the scent of rain that never fell.

  Parsabelle looked west. “It is beginning.”

  The sky was breathing, and this time, he heard it. The clouds churned. The wind shifted again.

  It swept across the region, rolling from the east like a quiet whisper and turning the day to a silver gloom. As it came closer, heavy gusts rushed and howled through battered roads and jagged cliffs, racing toward the borders of RrodKa.

  Nimbus clouds hovered over broken battlements and crumbling courtyards. The region of the poor and slaves was the first to feel its weight. Then it rushed deeper into the nation, where even the rich and armored remained alert. Weapons strapped close. The great towers of RrodKa leaned beneath the pressure, groaning with every wind pushing against them.

  But far beneath those towers, away from the gates and streets and trouble, stretched a long corridor of stone. Small cells carved deep into the wall, where not even a torch was burnt. The air smelled like metal. Chains hanging from stone walls clinked now and then. Rats and spiders moved freely, owning these halls more than any guard ever did. Out of all the empty cells, one slave still held on.

  Inside a cell knelt Lefaulta, chained by the wrists and her ankles swollen.

  She slumped against the wall, the utter darkness keeping her from seeing anything. It made no difference to closing her eyes. Her breaths came shallow and slow, trying to conserve what strength she had. In that silence, her system flared and pulsed in and out of view:

  ● System Interruption ●

  You are bleeding again. Same wounds.

  –0.001% HP/sec

  Temperament Slate — 2/12 Awakened

  Paincallused ? Lv. 37: Your wrists just need a scratch.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Heartbind ? Lv. 24: The Lady is waiting. She wants to show you the child kicking in her womb.

  Her system just happened to awaken when she moved for a better position. The numbers dulled the pain, numbing the wounds strangling her wrists. The frigid floor and stone wall made her shiver, but besides the jitters, she stayed silent. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could last in this cold cavity. This darkness made her forget the time, unsure whether it was day or night, or if her master was alive or dead. She had no way of reaching her master to protect her. The hours counted without her knowledge. She could only imagine the seconds that ticked by every squeak mice made, hoping someone would free her.

  But just then, footsteps came.

  The guards called his name and straightened up, their armor clanging. They were quiet, letting the figure walk ahead without disturbance. Each step echoed across the corridor, reaching the weary slave in a steady rhythm. She grumbled, knowing exactly who it was.

  The person stopped just in front of her cell. The door creaked open. Rust flaked off. The hinges groaned. Lefaulta lifted her head, blinking through matted hair.

  A shadow loomed. The figure inhaled. And with a punchy exhale, a spark emitted from his mouth. He caught the spark. He then clapped his hands, and the spark burst outward. The strike ignited the magic between his palms. Opening them, a violent surge of fire swirled. He scooped the mass, and it grew calm. Under the smoke appeared flames hovering just above his palm. The light brightened the cell, revealing the visiting guest.

  It was Xollor.

  “You…” Lefaulta rasped, her throat dry to the point of cracking. “To think a heartless wretch… still visits. Insulting.”

  Xollor didn’t react or move. He stood calm and unreadable, watching in his poised look. His eyes gazed, and never was there a sign of remorse when seeing her struggle.

  Then he stepped forward. His boots struck the floor one step at a time, causing her spine to tingle. Mice scattered from the sound. He closed the distance and then crouched. Their faces met. She saw him clearly now: young features and a short beard.

  “You’re resilient. Very resilient,” he said, studying her face. “Not what I expect from a slave.”

  He tapped his waist, a slosh coming from the waterskin. “I have water. Tell me where the Matron is. You call her the Lady. I wish to speak with her. Do me this favor and tell me her location, and the water is yours.”

  “Same question…” Lefaulta croaked. “I want to spit at your—”

  Xollor cut her off and pushed his arm forward. The fire hovered closer to her face. Heat pricked her cheek with a sharp, immediate pain. She hissed, the sting growing intensely. Her wrists twisted in the chains in an attempt to turn. But his hand followed. The flame kissed her skin again.

  “Tell me where the Matron is,” he said, sharper now. “Speak, and I’ll give you water. If you don’t, I’ll burn half your face off.”

  Lefaulta seethed through her gritting teeth. Sweat gathered at her hairline and slid, one touching the flame and sizzling. Her hair caught with the smoke curling upward. The scent of charred strands filled the cell.

  Beside her, the system flickered back on:

  Temperament Slate — 3/12 Awakened

  Paincallused ? Lv. 37: Fire, a familiar tactic, but you have felt worse.

  Ironwill ? Lv. 32: Follow his order, you lose the Lady and your worth.

  Heartbind ? Lv. 24: The Lady wants you at the door, not a sword.

  She held her ground. Her glare sharpened.

  “Burn me,” she growled, unwavering.

  Xollor furrowed his brows. Lefaulta pressed her lips together, eyes shut tight, bracing for the agony. The fire hovered near her skin with no more than an inch away. The silence was piercing, dragged out by the man beyond reason.

  But the punishment never came.

  At last, he withdrew his hand. The fire followed, the cool air rushing in where heat had pressed. Sweat slid down her face, untouched by steam. Lefaulta let out a hollow exhale, her body easing.

  “After a couple of days of no water, I expected you’d tell me this time. I was wrong,” Xollor said, reaching behind and grabbing a waterskin from his belt. He popped the lid and tilted it to her lips. Her resolve broke the moment that little jug came closer. The Ironwill faded when water wet her tongue. She lifted her head, desperate to catch every drop. As the water fell freely, she drank and drank, water spilling down her chin as she gulped. A wave of cold swept down her esophagus, and the thirst was replenished.

  He then slipped the empty waterskin back into his strap and leaned against the wall. “I was ordered to keep you untouched.”

  Lefaulta gathered herself, a cold chill sweeping down her body as the water hit her stomach. She coughed, water having gone down the wrong pipe, but her voice came clearer. With a quenched throat, she said with a clearer tone, “Still waiting on me to reveal my Lady’s hideout? Like I said, I won’t give you her location. So spill it. You are not stupid enough to keep me here for this long just to humiliate me. Why are you keeping me alive?”

  He looked at the fire floating on his palm and said, “You’ll remain here until the royal decree. The kings will convene with the high council. The marshal’s part of that, and I take my orders from her.”

  “I know the damn decree,” she snapped, yanking her chains. “Waiting for orders? I know why you’re keeping me here. If I’m that much of a threat to your men, then why won’t you just kill me? That’ll make it easier for both of our sides.”

  Xollor didn’t respond, to which she continued. “You think killing children is right? Do you? Is that what you’ve become? A butcher hiding behind orders? Answer me, Xollor! They’re children!”

  “… Slaves,” he said flatly. “Loyalty will be ensured. We don’t need more hands than we already have. Until the decree has been fulfilled, you will remain here.”

  “Then why stay here and waste your time talking to a slave? You must have better things to do,” she said with a bitter mock. “Maybe some child’s waiting for you to shove a sword in their heart. That’s right. They’re jumping all around, excited that you’d kill them. You’d like that, don’t you? You’re a disgrace.”

  His expression faltered. For a moment, his eyes drifted elsewhere.

  Just as the flame flared enough to catch his expression, he turned to leave. He said no word, letting the silence prevail over Lefaulta’s growing anger. She was this close to shaking him. In desperation, she shouted to shake him some more, “Hey! Don’t you turn away, you—”

  But just then, something felt off. She detected crackles, like the air was vibrating… like something was listening to them.

  A static hiss slipped through the cracks on the floor. The noise was quiet enough for the guards ahead to be oblivious, but it was sharp enough to rattle her eardrums. The flame flickered strangely. The smoke swerved away from the threshold, like another figure had entered the scene.

  Before Xollor reached the threshold, the floor beside him shifted. A pool grew like a ripple, and it spread out.

  A dark bubble swelled upward. As it grew, it began shuddering, and the bubble unraveled itself. From within, a shadow emerged. It was cloaked in black tatters, a motionless figure that stood eerily still. The fire radiated just enough to see a skinny man beneath that shady cloak. His narrow eyes locked onto Lefaulta’s frozen form, then shifted to Xollor. Every movement, even the shift of his eyes, was seamless.

  “We found the Matron,” the man said.

  Lefaulta’s throat hitched. Her heart sank.

  Xollor faced him and asked, “Do I go now? When will the decree be issued?”

  “By code, I was ordered to deliver your directive: Leave now. March to the battlefield. The Matron hides in a small shack, where she is in labor,” he said mechanically, almost like he was speaking without a soul. “My masters have sent nothing else. But they know the decree will surely come. But that is none of your concern. And upon seeing her, kill her and the child. My masters must not be upset.”

  Xollor gave an affirmative look and turned without a word. The flame dimmed as he stepped beyond the threshold, leaving only smoke curling where fire once lingered. Lefaulta’s chains rattled with a violent thrash.

  “You’re a Groggin, aren’t you?” she said, her voice trembling. “What are you doing?! You never do this!”

  The piercing words made Xollor pause, and the cloaked figure finally stopped to face him. Xollor looked back at Lefaulta, who was pulling against her chains, her eyes wide with horror and betrayal. It was something he couldn’t walk away from—not right away.

  She continued, growing more desperate. “I’ve seen you. I thought you were with us. Why did you tell him? Why? Why did you change?! You never intervened! So why now?!”

  But after a moment, Xollor turned sharply and walked away. His mouth stayed shut, shoulders visibly tense. The Groggin didn’t react either, and it simply guided him down the corridor.

  “Don’t walk away from me!” she roared. “Don’t lay a finger on my Lady!”

  She twisted violently to the point her wrists stretched from the shackles. Blood smeared the cuffs and dripped down her arms. Her body flailed desperately, trying to break free. Her struggle shook the stone wall. It rattled, sending dust and debris falling. But she couldn’t move, hearing the two men going down the corridor until she was left in absolute darkness.

  Still, she pulled and pulled. And then— pop! A tendon snapped. The system flared like it was also hurt

  ● System Interruption ●

  One tendon ripped. Twenty-nine more left.

  –32 HP

  HP: 237 / 488

  “Do not touch her!” she shouted. “She has done nothing wrong. Hey!”

  But no response came. Her breath echoed through the stone, returning only her desperation.

  Lefaulta slumped, breath shallow. Dust followed. Then, with one final breath, she hurled her cry into the stone, “Minsuer, protect our Lady! Protect the child! Please… protect them…”

  And for a moment, the chains held still. The dust settled. No answer came…

  Until the storm growled, low and deep, like a beast waking up.