The summons from the Twin Adder did not arrive in urgency, but in gravity.
Jerilith was in Gridania when the letter reached him, the parchment crisp and sealed with the sigil of the Elder Seedseer. He broke the wax beneath the filtered sunlight of the Shaded Bower, reading in silence while Lily hovered close to his shoulder, her glow steady. The words were measured and calm, yet beneath them lay concern.
The moogles of the Twelveswood had called a king.
Jerilith lowered the letter slowly.
He found Falena near Mih Khetto’s Amphitheatre, where she was practicing footwork along the moss-covered stone, her spear cutting precise arcs through humid forest air. Morpho circled lazily above her shoulder, the soft blue glow catching through drifting leaves.
She saw his expression before he spoke.
“That look usually means trouble.”
He handed her the letter without ceremony.
She read it once, then again more slowly.
“A primal,” she murmured. “From moogles.”
He nodded.
“I imagine it will not be what we expect.”
She exhaled faintly through her nose. “Nothing ever is.”
They stood for a moment in the quiet hum of the forest. Children’s laughter drifted faintly from the city center. Birds called overhead. It felt almost improper to disturb such peace with thoughts of summoning and gods.
Yet the world did not remain gentle for long.
Kan-E-Senna received them beneath towering boughs where sunlight filtered in pale shafts through green canopy. Her composure was unshaken as ever, but Jerilith sensed the tension in the stillness of her hands.
“The moogles believe they have summoned a protector,” she said softly. “They do not comprehend what it means to shape a being from belief alone.”
Jerilith listened without interruption. He had seen belief turn to catastrophe more than once.
“Good King Moggle Mog threatens the balance of the forest,” the Seedseer continued. “We must end this gently, if we can. But decisively.”
Falena glanced at Jerilith. He could read the thought in her eyes without words.
Another primal. Another test.
He bowed his head once. “We will see it done.”
The clearing of Thornmarch looked less like a battlefield and more like a festival ground. Lanterns swayed gently between branches. Colorful banners fluttered. Small, round forms bobbed and drifted amid laughter and excited chatter.
And at the center of it all, crowned in theatrical regalia and seated upon an ornate throne fashioned from branches and woven vines, sat Good King Moggle Mog.
He was ridiculous.
Pom-pom swaying regally. Tiny scepter raised high. Surrounded by his court of moogle knights whose armor seemed almost comically oversized.
Jerilith felt a flicker of dissonance.
He had fought titans of flame and storm. He had stared down weapons meant to consume gods.
This felt absurd.
Falena leaned slightly toward him and whispered, “If this is how I die, I will be furious.”
Despite himself, Jerilith almost smiled.
The laughter ended quickly.
The air shifted. The music warped into a chanting hum that pressed against the senses. The moogle knights spread outward in practiced formation. Their exaggerated weapons flared with very real aether.
The battle began with spectacle.
But it was not harmless.
Jerilith quickly realized that beneath the theatrical presentation lay dangerous coordination. The knights fought in layered patterns, each filling gaps the others left open. Falena adapted instantly, darting between them, spear disabling casters before they could complete incantations.
Jerilith anchored the center, intercepting the king’s erratic bursts of magic that were as unpredictable as they were powerful. Good King Moggle Mog fought like a caricature of royalty, but his magic carried the weight of genuine summoning.
At one point the king descended from above in a spiraling burst of lightning and song. Falena was mid-lunge when the blast erupted.
Jerilith moved without thought, stepping into the arc of impact, shield flaring as the lightning struck him instead.
The force drove him back two steps.
Falena steadied him with a hand against his shoulder.
“You do not always need to take the brunt of it,” she said under her breath.
“Yes I do.”
Her gaze lingered on him a fraction longer than the battle allowed.
Then she turned, and together they shifted tactics.
They began to move in concert, as though a silent rhythm had formed between them. When Falena pressed forward, Jerilith layered protective magic over her path. When he drew the king’s attention, she struck from angles that made the primal falter.
It was almost playful.
Almost.
When the final aetheric link between king and court frayed under their coordinated assault, the illusion collapsed in a shower of drifting motes. The clearing fell silent once more. The moogles scattered in confusion, their fervor broken.
The forest exhaled.
They remained after, long after the moogles dispersed and the Twin Adder soldiers withdrew.
Falena sat upon a fallen log, removing her gauntlets with slow deliberation. Jerilith stood nearby, wiping sap and scorch from his axe.
“You smiled,” she said without looking at him.
“I did not.”
“You did.”
He hesitated.
“It was absurd.”
She laughed softly, and the sound did something to him that no battlefield roar ever had.
“You fight differently when you are not drowning in expectation,” she said quietly.
He sat beside her.
“I do not know how to set it down.”
She flexed her fingers thoughtfully.
“Then perhaps you should let someone else carry it sometimes.”
Their shoulders brushed lightly.
Morpho drifted between them, glow calm and content.
Jerilith reached toward it without thinking. The moth hovered near his fingertips for a brief second before returning to Falena’s shoulder.
Neither of them commented.
But the moment lingered.
