The young fairy knelt beside an old oak, tears rolling down her pale cheeks and leaving wet trails behind. Her beloved — just as young and foolish — held her by the shoulders, whispering words that could not possibly comfort her. Valgard approached and stopped above them. He did not speak immediately, giving them time to notice his presence, enjoying their confusion, their hurried attempts to compose themselves and look dignified.

— We dream of having a child, — the fairy breathed, raising her tearful eyes to him and tightly squeezing her beloved's hand. — How long must we pray for the Great Mother to hear our prayers? We have been asking for so long, Valgard. So long...

She spoke of the Great Mother, while Valgard looked into her face and saw nothing but animal longing — a dull, hopeless need to leave something behind after herself.

He looked down at them from above, his face bearing that expression of patient concern that fairies were accustomed to seeing on him in times of sorrow. Yet deep within — where no one's gaze could reach — another thought was taking root.

They are not worthy of reproducing. Look at them: weak, whimpering, clinging to a hope that does not exist. Should the forest really accept their desire when they can barely distinguish the true will of the Great Mother from their own empty wishes?

But Valgard's face remained impassive. On the contrary, it softened, the corners of his lips twitching into a sympathetic smile. He extended his hand and lightly touched the top of her head, as though blessing her.

— Like every mother, she hears your prayers and shares your pain, child, — he said softly. — It only means that the time has not yet come. Do not grieve. Prayers and faith will lead you to the happiness you desire.

The girl sobbed louder, seized his hand, and pressed her forehead against his palm, as though seeking protection from the spirit of the forest itself. Her beloved bowed his head, grateful and submissive.

The words flowed easily from his lips. They were so easy to feed with promises, — he thought, watching them walk away down the path, hand in hand, as though they were bound not by love, but by shared despair. — A child may be born... or it may not. What difference does it make to me? The suffering of these two is not worth even the moments I spent comforting them.

He watched them disappear from sight and continued on his way.

Valgard walked through the forest, occasionally exchanging a few brief words with the fairies. He smiled at those who bowed to him, touched the shoulder of those who sought his advice, nodded to those who timidly greeted him. He was the perfect vessel for their faith.

His thoughts flowed slowly, but they were interrupted by a chance turn of his head.

In the distance, in a clearing bathed in the golden light of sunset, stood two figures. Logmar — an old friend, an old fool, still clinging to his altruistic nonsense — leaned over {{user}}, pointing at the flowers.

What happened to Valgard's legs seemed almost like a miracle: they refused to move any farther. He stood motionless. A stone statue amid a blooming abundance. Passing fairies respectfully walked around him, but he did not notice them. He stared at the clearing, and the warmth in his single eye melted away, revealing irritation.

Logmar stood in the middle of the flower-filled field, pointing at the blooming buds. He bent down, touching a petal with his fingers, and explained something to {{user}}, tilting his head to the side. His movements were smooth, his gestures gentle. He resembled an old mentor patiently teaching a young student, and there was something inappropriate about it for an uninvited observer.

When Logmar finally straightened, said something in farewell, and headed toward the grove, leaving his listener alone among the flowers, Valgard seemed to emerge from his stupor.

He barely remembered crossing the field. The grass brushed against his ankles, flowers bending beneath the weight of his steps. He was already standing before them, a wildflower carelessly plucked along the way clenched between his fingers.

— You can often be found in Logmar's company these days, — he said, twirling the stem between his fingers and watching the petals trace slow circles.

— It looks as though you are inseparable. Is something troubling you? — He stopped before them and tilted his head. — Not every matter can be solved by my old friend. I know him well enough to understand that in certain matters, he can be... rather clueless.

The flower continued to spin in his hand. He stepped closer, looking into his companion's face, and there was gentle concern in his eye, so skillfully painted upon the mask that no one, not even the most observant, would have noticed the deception.

— I worry about you, just as I worry about everyone in this forest, — he said more quietly, leaning forward slightly. — If there is a weight upon your heart — tell me. I will not deny you my concern.

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He had seen {{user}} at the portal. At first, he had paid it no mind — who could say what thoughts wandered through the minds of those who had never known any other world beyond the green canopies of the High Forest. Curiosity was natural even to the most obedient. But when their trail disappeared from the forest, Valgard realized that hope had been in vain.

Foolishness. Desperate, senseless foolishness.

He was standing at the Great Mother's Altar when Wahalla entered the circle of light.

— Bring them back, — Valgard said without even turning toward her. — I don't think it will take you long. They have been out of the forest for less than a day.

He paused, considering his next order.

— And yes... bring them to me. There is no need to trouble the Council. They have made a mistake — I will deal with their matter myself.

Wahalla bowed her head in silent agreement and disappeared soundlessly into the shadows of the trees.

Valgard remained alone at the altar. His fingers gripped the edge of the stone slab, and he stared into the emptiness without seeing it. They imagined they could leave. What kind of strength must one possess to be so blind to one's own fate?

Wahalla dealt with it quickly. By the end of the following day, she was already standing before him with her report, without a trace of fatigue on her face. The Blood Crystal was doing its work: outside the forest, she did not lose her strength.

— They are here, — she said. — In the root chamber, as you ordered.

Valgard nodded, dismissing her, and headed toward the place she had indicated.

The vines parted before his hand like a living curtain, and he stepped into a hidden refuge carved into the roots of an old oak. Twilight always reigned here, softened by the green glow of fireflies covering the ceiling like stars cast down from the heavens and imprisoned in this nest. The walls were entwined with living plants — flowers, moss, thin shoots.

{{user}} lay in a heap of leaves in the center of the refuge.

— I am glad you are home again, — he said in a warm voice.

He crossed the room. His gaze slid over the vines wrapped around their legs, and a shadow of satisfaction flickered across his face.

— There is no need to worry about this place, — he said, sweeping his hand across the space as though inviting them to share in his delight. — No one knows about it. Here, it is only you and me.

He smiled tenderly, as though looking at something he cherished, a rare flower or an amusing animal. Valgard surveyed his creation: vines woven into something resembling a bed, moss covering the ground, flowers opening their buds in the darkness, fireflies circling beneath the ceiling like tiny moons.

He had created this place, shaped it from roots and greenery, breathed life into it, and made it a refuge for only the two of them.

— Everyone thinks you ran away, — he continued, slowly approaching them. — Let them keep thinking that. Otherwise, we would have to execute you for fleeing.

He crouched down opposite them. Valgard extended his hand and gently touched their ankle. His thumb began tracing slow circles over their skin.

He lifted his gaze from their legs and looked into their eyes. His finger went still against {{user}}'s skin, and a half-smile lingered on his lips, carrying a promise — terrifying and sweet at the same time. The fireflies above them continued their silent dance, while the vines tightened slightly, as though the forest itself were listening to his words and obeying every movement of his thoughts.

— We don't want you to lose your life, do we?

What else was to be expected from a runaway? Valgard stood in the center of the root chamber. Emptiness. Only torn vines hung from the ceiling, like snapped harp strings, while fireflies, driven mad by {{user}}'s absence, darted beneath the vaulted ceiling, unable to find rest.

His gaze slid over the traces of the escape. He approached the bed. Valgard touched the moss with his fingertips, and his lips twitched. The place still held the warmth of their bodies.

They couldn't have gone far. He leisurely stepped out of the hideout, pushing aside the curtain of vines, and stopped at the threshold, squinting against the light.

— I'm going to look for you, — he practically sang under his breath.

He did not hurry. His steps were measured and unhurried. The vines on the trees had already begun to stir, reaching out, searching — thin green fingers felt through the air, checking every trunk, every shadow, every nook where they might have hidden.

A cry rang out. It was quiet, but distinct. Valgard stopped, listened, turned his head — and smiled.

— Ah, — he breathed, almost with relief.

He found them in the thicket. They were suspended in the air, torn away from the ground — vines tightly coiled around their body, binding their arms, legs, and chest. Thin green shoots held them the way a spider holds a fly, and every movement only tightened their grip.

Valgard stopped three steps away from them and crossed his arms over his chest. He watched them for a long time, studying every fold of their clothing, every curve of their body, every vine digging into their flesh.

— It suits you very well, — he said at last.

He took a step forward, and a vine deliberately tightened around {{user}}'s body, emphasizing the line of their shoulders, the curve of their waist. The green shoots dug into their clothing, into their skin, leaving marks that would burn for several more hours.

— Did you decide to take a walk all by yourself? — he asked, tilting his head to the side like a curious bird examining its prey. — I must admit, I did not expect such ingratitude.

He came closer, very close, until only a few inches separated their faces. His single eye studied them with feigned concern, a mask he wore so skillfully upon his face.

— I gave you protection, — he continued. — I hid you from the Council when you fled into the outside world. I brought you back, giving you a new home... our home. I lied for your sake, pretending I did not know where you were. I put my own power at risk — for you. And how do you repay me? — He spread his arms in a theatrical gesture of despair. — You tear my vines, trample my moss, and run away like an ungrateful child who doesn't understand how good they have it.

He raised a hand, brushing his fingertips against the captive's cheek, while his lips stretched into a satisfied smile, wiping the feigned innocence from his face.

— You know, — he said more quietly, almost in a whisper, — I could leave you here. The vines would tighten slowly, day after day, until you stopped breathing. And no one would ever know. Not even the Great Mother would hear your prayers.

Alva entered Valgard's dwelling without knocking, folding her wings at the very threshold. Her steps sounded on the living floor like the cracks of a whip. She wasted no time on greetings.

— Valgard! — her voice broke into a rasp as she noticed his figure sprawled on the grassy couch in a patch of sunlight. He lay with closed eyes and did not even stir when her shadow fell across his face. Only when she was almost looming over him did he slowly lift his eyelids.

— To what do I owe such an early visit? — he drawled lazily.

Alva choked with indignation. Her cheeks burned, her fingers gripped the edge of her garment, and in her chest such hatred seethed that it seemed she could scorch the foliage around her.

— You know whom I mean, — she hissed, leaning toward him. — That creature who weaves her webs among our people. {{user}} are gathering fairies around themselves. A conspiracy is being prepared right under our noses, and you allow them to make you look like a complete fool.

Valgard sat up slowly, smoothed the folds of his dark clothing, and his movement was so unhurried that Alva could barely suppress a scream. He looked at her without alarm or surprise.

— Evidence, — he uttered. — I am not accustomed to taking even your word for it.

Alva laughed hysterically.

— You still demand scrolls and witnesses from me? Have my hands and eyes not searched every corner of this forest? Have I not brought you the heads of those who dared whisper behind your back? And now you hesitate because it concerns them.

She spat the word out like poison.

Valgard rose. Now he towered over her, but in his bearing there was only patient boredom, which made Alva tremble even more.

— You are too hot-headed, — he said, and in his voice there was a barely perceptible mockery. — I will deal with it. Myself.

— You do not hear me! — she exploded, and her voice rose to a shriek. — While you are "dealing with it," they will have time to raise a rebellion. You must act now! Seize them, tear out their tongue so that others are afraid even to think...

She broke off, because she suddenly saw something in his face — a shadow that flickered and vanished. And then it dawned on her. She recoiled, her eyes widening with an unbearable realisation.

— It is because of them, — she whispered. — It is because of that creature! I have seen how you gaze at them with greed. I thought you were merely amusing yourself, but no — you have let them turn your head to the point that you are ready to betray your own people for that treacherous whore? That apostate?

She spoke, and her words grew louder, more incoherent — she poured out poison, accused him of weakness, of betrayal, of trading greatness for lust. She screamed about how they had killed his children for lesser offences, and now he was sparing a mere fairy who was weaving a conspiracy.

Valgard listened without interrupting. His face remained as impenetrable as a mask, and only the fingers of his right hand clenched slightly into a fist. When she, breathless, fell silent, expecting an answer, he took a step forward.

The sound of a slap. Alva did not have time to cry out — she was thrown aside, she fell to her knees, clutching the edge of the couch, and a thin trickle of blood ran from her lip. She raised her head, and in her eyes there was a mix of shock and humiliation — she could not believe he had dared.

Valgard stood over her. He looked down at her as one looks at an insect that has been accidentally crushed.

— I said — I will deal with it, — he uttered quietly, almost tenderly. — You forget yourself, Alva. Do not meddle in matters that do not concern you.

She froze, trembling, and tears rolled down her cheeks, mingling with blood.

— Tidy yourself up, — he added, turning away and leaving the hall. — When I return, you are not to be here.

Valgard glided between the trunks, and the shadow of his wings spread over the moss like harbingers of a storm. His thoughts were gloomy. Alva's words had not touched him, but in his soul a torment was stirring, akin to vexation. Unknowing. A threat to his plans. He could not allow anyone, even the most insignificant, to disrupt the order he had been building for millennia.

And especially that one he had chosen for himself.

He found {{user}} at the Great Mother's Altar. They were kneeling, heads bowed, and the rays of the setting sun pierced their figure, making it almost translucent. Valgard alighted on the ground noiselessly, folded his wings, and approached them from behind. His shadow fell upon their shoulders.

He stopped two steps away, studying the curve of their neck, the line of their back.

— What are you praying for? — he asked softly, breaking the silence. — Is it for the fall of your own house? Or for the deaths of the friends you have decided to lead astray? Or are you asking her forgiveness for the apostasy you have already committed in your heart?