The first thing I noticed was the silence.

Not the absence of sound—no, this forest breathed. The rustle of leaves was a whispered secret, the creak of ancient boughs a lament. The air hung heavy with the scent of loam and lightning, as if the storm had just passed… or was yet to come.

Then, the ground gave way beneath me.

I fell—not through space, but through worlds. The sky tore like parchment, and I landed in a glade where the trees stood sentinel, their bark etched with glowing sigils. Before I could rise, a shadow loomed over me.

Not a shadow.

A woman.

Her hair was a cascade of ivy and silver, threaded with blossoms that bloomed and withered with every step. Violet eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, pinned me where I lay. The Scythe of Elune rested against her shoulder, its blade humming with a low, mournful keen.

Naomi Mosseri. The Springtide Sovereign. The last of the Eladrin who remembered the fall of Sylvanor.

"You’re late," she said, her voice like wind through a canyon.

I opened my mouth—to protest, to demand answers—but a sudden chorus of laughter cut me off.

"Told you she’d drop him right on his ass," a familiar voice drawled.

I turned.

There, lounging against a tree with a smirk that could curdle milk, was Beauregard Lionett. Her staff was slung over one shoulder, her other hand idly spinning a dagger.

"Beau," another voice chided—deeper, warmer. Fjord stepped forward, the salt-and-iron scent of the sea clinging to him even here. His falchion glinted at his hip, but his eyes were wary. "Give the man a second to realize he’s not dead."

"Oh, he’s definitely not dead," Jester chirped, appearing from behind a tree in a swirl of pink curls and mischief. She wiggled her fingers at me. "Hi! Naomi’s been waiting forever for you to show up. She kept doing this thing where she—"

"Enough."

The word wasn’t loud, but it carried the weight of a landslide.

Caleb Widogast stepped into the clearing, his coat smudged with soot and arcane residue. His gaze flicked to Naomi, then to me. "You brought him here. Why?"

Naomi didn’t blink. "Because the Eclipse Maw has found the Tear of Sylvanor."

A beat of silence.

Then—chaos.

"Scheiße," Caleb hissed, already pulling a book from his coat.

"That’s bad, right?" Jester whispered loudly to Caduceus, who nodded solemnly, his teacup somehow already in hand.

"Real bad," Fjord confirmed, his grip tightening on his sword.

Beau cracked her knuckles. "So. We killing a god today?"

Naomi’s smile was a blade unsheathed. "No, little monk." She turned to me, the storm in her eyes igniting. "We are killing the fools who seek to wake one."

And just like that—I was no longer just a warrior.

I was theirs.