There was no impact.

Luther had expected pain. Bone-jarring collision. The kind of landing that reminded him very clearly that he was, unfortunately, still mortal.

Instead.

Silence.

He fell through cold air that wasn't air at all. It pressed against him like water without weight, slowing him just enough to make the descent feel endless. The black mist thinned, stretched, and then peeled away as if it had never been real to begin with.

Then his boots touched stone.

Solid. Warm.

Luther staggered forward, barely catching himself before he face-planted.

"…I hate magic," he muttered.

The ground beneath him glowed faintly—veins of emerald light running through pale stone like living roots frozen in place. They pulsed once, gently, then dimmed, as though acknowledging his arrival.

He groaned and rolled onto his side.

"…I am never yelling at pits again," he muttered. "Clearly they take things personally."

For a moment, all he could hear was his own breathing.

No forest.

No wind.

No screaming abyss.

Just quiet.

Luther pushed himself upright and paused.

The place he'd landed on looked like a wide stone platform, circular and slightly raised, its surface etched with intricate patterns that spiraled outward like leaves caught mid-growth. Pillars ringed the platform—not walls exactly, more like tall, elegant columns carved to resemble tree trunks, their surfaces flowing seamlessly into arching designs overhead.

It felt… outside.

But also not.

Light filtered in from somewhere unseen, soft and green-tinted, casting gentle shadows across the stone. The air was cool and clean, carrying a faint scent of moss and rain—yet there was no sky above him, only a vast openness that made his chest feel strangely light.

Luther frowned.

"…This place is weird."

He stood, brushing dirt and ash from his clothes out of habit, even though there was barely any on him. His boots echoed softly against the stone, the sound carrying farther than it should have.

That was when he noticed it.

The magic.

It wasn't pressing on him like the surface world's mana did. It didn't scrape against his senses or demand acknowledgment. It was just… there. Thick, old, and steady, like a deep current beneath still water.

It felt different.

Not hostile. Not familiar.

Just other.

Luther rolled his shoulders, uneasy. "Sword," he called. "If this is another dramatic silent treatment, I swear—"

Nothing.

The absence hit him like a delayed punch.

He reached instinctively for where the demonic sword should have been.

Empty.

Luther's jaw tightened. "Oh, come on."

He scanned the platform, then the spaces between the pillars, half-expecting the blade to come clattering out of the shadows with a sarcastic remark.

Silence answered him instead.

"That's not funny," he muttered. "You don't get to abandon me in mysterious places."

Still nothing.

A flicker of unease curled in his chest.

Before he could think further, the air shifted.

A sharp intake of breath echoed behind him.

"—Sire!"

He turned just in time to see Elythra fall out of thinning black mist several steps away. She hit the stone harder than he had, boots skidding as she dropped to one knee, blade already in her hand despite the impact.

She looked up instantly, eyes wild.

"Are you hurt?" she demanded, already pushing herself to her feet.

"I'm fine," Luther said quickly, holding up his hands. "Mostly. Fell dramatically, survived heroically."

She didn't smile.

She crossed the distance between them in two long strides, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other sweeping over him with a faint glow as she checked for injuries. Her movements were sharp, efficient—focused entirely on him.

"Nothing's broken," she murmured, relief bleeding through her voice. "No corruption marks. No mana backlash…"

Only after she was sure did she exhale.

Luther watched her for a moment, then gently shrugged her hand off and straightened, dusting himself again.

"Okay," he said. "Now that we've confirmed I'm annoyingly alive—where are we?"

Elythra opened her mouth.

Paused.

Then slowly turned.

It was like watching realization creep up on her.

Her eyes widened—not in fear, but confusion. Awe, sharpened by disbelief.

She turned in a slow circle, gaze tracing the pillars, the stone beneath their feet, the way the light moved.

"…This isn't the forest," she said quietly.

Luther tilted his head. "That was my first clue, yes."

"No," she insisted. "I mean—this isn't any forest I know."

She closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, her pupils glimmered faintly as she reached out with her senses.

"The mana here…" she whispered. "It's elven."

Luther stiffened slightly. "Elven how?"

She shook her head, clearly unsettled. "I don't know. It doesn't feel shaped. Or controlled. It's not bound to ley anchors or kingdom wards."

Her voice dropped.

"It's free."

Luther frowned.

He hadn't had the words for it, but now that she'd said it—he felt it too. The magic here didn't push or pull. It didn't react to him aggressively or recoil from his presence.

It simply existed.

"…Yeah," he said slowly. "That tracks. It feels old. Like it doesn't care what I am."

Elythra looked at him sharply.

Then she heard it.

Footsteps.

Soft. Multiple. Approaching from beyond the pillars.

Elythra's posture shifted instantly. Her hand tightened on her sword as she stepped half a pace in front of Luther without thinking.

"Stay behind me," she murmured.

Luther sighed. "You know that never works."

Figures emerged from between the columns.

At first, Luther saw only silhouettes—tall, slender shapes moving with unnerving quiet. Then the light caught them properly.

Elves.

But not like any Luther had seen before.

They wore armor grown rather than forged—interlocking plates shaped like leaves and bark, faintly glowing with embedded runes. Their weapons were drawn: spears, curved blades, bows already strung and aimed.

Their eyes gleamed in shades of green, gold, and silver.

Ancient or not, Luther didn't know.

He just knew one thing immediately.

They were not happy.

One stepped forward, weapon leveled.

"Who goes there?" the elf demanded, voice calm but sharp. "You stand on guarded ground."

Elythra opened her mouth.

She never got the chance to finish.

A blur of motion—too fast to track—struck her sword from the side. The impact jolted up her arm, fingers numbing instantly as the blade was knocked clean out of her grasp. It skidded across the stone and vanished into the shadows beyond the platform.

Elythra gasped, stumbling back a step.

Weapons snapped tighter around them.

Luther stared at the spot where her sword had been.

Then very slowly raised both hands.

"…Okay," he said flatly. "Rude. That was expensive."

Elythra hesitated only a second before following his lead, lifting her hands as well, jaw tight with restrained fury.

"We surrender," she said evenly. "There is no hostility intended."

The elves did not lower their weapons.

Luther glanced sideways at her, annoyance simmering just beneath his exhaustion.

"When I said I hated forests," he muttered, "this is exactly what I meant."

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