The field basked in golden light beneath a pearl-white sky devoid of a sun. Milla knelt, her fingers sinking into grass so lush it seemed to breathe. Every blade hummed softly with mana, alive with its own quiet energy. The air filled with the sweet scent of moonbell flowers, their cobalt petals dancing in the unnatural breeze. Sylas' laughter rang out, breaking the tranquility with its drum-like intensity.
"You looked like a startled chicken!" Sylas wheezed, clutching his sides as he stumbled across the field. His boots crushed clusters of starfire blooms, releasing shimmering clouds of pollen with every step.
Milla's cheeks burned bright red. She bent down, scooping up a handful of cool, soft soil streaked with amber veins. Before she could second-guess herself, she hurled the dirt at Sylas. It disintegrated mid-air, scattering glittering dust all over his shirt.
Alan stepped into the scene, emerging through the doorway with Emma close behind. He kept a firm grip on her wrist as the doorframe dissolved into swirling petals that floated gently to the ground. Emma's breath caught as she inhaled. The scent wasn't just floral—it carried a sharper metallic tang. The smell reminded her of Connor, and she shivered involuntarily.
Gerral followed last, his trident twisted instinctively. He stomped his foot against the soil, frowning. Instead of crushing, the grass wrapped around his boot like living serpents. "Illusion?" he growled, eyeing the field with suspicion.
"Feels real enough," Alan murmured, distracted by a ladybug with crystal wings landing softly on his leg.
Milla tackled Sylas into a patch of whip vines. The vines curled around Sylas's ankles as Milla rained half-hearted punches on his shoulders. "I'll make you eat thistles!" she shouted. The threat lost its edge when a breeze sent dandelion clocks spinning around them, each seedpod chiming like tiny silver bells.
Sylas laughed even as her punches rained down on him. "You'd miss me within the hour!" he teased with a wide grin.
Above them, the static sky rippled faintly. It wasn't clouds—it was something vast moving behind the luminous veil.
—
Gerral trudged forward, dragging Chase behind him. The blind boy clung to the shaft of Gerral's trident for guidance. The grass hissed softly against their legs like faint static in the air. In frustration, Gerral kicked a moonbell flower that stained his boot blue.
"What is this place?" He grumbled.
Chase tilted his head delighfully, taking in the sweet perfume of the flowers. "It's a pocket space," he explained. "Ancient mages could fold reality into objects, creating self-contained worlds like this."
"Like magic bags or space rings?" Gerral asked, his skepticism fading as a butterfly brushed past his cheek. He stopped, watching its wings shimmer with fractal patterns that shifted endlessly, defying focus. The sight gives him a headache.
"Sort of," Chase replied. "A pocket space has its own mana flow. It's alive in a way—dynamic and adaptive."
Gerral's furrow deepened as he kept staring at the butterfly. "And space rings?"
"They're different," Chase said. "Space rings blend dimensions using dark magic. They're voids—not alive, not flowing. Perfect for storage but deadly for anything living."
Ahead, Milla vaulted over a rotted log, her boots crushing petals that released bursts of neon pollen. "Emma! Look at this! There are so many!" she shouted, grabbing Emma's hand and pulling her toward a kaleidoscope of butterflies rising from the underbrush.
Sylas snorted, wiping blood from the claw marks Milla had left on his neck. "Keep gawking, and you'll wake the guardian of this place." His scowl faded as the butterflies swirled together, forming an arrow that shifted westward.
Emma stared at the formation. "They're… herding us?"
A thousand wings thrummed in unison, producing a sound that resonated in their teeth. Chase staggered, gripping the trident like a lifeline to steady himself. "Follow them!" he shouted. His inky eyes flickered with borrowed visions. "They're heading toward water!"
Milla didn't hesitate. She darted into the woods, leaving Sylas muttering curses as he ran after her.
—
The group burst out of the forest and into a clearing. A small waterfall greeted them, tumbling into a crystal clear pond. The pond shimmered like a precious gem, its surface teeming with fish darting back and forth, their scales glittering in dazzling hues like living jewels.
Milla tiptoed to the pond's edge, her eyes wide with awe. "They're beautiful!" she whispered, enchanted by the fish that seemed to blow kisses at the surface. She didn't notice Sylas creeping behind her, clutching a handful of bluebell flowers.
Sylas pressed the flowers between his teeth like fangs. He crept closer, miming exaggerated tiptoes.
"RAWR!" His claws shook as he growled theatrically into Milla's ear.
She shrieked, startled. Butterflies scattered into a kaleidoscope of colors above them. She flailed wildly, her arms windmilling as she stumbled. Her boot slipped on a slick stone, sending her crashing into the pond with a splash that drenched Sylas' pants.
"You rotting trollspawn!" she sputtered, spitting out a tangle of pondweed. But her rant broke off as a darting fish vanished under her soaked shirt. "Are they—are they EATING MY BELLY?!"
Sylas doubled over, laughing uncontrollably until his foot betrayed him, sliding on algae-coated stone. He flailed briefly before belly-flopping into the water. "Karma!" Milla shouted and lobbed a handful of pond scum at his face.
Their antics turned into a messy duel—splashes, shrieks, and flying muck—until a daring fish launched itself from the water, smacking Sylas square on the nose mid-taunt. He blinked in stunned silence, strands of algae sliding down his hair.
Gerral massaged his temples, clearly unimpressed. Emma tried (and failed) to hide giggles behind her hands. "Must you two turn every discovery into a mud wrestling match?" Gerral grumbled.
"Never underestimate algae," Sylas gasped, trying to regain his balance. He held up a flapping fish. "Dinner's on me tonight!"
Milla's retaliatory splash caught Alan and Chase, soaking them. Chase sputtered, shaking water from his face. "I don't even have eyes. Why am I taking collateral damage?"
Their laughter died down as the waterfall's curtain parted suddenly. Behind it lay a hidden grotto, swirling with butterflies in urgent spirals. Sylas' fish chose that moment to wriggle free, smacking him across the face with its tail as it escaped.
"Nature hates me today," Sylas muttered, algae draped over his head like a soaked crown.
Alan sniffed the air, his expression tense. "Do you smell that?"
Emma crouched beside a cluster of glowing mushrooms, her own nose twitching. "What is it?"
"Smoke. Cooking. Onion!" Alan repeated, rolling the last word like it might contaminate his tongue. Chase sneezed violently into his sleeve, nearly toppling into Gerral.
Sylas sniffed the air with exaggerated relish, then gagged. "Smells like a troll's laundry day! Though Milla's socks, after three days of marching, might give it a run—"
Milla's dirt-caked boot missed Sylas' chin by a hair's breadth. "At least I don't pee my pants like some people!"
Gerral silenced their bickering with a sharp gesture, his trident pointing toward the plateaus above. "There's smoke coming from there!" His nostrils flared as he frowned. "Whoever's up there either can't cook or wants to be found."
Alan propelled himself upward, wind whipping past him as the plateau came into view. A cottage of timeworn wood stood by a meandering stream fed by an upper-tier waterfall. Moss clung stubbornly to its slanted roof, which sagged under its age but refused to yield. Though weathered, fresh tool marks revealed where rot had been removed from the beams. Smoke rose cheerfully from the chimney, curling skyward. Through warped glass windows, a shadow inside moves erratically, like a puppet jerked by unseen strings.