BOOK 7: PROLOGUE: CONSEQUENCES

The wind whispered in high tongues.

Lyriel stood at the edge of the living platform, her gaze drifting beyond the emerald latticework of Yggdrasil’s crown. Far below, the world spread out like a living map: verdant valleys, winding rivers, great mountain spines slicing through the land. And there, to the southeast, faint but unmistakable, a smear of smoke across the horizon.

A scar on the green paradise.

The great platform pulsed faintly beneath her bare feet. A lattice of intertwined branches, smooth as silkwood and warm with the breath of life, stretched in an immense circle, encircling the Heartleaf Dais.

Where lesser races built thrones, the elves simply allowed the tree to grow what was needed, arcing petals of bark forming delicate seats in a perfect ring, each one attuned to its occupant.

Lyriel bowed her head. "It’s been a long time since the Matriarchs gathered in full, hasn’t it?"

"Not since the Treaty of Dusk. And even then, two refused to come," Selvanna replied without even turning her head, her gait steady.

The wind shifted. Not a true wind; this high above the clouds, nothing natural stirred. It was the breath of Yggdrasil, tuning the canopy, keeping the air temperate and sweet. Lyriel closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the subtle currents dance along her arms.

Being allowed here today was the greatest honor of her life, bearing witness to an event that had not occurred in centuries. And she, a nameless nobody, had been chosen to stand witness as one of only three servants each Matriarch was permitted.

Her gaze went to her benefactor.

Her patron, Selvanna—no, Matriarch Goldleaf—had her hair woven with flowering vines and precious ornaments as she took her place at the first of the petaled seats. She wore no crown, only the living sigil of her House coiled above her heart, a blossom of pale gold light.

Silently, Lyriel took her position behind the seat, flanked by the other two girls chosen by her patron.

They did not have to wait long.

From the far end of the platform, shimmering through the lightfall and mist, another figure approached. Each step left blossoms in her wake—real flowers unfurling from the living bark and fading moments after she passed.

Her robes were spun from gossamer threads, long sleeves drifting like smoke. A crown of wind-shaped vines coiled around her brow, spiraling upward like a slow, rising breeze.

Lyriel forgot to breathe for an instant, only catching herself when her lungs began to ache in protest. It was the same sensation she’d felt when meeting her ancestor Selvanna—an unmistakable presence that confirmed the newcomer's identity.

One of the Matriarchs.

She offered Goldleaf a brief nod, her expression unreadable. Then, without a word, she took her place, three attendants gliding silently behind her.

Next came another figure, tall and silent, her robes a cascade of burnished gold and deep ochre. Tangled strands of hair hung in wild braids, threaded with bone and bark. She moved with a slow, deliberate grace, like a tree bending with ancient wisdom. Her steps stirred fallen leaves from nowhere, and the scent of mist and soil lingered in her wake.

A third, slight of frame but no less formidable. Her garments clung to her like mist, pale and weightless, and her skin held a pearlescent sheen that caught the light strangely, as if reflecting memories rather than sunlight. She walked as though her feet never fully touched the ground.

The fourth arrived without fanfare, descending from above in a spiral of fluttering fabric. Her eyes shone like burnished steel, her stride swift and decisive. A trailing sash unfurled behind her, etched with symbols that shifted whenever no one looked directly at them.

More followed.

One came robed in cascading layers of moss and star-glass, her every movement accompanied by the faint chime of unseen bells. Another wore robes so sharply cut they looked sculpted from crystal, each fold edged in a soft, otherworldly glow.

They arrived in silence—some materializing from the mist, others stepping through hidden folds in the bark itself, paths known only to the oldest bloodlines. Each presence stirred the air, and the dais responded with gentle pulses—acknowledgments of arrival, of power, of ancient pact.

Lyriel’s breath caught as the last figure appeared, her presence vast and quiet, like a tide barely held at bay. No greeting was exchanged. None was needed.

She might not have recognized all the others, having only heard of them in stories and whispers, but this final figure needed no introduction. Even a child would know her.

She was the Treemother, eldest of their race, bonded to the spirit of the World Tree.

With her arrival, the circle was complete.

Behind each seat, silent attendants.

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

Behind each Matriarch, a legacy older than empires.

And when the final footstep faded, Yggdrasil fell still. The wind held its breath.

The Circle of Matriarchs was complete.

The world at their feet.

"It has been a long time, sisters," the Treemother said, her gaze sweeping across the circle of Matriarchs. Her voice was soft, like that of a young girl, yet behind each word lay the weight of command, as if spoken with the authority of the world.

"We all know why we are here. Let us not burden this gathering with ceremony. Who will speak first?"

One of the later arrivals rose without a word. She lifted her hand, and the air shimmered in response. Mana coalesced, light pooled, and an image unfolded—slow and graceful, like a flower opening to the sun.

Not an illusion, but a memory.

Suspended above the dais for all to see, the vision bloomed: fire and ruin.

Villages burned to their foundations. Trees, ancient and revered, reduced to blackened stumps. The curved rooftops of Rukian farmsteads crushed underfoot. Half-elves with soot-darkened faces, fleeing in panic. Crops scorched to ash. Smoke thick enough to choke the sky.

A child turned, eyes wide with terror, just as the flames swallowed him.

Gasps rippled through the circle—not from the Matriarchs, but from the rows of attendants. Some turned their heads, jaws clenched. Others leaned forward, eyes dark with gathering storm.

Lyriel’s gaze stayed fixed on the projection.

She had read the reports, spoken to scouts, sat beside trembling survivors—but none of it had prepared her for this. The raw, visceral force of the images struck harder than words ever could.

The cruelty of humans truly knew no bounds.

After a long silence, the speaker lowered her hand.

"These images," she said, voice calm and unshaken, "are not hearsay or secondhand record. They come from the memory of the rivers that once nourished this valley."

Lyriel stood in silence as the subtle signals passed from one Matriarch to the next. A faint inclination of the head. A hand resting still atop an armrest. An exhale that wasn’t just breath but consensus. There were no votes here. No declarations. The weight of their shared will was enough.

No one spoke of justice.

No one spoke of revenge.

Only of consequence.

“This cannot go unanswered,” said a voice as sharp as wind slicing through pine. “Or every mongrel nation with a war drum will think us deaf to insult.”

A few Matriarchs gave dry, brittle laughs, like branches cracking in frost. Not one of them mentioned sorrow. Or grief. Even those smoke-wreathed images of fleeing half-elves and burning fields had stirred no outrage, only calculation.

At that moment, Lyriel understood something.

Rukia was not the wound.

The wound was their pride.

They had not been struck.

They had been slighted.

And that could not be borne.

Lyriel’s hands were clasped tightly before her. She did not speak—she would never presume—but her thoughts burned behind her eyes. She had studied the humans more deeply than most court-born daughters who claimed expertise. She had read the old texts, the military accounts, the obscure records of their wars.

And one name had surfaced again and again.

Augustus von Geistreich.

A man many here dismissed as a provincial tyrant with a stolen crown. But Lyriel had seen the patterns. The long games. The way his moves echoed decades ahead made her fear that Rukia had not been a careless mistake.

And yet no one here spoke his name with reverence, only in disdain.

“…He pokes at giants from behind paper walls,” one Matriarch scoffed. “A child king with too many mirrors and not enough sense.”

“…To spend decades tunneling under the earth like a rat,” another added with a sneer. “Is this what human ambition has become?”

“…They dare call themselves a legion?” someone muttered. “An ill-fitting name for those too afraid to show their faces.”

No voices rose in dissent.

Not even Goldleaf’s.

She had been completely quiet so far, a discrepancy that had not gone unnoticed by the others.

When the Treemother turned her head, just slightly, toward Selvanna’s seat, a hush swept the dais. Lyriel also held her breath, waiting for some quiet words of moderation.

But her Matriarch only inclined her head, serene and composed.

“I do not agree with all that has been said,” she said softly. “But I see no sense in opposing their punishment.”

And that was that.

Lyriel’s jaw tightened, though she did not dare move.

So it would be war. Not for vengeance. Not for defense. But for the simple, unyielding need to remind the world that some lines could not be crossed.

A decision had been made. Not with swords. Not with shouts. But with silence that bent the air around it.

“Then let it be done,” the Treemother whispered.

Her voice was quiet.

But the world would hear it.

A silence followed.

Not the hesitant hush of indecision, but a poised, listening stillness. The breath the forest takes before a tree falls. The hush that waits for motion.

No Matriarch stirred.

Until she did.

Lyriel recognized her instantly.

She was the polar opposite of the Treemother. Where the latter was a living legend, a mother to all elvenkind, this volunteer was the youngest among them. Young enough that many still remembered her before her ascension.

Her mortal days remained within living memory.

Her movements were sharp, practiced, almost rehearsed. She stood not with the slow, timeless grace of the ancients, but with the precision of someone who had studied that grace and made it her own.

Her robes shimmered like rain-washed slate, and a single strand of silver-threaded ivy coiled around her wrist, an understated emblem of her House. No crown adorned her brow, only the glint of quiet ambition.

“I will take this burden,” she said. Her voice was clear and calm, lacking the thundering cadence of the older Matriarchs, but what it lacked in depth, it made up for in ambition.

Eyes turned to her. Curious, but not surprised.

Lyriel noticed the glance exchanged between the young Matriarch and the seat beside her—occupied by a far older woman who had not spoken much, whose presence was like deep roots rather than bright leaves.

An older relative, perhaps.

Now, the younger stepped forward. Not in defiance, but in demonstration.

“It is beneath us to move,” she said smoothly, her gaze steady. “But not for our kin. Let the strength of my lineage remind the world what it means to wound us.”

She bowed her head—not in humility, but in ritual.

“My blades will fall by dawn.”

Another silence followed.

But this one was different.

It was acknowledging.

Accepting.

Even the elder sister said nothing, her expression unreadable. Not approval, but perhaps permission.

The Treemother gave a single nod. “Then so shall it be.”

The leaves stirred above.

Not from breeze—but from breath.

As though the great tree itself had heard and released a long, slow exhale.

A pulse traveled through the living platform. Below, the branches would already be shifting, messengers dispatched, gates unlocking. The Will of the Matriarchs was not a thing of parchment or seals.

It was a law of nature.

Lyriel bowed her head, barely able to steady her breath. She had witnessed history take shape. Quiet, elegant, and terrible.

The humans had overreached. And now, they would be corrected.

Far below, in the south, the smoke of Rukia’s burning still curled into the air.

But the wind had changed.

And it was blowing west, towards the lands of humankind.