CHAPTER 27: NO FRAME, NO FEAR

Micha’el pushed himself to his feet, every muscle trembling from the impact. His lungs burned as relief washed over him—he’d just cheated death at the White Fang’s claws. Gasping, he spun around, searching for whoever had conjured that last-second barrier. But before he could piece it together, a thunderous command sliced through the air:

"Micha’el! Move! Now!"

He blinked up to see Mathes, the Queen’s right hand, striding forward on the forest floor with his magical staff in his hand. Colorful stones along his silver runic armor glowed like molten moonlight. In that instant, Micha’el’s awe turned to terror: Mathes wasn’t some ordinary Goldhair scout—this was royal blood in battle, come at the Queen’s command.

Before Micha’el could second-guess, Mathes swept his arm. The gale dome collapsed inward, propelling Micha’el to the nearest low branch. Without pause, he vaulted toward the undergrowth for a quick cover and respite.

Behind him, a squad of ten Goldhair warriors poured into the clearing, blades ignited with arcane sheen. Dozens of Night Stalkers surged forward—more than a score—snarling in furious pursuit. The elite elves formed a shield wall, trading blow for blow. Arrows of compressed wind and bolts of crackling mana volleyed between both sides, turning the forest floor into a shattered mosaic of splintered wood and spurting sap. Unfortunately, the beasts were just too many for them to handle.

Micha’el’s lungs burned, but he didn’t look back. With escpae in his mind, he turned around, his boots pounded mud as he sprinted along a fallen log, eyes fixed on a ruined watchtower thirty meters ahead—his only hope for sanctuary. Goldhair shields slammed into charging beasts, scattering their ranks, but some Night Stalkers slipped through the gaps.

A hulking shadow lunged at Micha’el’s flank—razor claws cutting through his leather jerkin reminding him that he is not yet safe.

"Persistent cats!"

He reacted on instinct, slashing upward in a blur of motion. Vael’turein cleaved through the creature’s hardened breastplate, sending it crashing into the undergrowth with a strangled roar and a heavy thud.

But no sooner had that beast fallen than two more leapt into view, fangs bared and claws dripping. Micha’el didn’t pause to duel them—he pivoted on one foot and bolted deeper into the thicket and closer towards the gate.

"Not good!" he panted, vaulting over a moss-draped stump. A searing pain jolted through his ribs as a claw slashed across his side—blood welled instantly while his breathing getting more difficult. He ground out grit and crimson, spit staining the forest floor. His mana-ring charms flickered with faint blue light, but he forced himself onward; he couldn’t afford another shield.

The ancient watchtower loomed ahead, its broken stairway promising shelter. It felt impossibly distant in his burning lungs.

Just then, a war-cry rang out. A squad from Sylvan’thir tribe—drawn by the clash—burst through the saplings. Their emerald-green cloaks whipped behind them as they charged, magic axes and wards at the ready. In seconds, they were between Micha’el and the snarling beasts, blades whistling through the air.

"Leave this to us kid." one of them said as both of them engaged the chasing beasts.

Together, they drove the Night Stalkers back, their combined magic flares and steel blades forming an unbreakable wall of defense. The last hissing creature fled into the shadows.

One of the guards offered Micha’el a steadying hand. He staggered, then squared his shoulders and let out a ragged breath.

"Thank you," Micha’el gasped, his voice raw but grateful. He met their determined gazes—and knew he’d reached safety at last.

His arrival sent a ripple through the clearing. Elves spilled out from the inside of the hall, voices calling out in surprise and admiration. Soon a small crowd pressed around him, offering nods, claps on the back, and quick words of congratulations—celebrating their first victor of the Test of Fang.

But while the others celebrated around him, Micha’el’s thoughts remained trapped deep in the forest. The cheers, the congratulations—they barely registered. How could he celebrate when his fellow Goldhair warriors were still out there, risking their lives... because of him?

He stood frozen between two choices: return to the battle and fight beside them, or stay and bask in a victory that felt undeserved. He wanted to believe in Mathes and the elite guard—but deep down, he knew something the others didn’t. This wasn’t just a rogue pack of Night Stalkers. No. It was bigger. A coordinated strike. Five packs, maybe more, moving together like one—driven by vengeance.

It wasn’t a hunt.

It was a war.

And now, surrounded by smiling faces and raised voices, he didn’t know how to shatter the joy with the truth.

Deep in the Runewood, Leon’do and Anast’cia crouched beneath the heavy shade of twisted branches and moss-choked roots.

They’d been waiting for hours—silent, tense, and hungry. The sharp, metallic scent of blood hung in the air from the bait they’d left: raw Glimmereyes owl meat, feathers scattered around like bright purple petals. And yet... nothing. No Night Stalkers. Just a few skitterbolts darting in to steal scraps.

Anast’cia lay stretched across a thick branch like a lazy jungle cat. Her magic spear rested on her back, its glowing blue runes pulsing faintly.

"I told you," she said with a yawn, voice low and drowsy. "They’re called Night Stalkers for a reason. It’s already morning. They’re probably back in their dens sleeping."

Leon’do, lying prone on the ground beneath her, grumbled under his breath. His cloak blended into the moss, but his patience had already worn thin.

"They don’t just disappear at sunrise," he replied. "They hunt solo and are evenly scattered in Runewood. We gave them their favorite snack and laid a trap. Something should’ve taken the bait by now."

"Maybe they smell the feathers more than the meat," she said, squinting at the bait site. "Try moving it closer to the stream?"

Leon’do sighed. "You move it."

Before the argument could go any further, Anast’cia’s sharp eyes narrowed. In a single motion, she leapt from her perch, spear drawn—aimed straight at Leon’do.

"What the—!" Leon’do rolled instinctively, confused and furious.

CLANG!

Twin daggers flashed, intercepting her strike with a shower of sparks. A figure stepped out from the underbrush, his stance low and ready. White hair, dark blue skin, and cold dark eyes—unmistakable for a Dark Elf.

"Careful where you swing that thing," the dark elf growled. "Unless you’re aiming to lose your head today."

It was Gondar. A fellow contestant for the Test of Fang.

Anast’cia held her ground, eyes sharp and steady. "You skulk around like a Night Stalker, I’ll treat you like one."

Leon’do scrambled up and stepped between them, waving his arms. "Alright, both of you! Chill. Same test, same queen. We’re not enemies here. Remember?"

After a tense pause, weapons were sheathed. Barely.

"You’ve got some nerve creeping up on us," Anast’cia muttered. Her eyes remained cold towards their rival tribe member.

Gondar didn’t flinch. "You were loud enough to be heard halfway across the Runewood."

Leon’do tilted his head. "Weren’t you dropped on the other side of the forest?"

"I’ve been tracking since last night. No signs of the cats. But I did caught the scent of the Glimmereyes," Gondar explained, glancing at the feather-strewn bait.

Anast’cia rolled her eyes and slumped back onto her branch. "So we’re all wasting time here."

Leon’do crossed his arms. "Where’s the other one from your tribe? The girl."

"You mean Jaira?" Gondar turned his gaze east. "We split up. She can handle herself."

He turned to leave, slipping back toward the trees but an unexpected question made him pause.

"Did you see the human?" Leon’do asked, his round eyes glinting with curiosity.

Unlike most elves, he didn’t bear any grudge against Auren. If anything, he found the human fascinating. The first time he saw him, Auren was brandishing some strange contraption—like a tube, yet it fired bursts of fire magic with surprising force. The Sylvan’thir scholars argued for hours about how it worked, some accusing him of mimicking elven tech, others outright dismissing him as a fraud.

But not Leon’do.

He knew originality when he saw it. That thing wasn’t copied—it was built by the human himself. Designed by someone who thought differently and with creativity. And deep down, Leon’do couldn’t help but hope he’d get a chance to speak to Auren again... to ask him just how he made that thing work.

Gondar paused only briefly. "That human kid? Probably fertilizer by now," he muttered, then disappeared into the brush.

Meanwhile, the so-called ’fertilizer’ is currently safe and sound somewhere.

On the far east of the brewing conflict between the elves and the pack of Night Stalkers, the forest was calm. Auren lay by the riverbank under the gentle shade of drooping willow branches, his head resting on a folded tunic. Birds chirped. The river babbled quietly.

And for once—he looked at peace.

Not far from him, Jaira knelt by a small firepit, calmly tending to a fresh catch. Her pale blue eyes reflected the flames as she skewered a trout and rotated it slowly over the crackling heat. The smell of crisping skin and a dash of forest herbs filled the air, soft and comforting.

Auren stirred with a groan, blinking against the sunlight. He sat up, sniffing like a hound.

"Smells amazing."

Jaira smirked without looking his way. "You’re lucky I found you when I did. Another hour, and you’d have been the one roasting over this fire."

She reached for another fish, slid it onto a stick, and planted it near the flame. "You were out cold for hours. What happened this time?"

"Mana Shock," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "Again."

Without a word, Jaira handed him the first skewer—the one already cooked to perfection. "Eat up. You’re running on fumes."

"Thanks, Jaira. You always save me." He took a bite, chewed slowly, and let out a satisfied grin. "Still the best. I didn’t even know you could cook."

Jaira raised an eyebrow. "Charming. It’s just roasted fish."

He chuckled and leaned back against a smooth rock. "So... did you manage to hunt one?" he asked, referring to a Night Stalker.

She shook her head, her tone shifting. "That’s the weird part. The forest is full of tracks, fresh ones, but I haven’t seen a single Night Stalker since sunrise."

"How about you?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.

"You have no idea." Auren let out a breath, shaking his head as flashes of last night played in his mind. "Honestly, it’s a miracle I’m still in one piece after going toe-to-toe with that thing..."

She studied him, curiosity lighting her eyes.

Catching her stare, Auren smirked. "I know. I’m cool." He scooted closer to the fire and plucked another fish from the rack, biting into it with the pride of a survivor.

She chuckled under her breath—but her smile didn’t last. It faded as her eyes lingered on him, more serious now.

"But you still need to be careful, Auren," she said quietly. "You’re not like the rest of us. No Divine Frame to guide you. No bloodline advantage. No elite clan to fall back on. Most won’t say it out loud... but they’re watching. Waiting for you to slip."

Auren tilted his head, the golden morning light catching the faint shimmer in his eyes.. He already knew it long ago.

"Then let them watch," he said softly. His voice steady but filled with confidence.

"They’re going to be disappointed."

With that, he took a hearty bite of the roasted fish, savoring the warmth and flavor. Each chew seemed to chase away the lingering fatigue, slowly recharging his strength as his mind sharpened—already preparing for whatever came next.