Dusk bathed the canopy of the Great Naruun Forest in bronze, where ancient roots intertwined like living veins beneath the earth. The scent of damp moss, aged leaves, and latent magic was so dense it seemed to breathe with those who entered. To the Naruun, this was more than a forest — it was home, sanctuary, and temple.
Ithor walked along a narrow path between the trees, flanked by Faaron — his thick-furred gray wolf with amber eyes. Since the initiation, the bond between them had grown so deep that their thoughts merged with the same fluidity as branches swaying in the wind. Every breath the wolf took echoed in Ithor's chest. Every impulse, every instinct, was a mirror reflected in both pairs of eyes.
But unease lingered. The forest, with all its grandeur and mystery, no longer satisfied Ithor's restless spirit. Something inside him yearned for more: for stories, for distant horizons, for dangers that lay beyond the sacred roots. Faaron, wild at heart, seemed to share that yearning. They understood each other without words. But controlling the emotions born of the bond was a constant — and sometimes treacherous — exercise. Where did one's desire end and the other's begin?
It was during one of those nocturnal incursions, under a moon filtered through the dense canopy, that Ithor encountered a group of outsiders. Cloaked in dark mantles and cautious voices, they camped in a clearing where lichen-covered stones formed a rough circle. Among them, a woman of otherwise ordinary appearance stood out — not for her face, but for her golden eyes that gleamed like smoldering embers.
"You are our kin, tamers," she said, her smile soft and rehearsed. "And we need your help. We're searching for rare herbs… to save lives."
Her name was Nora. She introduced herself as a healer and claimed to come from lands beyond the Domo, where plagues ravaged entire villages. The request seemed fair: roots of Av'reen, glowshrooms, hides of small nocturnal beasts.
Ithor hesitated. The laws were clear: no outsider was to pass through the forest without the elders' permission. And even then, only under escort by the rangers. But curiosity spoke louder. This was his chance to learn more about the world beyond the border — and if he could help save lives in the process, was he truly breaking the law? Or merely... adapting it?
Nora was skillful with words. They spoke for hours. She told tales of blood deserts, of the violet skies of Zhyren, of how the Olkhar trained their gifts at the foot of Mount Ilhyr. Her stories fed his imagination like a well-stoked fire.
By the end of the night, Ithor led them — along sacred paths, to the roots of Av'reen, where the earth pulsed with power. They harvested only what was needed — or so it seemed. No signs of harm, no greed. At their farewell, Nora offered him a ring of dark stone. All he needed to do was touch it with intent, and a soft glow would lead him back to the clearing, whenever he wished to see her again.
And he did return.
In the nights that followed, Ithor provided paths, explained how to avoid the rangers, described the creatures, and even pointed out areas of abundance. He didn't realize — or refused to realize — that his help was not aiding a group of healers... but mercenaries.
Besides Nora, the group was composed of two men without gifts — brutal and armed — and two Sangor. The latter were quiet and dangerous, speaking little but watching everything. The humans, on the other hand, mocked Ithor openly — though he never seemed to notice. Each new location marked on their maps meant more profit, more trafficking, and greater desecration of the forest.
Until everything collapsed.
On a night of mist and wet leaves, Ithor led the group through a natural tunnel of roots, toward a sacred valley, when the Naruun Patrol appeared. Fifteen tamers astride different beasts: wolves, stags, panthers — and a colossal black bear. Spears raised. Eyes alert.
"Ithor?!" the patrol leader roared, stunned.
The shock of the encounter caused a moment of hesitation. The rangers hadn't expected to find one of their own among invaders. And the mercenaries, well-versed in exploiting hesitation, didn't wait.
Nora was first. With a swift motion, her golden eyes lit up. Time slowed in her vision. A poisoned arrow flew like an invisible viper, piercing the shoulder of a ranger mounted on a wolf. The man screamed, and his wolf brother howled in unison — the bond transmitted pain like thorns through the soul.
Chaos erupted.
Screams. Blood. Thunderous bursts of magic.
The two humans drew compact crossbows and began firing at anything that moved. The Sangor carved their arms, spilling blood onto the earth. The blood thickened and grew, forming black serpents. These serpents hardened into spears tough as steel, then melted again into liquid form, weaving between the conjurers like living shadows. They struck when opportunity arose, deflecting attacks and lunging with deadly precision.
"Formation! Protect the brothers!" shouted the Naruun leader. Then he roared — and his roar was answered by his bear brother. The sounds merged, resonating until the bear began to shimmer. Its solid form dissolved into a translucent shape, like a spirit of fleshless fury. The bear's spirit stepped into the tamer, and they became one. A man of flesh cloaked in the astral projection of his Anirû. The fusion was an advanced stage, mastered only by a few Naruun.
One of the humans tried to flee. He stepped too close. The fused tamer raised his paw — half hand, half claw — and brought it down like a mountain. The man's body was crushed against the sacred soil, and the impact sent a tremor rippling through the ground.