The World Had Changed Frequency

The rumble of roots, the screams of soldiers, the clash of steel—all of it merged into a distant hum, muffled by the vibrant silence filling Élisa.

It was no longer anger guiding her.

It was a cold, terrible clarity.

The blue light emanating from her wasn't a flame, but a depth—like the ocean of night had poured into her blood. Beneath her skin, where sweat and blood had carved their paths, a new map appeared. The sigils—those latent runes that had long marked her arms—awoke. They spread, sinuous and unyielding, like roots turned inside out. Geometric lines of alien origin crept across the backs of her hands, over her palms, and climbed along her shoulders, covering her shoulder blades in a pulsating, intricate network.

It was an armorial from another world—a codex of power finally awakening.

The Wooden Mask, tilted in a gesture of unsettling reverence, watched. His interest was no longer merely tangible—it was devouring.

"Élisa?" murmured Maggie, her voice strangled by a mix of fear and awe.

But Élisa didn't hear her.

She felt the war within, deeper than the one raging outside. The cold blue of her awakening—a cosmic, second consciousness—fought against the wild, green heat of her elven heritage. It was an inner war, silent and brutal, fought in every particle of her being. The blue light flickered, touched by emerald flashes, like a celestial forge. At times, she was a blazing glacier; at others, a forest in tempest.

Then, the fusion happened.

The color stabilized into a deep turquoise—a sea of jade beneath a sky of stars.

It was no longer the cold blue of the unknown, nor the raw green of nature. It was a synthesis. Mastery. The runes on her skin shone with that tranquil hue, and the tremor that had shaken her limbs ceased. Her breathing, once a ragged rasp, became a steady flow, strong as the tide.

She raised her hand, palm open.

It wasn't a gesture of attack—but of affirmation.

And the battlefield obeyed.

The roots of the Mask, reaching greedily for her, froze a few inches from her skin. Not by brute telekinetic force—but by silent decree. They quivered, not with fury now, but confusion. The link binding them to the Mask blurred, diluted in the new reality Élisa imposed.

The Wooden Mask straightened abruptly. His majestic calm cracked.

A sharp sound, like an oak splitting, echoed through the air. The shadow and wood that composed him rippled in convulsive waves.

"No…" he murmured in every mind—not as an intrusive thought this time, but as a strangled cry.

"This… is not you. That power does not belong to you."

Élisa finally turned her gaze toward him. Her eyes were no longer eyes, but open doors to the turquoise infinity of her new soul.

"It belongs to me now," she said—and her voice was doubled, as though two women, one ancient and one reborn, spoke in unison.

She closed her fist.

Not on the Mask, but on the network of power sustaining him.

Beneath the ground, the roots weren't torn—they were desanctified.

The will that had animated them was driven out, replaced by something calm and neutral. The puppets still fighting collapsed—not like marionettes whose strings had been cut, but like sleepers whose dreams had simply ended. The light in their bark-carved eyes went out, leaving only inert wood.

The throne of roots behind the Mask disintegrated, turning into nothing but a mound of earth and dead bark. The creature itself faltered, its segmented body losing cohesion. The screaming faces on its torso softened, their twisted features dissolving in a sigh of mist.

The Mask's body began to unravel into fragments of shadow and bark.

It turned one last time toward Élisa—and in its hollow eyes, there was no rage, no fear.

Only a glimmer of understanding—almost respect.

Then, it fell.

Not with a crash, but with the whisper of dry leaves carried off by wind. What remained was only a heap of blackened branches and a haze fading beneath the first rays of sunlight breaking through the clouds.

A perfect silence fell across the clearing.

Only the wind dared whisper through the wounded trees.

Élisa lowered her hand. The turquoise light in her eyes and runes dimmed, turning into a faint glow—a coal under ash. She swayed, the energy that had lifted her draining away.

Tonar was the first to move. He rushed forward and caught her before she hit the ground.

She was light—fragile—as though her bones had been hollowed out.

Maggie joined them, her face a mask of mud, blood, and disbelief. She stared at the runes now dulled but indelible upon Élisa's arms.

"What happened to you?" she whispered—not in horror, but in reverent dread.

Élisa lifted her gaze—tired, yet lucid. The woman she had been was not entirely gone—but she was no longer confined within that shape. She had expanded.

"I don't know," she said hoarsely. "But it's me. All of me."

She closed her eyes, surrendering to Tonar's solidity, while the first true sunlight of the day washed over the silent battlefield—illuminating the ruins of an ancient village and the quiet birth of something new.

⸻

———

The silence after the storm was heavier than the storm itself.

Maggie felt the adrenaline that had sustained her drain away all at once, leaving only a dull, pervasive pain. Every muscle screamed, every wound burned. Her body—overheated from battle—felt like a dying forge, leaving behind only aching, warped metal.

She collapsed rather than sat, her back against a split tree trunk, her halberd falling beside her with a hollow thud.

Her eyes never left Élisa, still unconscious in Tonar's arms. The young woman's corpse-like pallor, contrasted by the dark runes seared into her skin, clenched something in Maggie's chest.

"She needs anima," she rasped, her voice nearly gone.

She tried to stand, but her legs refused. Panic flickered briefly—she was trapped in her own body, a commander without armor, voice, or strength.

Her gaze swept across the devastated field. Most of the soldiers wandered aimlessly, tending to the wounded or staring blankly at the remains of the Mask.

She spotted a young soldier, his face streaked with soot, eyes wide with trauma, staring at the heap of blackened branches that had once been a god.

"You!" she barked, mustering the last shred of command in her lungs.

The soldier jolted, turning toward her with the empty stare of a survivor who needed purpose.

"The gems," she wheezed, unable to lift her arm to point. "On the puppets—the big ones. The anima gems. Gather them. All of them. Bring them to me."

The boy—barely twenty—nodded with frantic obedience, grateful for an order, any order. He stumbled through the wreckage, tearing through carcasses of bark and flesh, prying out the faintly glowing crystals embedded within.

Maggie closed her eyes, fighting waves of nausea.

She could hear Élisa's ragged breathing, Tonar's low voice giving quiet instructions.

Every sound stabbed at her skull.

Minutes later, the soldier returned, trembling, his hands full of shards.

They varied in size—some as large as a fist, others no bigger than fingernails—all radiating faint warmth and a muted amber glow. He laid them gently beside Maggie, as though making an offering.

"That's… that's all I could find, ma'am," he stammered.

Maggie gave a faint nod—the most gratitude she could summon.

"Good. Go help the wounded."

Once he was gone, she took the largest gem in her palm. The heat of the anima coursed up her arm, soothing the sharpest pain instantly.

But she wasn't her own priority.

"Tonar," she called weakly.

The warrior turned toward her, his face drawn but steady.

"Bring her here," Maggie said, reaching toward Élisa.

With surprising gentleness, Tonar lifted Élisa and set her down beside Maggie, leaning her against the tree trunk. The girl's skin was cold to the touch.

Summoning the last of her will, Maggie took a mid-sized gem and pressed it between Élisa's palm and her own. She shut her eyes—not to rest, but to focus.

She wasn't a healer, not a druid, but she could channel. Direct. Be a conduit.

The gem's energy flowed—hesitant at first, then stronger. Maggie guided it, pushing it toward Élisa's frozen core, her drained spirit.

Life returned in slow pulses—a warmth replacing the mortal chill. The runes along Élisa's arms didn't flare, but they seemed to drink, their dull surface softening into something alive, like polished jade.

A long, trembling sigh escaped Élisa's lips.

Her chest rose more evenly.

She didn't awaken—but her breathing shifted from near-death to deep sleep.

Maggie let the spent gem fall—a dull, lifeless pebble now.

She clasped Élisa's hand weakly, staring at her transformed face.

"What are we supposed to do with you now?" she murmured to the sleeping girl.

Then, at last, she took a smaller gem for herself. Its gentle heat spread through her bruised chest, calming the ache.

And Maggie let herself drift into a heavy, dreamless sleep—sitting among the ruins of their victory, still holding the hand of the one who was no longer quite the same.

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