"All in favor for Gin's idea?" Sven asked, straight-backed and professional, taking the lead as though he were chairing a guild council rather than our ragtag mess of a party. His voice carried the crisp edge of someone forcing order where chaos threatened to reign. He raised his own hand half-heartedly, then glanced around the table.

Predictably, no one else moved.

Gin's grin widened like a cat who had pushed a vase off the shelf and was now waiting for us to scold him. His tail—figurative or literal, I could never tell with him—seemed to swish in satisfaction at the collective rejection.

"Shocking," Wallace muttered under his breath, his plate-sized hands folded on the table like stone.

"Not even a pity vote?" Gin feigned offense, holding a clawed hand to his chest. "You wound me, truly."

"No," Cordelia said flatly. She didn't even look up from the notepad where she'd been idly doodling floral patterns around the margins.

Sven gave her a look, then drew a sharp line through the first option on his pad. "Gin's idea is eliminated."

Gin clapped softly, as if it were a victory.

"All in favor for the original anthology idea?" Sven continued, tapping his pen against the second line.

For a heartbeat, silence hung over us. Then, Fractal—sweet, stubborn Fractal—rose her hand.

Her grip on my fingers tightened as she did so, her little act of defiance both innocent and frightening. I caught the flicker of emotion in her crystalline eyes, how she couldn't bear to see me thrown into something unfamiliar when the anthology had already been our starting line.

But no one else followed. Not Wallace, whose loyalty usually matched hers. Not Cordelia, who had argued for the anthology once before. Not even Ten, who usually voted just to make trouble.

Fractal's hand lingered, shaking slightly, until she realized she stood alone. Slowly, almost painfully, she lowered it again.

Sven's face softened for a breath—sympathy, maybe, or understanding—before he scratched through the anthology idea.

"Very well. All in favor for Leraje and Barbatos's idea?"

This time, Sven himself raised his hand first. It wasn't perfunctory. It was steady, deliberate, the kind of action that said: I actually believe in this one.

Still, his hand was the only one.

Wallace leaned back with a grunt. "Training without growth is a waste of time. Skill without power won't save us against the Others."

Cordelia tapped her temple. "And a training world means no new data, no new variables. It's safety disguised as stagnation."

Ten smirked. "Boring."

Fractal frowned, clearly torn. She looked at me for reassurance, but I couldn't give it. My chest was tight. Safe sounded appealing. But I knew what Wallace meant. Safe wasn't enough.

Sven slowly lowered his hand, expression unreadable, and then with quiet finality scratched through the third option.

That left only one line on his pad.

"And finally," he said, exhaling like a man who already knew the answer, "the suggestion to enter an Otherrealm none of us have been to."

Before he could even finish the sentence, Wallace's hand shot up. Then Ten's, followed by Cordelia's with clinical precision. V lazily raised his gloved hand, as if humoring the process. Fallias, silent as ever, lifted hers with a serenity that made me feel small.

Fractal hesitated. Her eyes darted from me to Sven, then to Gin, then back to me. Her hand trembled, caught between hope and dread, before she finally raised it.

And then, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, my own hand went up too.

Seven hands raised in unison.

Sven did not move.

His eyes swept over us, his shoulders heavy. He looked down at his pad, stared at the last line, and let the silence stretch. Finally, with a sigh that was almost theatrical in its defeat, he tapped the page with the butt of his pen.

"So. That's where we stand."

I swallowed, feeling the weight of what had just been decided—or nearly decided.

Otherrealms. Unknown, uncharted, alien to everything we understood. Gin's stories of clocks and worlds connected through brass and gears suddenly didn't seem so abstract anymore. And Barbatos's warnings—that wherever I went, danger doubled, that a seraph's hunt would mirror a fallen's—echoed in my skull like funeral bells.

I wasn't sure whether to be exhilarated or terrified.

Probably both.

Fractal squeezed my hand again. Her face was pale, but her smile was brave. Wallace gave me a nod, solid and unwavering, as if to say: We'll endure this together. Cordelia was already scribbling notes, strategies forming in her mind like flowers blooming.

Ten stretched like a cat, chains rattling around her ankles, and grinned. "Finally. Something interesting."

V tipped his hat, offering nothing more than a sardonic chuckle.

And Gin…Gin sat there purring, looking pleased no matter the outcome. Because to him, chaos was victory.

Sven tapped his pen once more, slower this time, and finally raised his hand halfway. But he didn't mark the page. He just looked at us, eyes sharp.

***

The Odachi's weight pulled at my wrists like a live thing, humming with potential energy. Each swing carved an invisible arc through the air, followed by the faint ripple of displaced mana that clung to my blade whenever I drew too deeply from my core.

Phantoms rose at my call, fragments of paper given form—shadows of duelists, soldiers, faceless things wearing the outlines of armor and weapon. I cut them down one after the other. A spear thrust hissed toward my ribs; I let the Odachi fall with the kind of brutal finality only that weapon could deliver. The phantom shattered into drifting strips of parchment before reforming again behind me.

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The Odachi had no elegance like a katana or rapier. It was weight and inevitability. To swing it was to commit wholly, to feel the strain down to the tendons in my forearms and the base of my spine. No feints. No half-measures. Only resolve.

I struck again, turning into the next phantom, my breath harsh in the quiet clearing. Each clash filled the air with the sound of tearing paper, yet each reconstruction of my foes reminded me my control wasn't perfect. I wasn't pushing hard enough.

Basaroiel watched from the grass, his massive talons flexing and unflexing as though mirroring my movements. His downy feathers still had the softness of youth, though patches of sleek black plumage already gleamed under the starlight like polished obsidian. His head tilted with the sharp, predatory precision of a hawk, but when his bright, unblinking eyes landed on me, there was only intent. Watchfulness. A kind of silent approval.

When I paused to catch my breath, he let out a low rumble in his chest and flapped his wings clumsily. Dust and bits of parchment whipped through the air. He wasn't urging me onward, not exactly—but I could feel his expectation. "You think I should push harder?" I muttered. He tilted his head, feathers ruffling, a strange mixture of regal arrogance and chick-like awkwardness.

I couldn't help but grin despite my sweat. I reached out and pressed my palm against his beak, tracing the edge where down softened into sharp keratin. He leaned into it, eyes half-lidding like a cat's, and I scratched at the base of his head where feathers tufted messily. His body vibrated with a deep trill of satisfaction.

"You're ridiculous," I said softly. But I lingered there, petting him, letting the calm settle into me. Basaroiel smelled faintly of ozone and something wild, untamed—like the night wind after lightning strikes.

When I finally rose again, the Odachi already felt lighter, steadier in my hands. I turned back toward the phantoms. "Alright. Let's go again."

The paper-born soldiers surged forward at my command. This time I met them with cleaner cuts, my footing more grounded. The Odachi swept through three at once, their forms unraveling before they could even attempt to reform. I was starting to find the rhythm. The strain in my arms became a cadence, the blade's weight an extension of me rather than an obstacle.

After what felt like an hour, I finally let the phantoms dissolve completely into scraps, falling still around me. My breath slowed. My muscles trembled. Basaroiel waddled closer—half proud guardian, half overeager fledgling—and pressed his head into my chest. The impact nearly knocked me backward. I laughed, wrapping my arms around his neck, burying my face briefly in the warmth of his feathers.

"Alright. Odachi practice—done." My words came out between panting breaths. "Next…archery."

He tilted his head as though confused at the sudden change, but followed me regardless as I set the Odachi aside and retrieved my bow. The weapon always felt strange compared to the Odachi—delicate, almost fragile in its draw. But that fragility was deceiving. It demanded precision in a way the Odachi never could.

I notched the first arrow, pulling back until the string hummed with tension. I aimed at the stump across the clearing, exhaled, and released.

The arrow streaked forward—and with it, something more. A faint shimmer of my aura clung to the shaft, silver and pale as starlight. The moment it struck the stump, the wood cracked with far more force than an ordinary arrow could deliver.

I froze. My chest tightened. That wasn't supposed to happen.

Basaroiel cocked his head, feathers fluffing up as if sensing the disturbance.

I notched another arrow. This time I tried to draw carefully, focusing only on the mechanics of the shot. Pull, aim, breathe, release—

Again, the arrow surged with my aura, streaking like a comet. It split the target in two.

The forest around us trembled faintly. Not from the arrow's impact—but from me.

I grit my teeth, trying again, but the more arrows I loosed, the harder it became to hold back. Each shaft carried more of me into it: the weight of my Arte, the density of my mana, the glow of starlight pulsing beneath my skin. By the fifth arrow, the clearing had changed.

Trees that hadn't been there before shimmered into being—tall and silver-barked, their leaves glittering faintly like constellations. Flowers of pale blue luminescence spread across the grass, swallowing the normal weeds. The air grew thicker, luminous motes drifting lazily as if we'd stepped into a dream.

Basaroiel squawked sharply, wings flaring, half-startled but not fearful. His talons dug into the earth as he circled me protectively.

I lowered my bow, heart pounding. The Starlight Forest. It had come again—unbidden, summoned not by will but by lack of control.

I took a stumbling step backward, the world around me shimmering like ink bleeding across parchment. Every arrow I'd fired was now rooted in a new trunk, embedded into silver wood rather than the old stump. My aura was spilling into the world, rewriting it without my permission.

A voice slid into the clearing then—gentle but unyielding, like light breaking through water.

"You are slipping, Alexander."

I turned sharply. Lumivis stood at the edge of the newly-grown forest, his form both part of it and apart from it. Starlight clung to his shoulders like a mantle, his pale hair scattering the glow of constellations that weren't supposed to be here. His eyes burned faintly, mirrors to the night sky itself. He didn't walk forward; with each breath I took, he was simply closer, as though distance had never existed between us.

Basaroiel gave a low rumble, feathers puffing out as he crouched against my leg. His talons dug into the dirt, wings twitching, beak parted in a warning hiss. He looked so small like that—more chick than predator—but there was a fierce, instinctive protectiveness in the way he pressed himself between me and Lumivis.

Lumivis regarded him with patience, serene, almost indulgent, like a teacher watching a child posture with a wooden sword. And then, with a tilt of his head, his gaze returned to me.

"You let it leak without awareness," he said. His voice wasn't loud, but it threaded through the air like a current. The trees—my trees, birthed from my aura—shivered at the sound. "Each arrow a surrender. Each breath an invitation. Tell me, Alexander—how long do you think you can walk with power that bleeds from you at every motion before it consumes you?"

His words struck deeper than any phantom's blow. My bow felt suddenly too heavy in my hands, sweat cooling along my spine. I swallowed, forcing my voice to work.

"I…was trying to control it," I said. "I didn't mean for—"

"Intent is not mastery." His tone sharpened, though it carried no cruelty. It was correction, precise and unflinching. "You grasp your Odachi with two hands, committing fully to the swing. There is no hesitation in that. Yet here—" his eyes flicked to the bow clutched awkwardly in my grip, to the forest pressing closer around me, "—here you think partial effort will suffice. It will not. Not with this."

Shame prickled in my chest, hot and needling. My gaze dropped to the earth, where the roots I had unknowingly summoned wound outward like veins. My aura pulsed with every heartbeat, heavy, alive, refusing to be hidden.

Basaroiel pressed closer. His beak nudged against my hip, the intent simple and wordless: You are not alone. His feathers brushed against my arm, grounding me, even as his talons flexed with unease.

Lumivis's expression softened, though his voice remained steady. "Already, he steadies you better than you realize. But even with him—you must learn to cage what you hold. Left unchecked, it will only grow. And a forest without boundaries swallows all in time."

The Starlight Forest whispered around us, branches swaying in a wind that wasn't there. Leaves shimmered faintly, dripping silver light, and I could hear the faint hum of life I hadn't called but had somehow breathed into being. Each shift of my body made the air thrum. Every exhale seeded another pulse of green and starlight.

It was suffocating. It was beautiful. It was mine. And it terrified me.

"I don't…" My throat tightened. "I don't know how to stop it."

Lumivis stepped closer again—or perhaps he simply was closer, the way he always seemed to be. His presence pressed against me without weight, yet it was undeniable. He gestured, a faint motion with his hand toward the bow still gripped in my fingers.

"Then you will learn. Not by accident. Not by fear. But by discipline. Each arrow, each breath, each cut you make—must be your will alone. Nothing more, nothing less."

I looked down at the bow, at the way my hand trembled around it. Basaroiel gave another rumble, softer this time, and leaned his head against me. My hand found his feathers without thinking, stroking down the sleek black quills that caught faint glimmers of the starlight overhead. He chirped low in his chest, content, protective.

"I…" I exhaled slowly, the forest responding with a shimmer of light across the leaves. "I don't want to lose control. Not like this."

Lumivis inclined his head. "Then master yourself before it is no longer yours to master."

The forest seemed to hold its breath with him. My aura pressed at the edges of my skin, restless, wanting to break free with every heartbeat. Basaroiel's presence at my side steadied me, but the truth still clawed at my ribs.

I didn't know if I could cage it.

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