[Realm: Álfheimr]

[Location: Outskirts]

It had not taken long to reach another exit from the Great Forest.

Soon enough Grimm and Puck stood before it, facing a wall of dense, brittle trees. Their branches tangled overhead and between them hung a thick fog, so heavy it swallowed all depth and distance alike. Beyond a few paces, nothing could be seen. Just white-gray obscurity.

Grimm raised the black horn in his gauntleted hand, its scarred surface dull.

"Gier really does know her things," Puck said quietly, drifting closer to his side, her voice unusually subdued. "Even I don't fully understand how the Great Forest decides where you're allowed to go. I always thought reaching feral Deseruit Beast territory required something far messier." She glanced at the fog again. "But this? Just walking in with the right piece on hand?"

"It aligns with what you told me earlier," Grimm replied, his gaze never leaving the trees. "The forest recognizes presence. Possession of the horn would mark us as belonging—temporarily." His grip tightened slightly. "Regardless, we will not linger. The feral ones will continue pressing the porcelain city if left unchecked. They must be eliminated."

Puck folded her small armored arms, hovering in place. "Right. I figured you'd say that." She hesitated. "Still if you're planning on wiping them out, you might want to avoid anything too destructive. This part of the forest is dense most of the time."

"Your concern is unnecessary," Grimm said evenly. "My control over my Draconic Resonance is absolute. There will be no collateral."

Puck blinked. "Draconic Resonance," she repeated, tasting the words. "So that's what you call it. That overwhelming power you used."

"It is not merely a name," Grimm replied. "All descendants of Great Dragons possess it in some form. Mine is refined." He lowered the horn slightly. "But we have idled long enough."

"Hm," Puck murmured, drifting downward until her sabatons rested lightly against his armored shoulder. "I'm still curious about that power of yours. You talk about it like it's nothing, but it clearly isn't. Still, I guess that conversation can wait."

Without responding, Grimm stepped forward.

The moment he crossed the threshold, the world shifted immediately.

The fog peeled away, rearranging itself. The space beyond the entrance was far wider than it had any right to be, the forest opening unnaturally into broad clearings between dead, pale trees. Their trunks were warped, and worst of all, unmistakably shaped like faces—mouths frozen mid scream, eyes carved into them.

Grimm scanned the area once before tossing the horn aside. "Hm. It appears the method was effective."

Puck drifted off his shoulder, hovering closer to eye level as she looked around. "Yeah. This part of the Great Forest has always been… unpleasant." She grimaced. "Even by our standards."

"I already feel their attention," Grimm said calmly. "The Deseruit Beasts are aware of us."

"Oh good," Puck muttered. "That makes this so much worse." She shook her head, then glanced toward him. "So what's the plan? Or are you really just going to fight every Deseruit Beast that decides to show its face?"

"That depends," Grimm replied. "What can you tell me about the feral Deseruit Beasts' behavior?"

Puck hummed, drifting slowly as she folded her gauntleted arms behind her back. "Well… the princess mentioned that something directed them. Feral Deseruit Beasts act like animals most of the time, but they still respond to hierarchy. Strength draws them. If someone—or something—is commanding them, then removing that leader should cause the rest to scatter." She paused. "But to control that many? It'd have to be exceptionally powerful."

"I wonder if they possess a formal ranking structure," Grimm said. "Instinctive or otherwise."

"I've heard humans categorize them using letters," Puck shrugged. "But that's about as useful as labeling a storm."

"Then the distinction is irrelevant," Grimm concluded. "We proceed until provoked."

He began walking.

Puck followed, watching his silhouette move through the oppressive area. No birds called. No insects buzzed. Nothing stirred. The only sound was the crunch of his sabatons against brittle grass, each step echoing far louder than it should have.

Eyes watched them from everywhere.

("I really hate this place,") Puck sighed internally. She wasn't afraid—not exactly—but the forest pressed against her senses in a way that felt wrong. A very hostile feeling. The knowledge that feral Deseruit Beasts could erupt from the fog at any moment did nothing to improve her mood. ("Better to get this over with quick, ) she thought, drifting a little closer to Grimm despite herself.

Grimm slowed, just barely, one gauntleted hand lifting a fraction.

"Hm," he said at last, voice low. "These Deseruit Beasts carry a peculiar odor."

Puck blinked, caught off guard by the suddenness of the remark. She drifted closer, squinting into the fog before looking back at him. "You can smell them?" she asked, incredulous. "Through this?" She gestured vaguely at the suffocating mist. Then, belatedly, she clicked her tongue. "Ah. Right. Heightened senses. Dragon things." Her curiosity sharpened. "So what do they smell like, then?"

Grimm considered the question longer than she expected. "Not like wild animals," he finally replied. "There is no musk or decay. Their scents are nearly identical to one another—unnaturally so. Floral, perhaps."

Puck hummed thoughtfully at that, arms folding as she drifted backward a pace. "I don't think I understand that at all," she admitted frankly. "But… I think I get why." She gestured vaguely around them as they continued forward. "It's the Great Forest. Or what's left of it, anyway. This whole stretch is dead because the leylines here were drained dry." Her voice softened, irritation bleeding into something close to annoyance. "Deseruit Beasts feed on mana. Most of what sustained this part of the forest is gone because of them."

Grimm's head inclined slightly, acknowledging the explanation.

"So their presence is saturated with the forest itself," Grimm said in interest.

"Something like that," Puck agreed. She tilted her head. "Still, the farther they stray from here, the longer they remain away, the more their strength should erode. They're adapted to this place." A small, confident smile tugged at her lips. "Not that I think it'll matter much."

"You sound certain," Grimm observed. His gaze shifted—not to her face, but downward, to the small sword sheathed at her side. The thing looked almost ornamental beside his armor. "Will you be using that?"

"Hm?" Puck followed his gaze, then gave a small, embarrassed laugh. "Oh. That." She tapped the hilt lightly with a finger. "I mean… no. Probably not." She smiled, sheepish but unapologetic. "I don't actually know how to use a sword. I just thought it looked cool."

"Swords," Grimm said calmly, "are among the simplest weapons to wield. Depending on their balance."

"Oh?" Puck perked up. "So do you use a sword, then?"

He drew breath to answer—

"You were always fond of one, hm."

"Gah—!" Puck jumped, spinning midair as her eyes darted wildly. Grimm merely lifted his gaze.

There, draped lazily across a thick branch, was the familiar, wrong-shaped form of the grinning cat. Its proportions didn't quite obey perspective, its smile hanging wider than its face should allow.

("That Alice kid called it the Cheshire Cat,") Grimm recalled, folding his gauntleted hands together.

Puck spotted it a second later. "Hey—! You're that cat from Elfame," she said, scowling. "The one who somehow slipped past the boundary." Her brow furrowed. "How did you even—"

"I take it appearing without warning is a habit of yours," Grimm interrupted.

"You learn quickly," the cat replied, its grin stretching just a little further. "Or perhaps you remember. Memory is such a delightful contradiction—fragile, yet stubborn."

("Is he seriously ignoring me?") Puck thought flatly.

"So," Grimm continued, unfazed, "are you here as a messenger again?"

"Hardly," the cat replied, shifting its weight. "A messenger means having obligations. I have none. A variable with no past cannot deliver orders." Its eyes gleamed. "This is indulgence. And curiosity. This incarnation of you is… particularly entertaining."

"So that's it," Grimm said. "That's how you know me. Reincarnation. Iteration. Something along those lines."

"The mechanisms of those who govern all things are not so linear," the cat replied. "Hands are turned when you grow dull."

"Very enlightening," Puck muttered. She was, once again, ignored.

"Hm," Grimm said. "Did you come all this way simply to speak in riddles?"

"Perhaps," the cat admitted. "It is my nature. Alice would tell you that."

"Hm. Speaking of Alice—how is that brat faring?" Grimm asked.

"Oh, she's upset. Quite amusing. Always so composed. So dignified." Its eyes narrowed. "Until you."

"I have that effect," Grimm said flatly.

"That you do," the cat agreed. "Which brings me to my warning." Its tone lowered. "Consider this a recurring courtesy."

"Then speak."

"Fate may keep its distance," the cat said slowly, "but you are not free. Some desire suffering. Some desire happiness. Some your triumph. Most desire entertainment." Its eyes gleamed. "A Defier of Realms standing against equals draws attention. The Knight. The Executioner. One encounter will come first." A pause. "I wonder if you can defy that."

"Who?" Grimm asked.

The answer never came.

A shrill, feral squeal tore through the fog behind them.

Grimm turned calmly.

Puck whirled.

From the mist burst a massive hog-like creature, grotesquely oversized, four red eyes burning with hunger, four black tusks jutting from its snarling mouth. Its hide was pitch-dark, muscles bulging as it charged straight for them.

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