These alves weren’t friendlies. They didn’t strike him as a scouting force either. They were too numerous, though maybe that was just what was required from a scouting force this close to the north? He was unsure, which was why he hadn't sent arrows their way. Still, they put him on edge as they surrounded the group with military precision, each alf stepping into their place as if they’d practiced the maneuvere a thousand times before. They probably had, he guessed.

  They hadn’t shown themselves yet, their figures cloaked by the shadows of the forest. But they would. They knew that he knew. The group’s defensive stance must’ve made that obvious enough. The seconds ticked by, and Flynn’s focus danced over the bright, silhouetted figures in his Monster Sense. The figures had grown clearer, more defined ever since his Monster Sense had levelled up.

  It made picking apart the differences in their form all the easier, and it was why he settled his gaze upon a single alf amongst the lot. Not the largest, but the most extravagantly dressed judging by the jutting angles and lines of its silhouetted figure. It was also the only one to bear what looked like a staff, instead of a spear or a bow.

  He assumed that it must’ve been the one in charge.

  The alf must’ve been unsettled by his attention, because it tried to move, believing it was veiled from his sight. He put that notion to rest by following it step for step until it finally stopped. He smiled, and he hoped that the alf saw that. He hoped that it knew that he was no easy target.

  It likely did because their mysterious watchers finally deigned to act. They stepped forth from the shadows, their milky-white skin aglow in the light. Forty of them stood atop mushrooms and within the underbrush around him, spears and bows and shields in hand.

  He hadn’t seen shields before on any of the alves he’d seen thus far. It was only further testament to the fact that these alves were no laughing matter.

  These were some tough sons-of-bitches. He could tell as much with just a look. Their bodies were littered with scars, and their eyes carried a hardness forged from battle. If it came to a fight, there was no guarantee that he’d be able to beat them all. He definitely wouldn’t be able to do so whilst protecting the group.

  Flynn’s fingers clenched around his bow uneasily. Amongst the group, the one he’d pegged as the leader finally revealed itself. It stepped into view; its body clad in billowing robes. Underneath, what little skin he could see was covered in... white tendrils that seemingly crawled all the way up to its face. Only two dark eyes were left uncovered, boring straight at him. In its hand it held a staff made of the same twisting tendrils topped by an umbrella of chains. Behind him, he heard a gasp from some of the group.

  They must’ve recognized the alf, which might’ve been a good thing. Or bad. He was prepared for both, his mana primed to a hair-trigger, five illusions ready to envelop the land in explosions if necessary.

  Cheek similarly pulsed with readiness, an arrow manifest on its string.

  Fortunately, their watchers had made no hostile movements yet.

  In fact, it was his group that was the first to act. Lenny separated from the others, despite the whispered complaints from his assigned guards, and strode forwards until he was stood by Flynn’s side. The priest had his eyes locked unflinchingly onto the strange alf.

  “Chains bind all harm from you, kin of the north.”

  The air was quiet. The alf still hadn’t deigned to look away from Flynn. The silence stretched thickly for far too long until it finally turned its attention towards Lenny.

  “Chains raise you up when you are weak, kin of the south.” Its voice was ambiguous and raspy, like sandpaper. “What brings our soft brothers so far into these dangerous lands?”

  “I would ask the same of you, kin. We are not quite in the north just yet and it is not often that a High Priest of the Wall leaves their post.”

  The alf’s lips weren’t visible, but Flynn was sure that he was smiling.

  “Mhm. I do believe that I asked first, kin. We are a battle-hungry lot in the north, but we remember our manners. Answer me. What brings you so far from the south?”

  “I do.” answered Flynn.

  “Do you?” it asked, its eyes fluttering over his own mask to settle on his eyes. Its voice was laced with veiled intent and its fingers drummed against its staff.

  “You must be the one named Flynn. The outsider. Word of you has spread far, but we were not told to expect you in our lands. What purpose do you have here?”

  The question was almost conversational in its tone, but he doubted that it’d accept a ‘mind your own business’ for an answer. Loathe as he was to reveal his goals, he knew that he couldn’t risk silence without also risking battle. Besides, he needed to work with them if he wanted whatever information they might have on the taken-beasts. The days had not made him forget his vengeance.

  “I need to get to The Mouth.” he said evenly.

  “The Mouth?” The high priest laughed at that. “You chase fairy tales, outsider.”

  “Maybe, but that’s the truth.”

  It studied him for a moment, as if trying to parse whether that was true.

  “So, it is.” it said finally. “You surround yourself with many questions. Come, then. Allow me to escort you to our camp. Our leader will have a word with you.”

  “Leader?” asked Illsien, the second to step up. “Who is your leader?”

  The high priest stared at the elderly warrior, and he saw its eyes narrow the slightest bit. It seemed lost in thought before it finally answered. “You shall know when we arrive. Come.”

  “What exactly does your leader plan to do with us?” Flynn questioned, unmoved.

  A flicker of irritation flashed across its eyes that gave him a small amount of delight. Impatient bastard. That relieved him a bit. Better that than cold and calculating. Those were always the worst types to deal with. “Us? Mhm. Us.” It repeated the word, as if surprised to hear it. It turned its gaze away from him, and to the other alves. "Our kin of the south will be well-treated, that I can promise. We are defenders of our people, not mindless savages, though I am sure that many rumours to the contrary abound in the south. They are honourable slaves and though I find it unpleasant that they have been bound to an outsider, Siestemi’s will is vast and I will not question the Goddess’s intent.”

  “As for you. Your fate will depend on your answers, outsider.” It wasn’t a threat. The words were said calmly, but he could sense the undercurrent of a promise.

  Flynn glanced to his group. They stood weapons drawn, and though he could see the unease in the way they held themselves, he also knew that they’d fight here if he commanded it. Not just because they were slaves, but because that was the kind of people they were. He sighed.

  “We’ll come, then. But I want answers of my own. Seems like a fair compromise, no?”

  The high priest chuckled but eventually relented. It took the lead as it led the group along the path. The journey was a quiet one, cloaked in bubbling tension that left everyone jumpy. It seemed to him that these northern alves had more than just a bad reputation if this was how his group reacted even after a promise to leave them unharmed. He idly wondered why that was, but expected that he’d find out soon enough.

  Soon enough, as it turned out, was an hour later. Their route was long and winding, but they eventually caught sight of the makings of an actual wall in the distance. A small one, and new. The walls, forged of woven white tendrils like what the priest wore, or even the walls of the arena back at the Aziethi Tribe, still glistened under the glum light of day, not a scratch or stain to mark the passing of time. It was the work of fungal mages, no doubt.

  Actual magic-casters, huh. If nothing else, he might have a chance to put Fumble to the test soon.

  Ahead, the wall rumbled as they approached, and Flynn sensed a large mass of alves milling behind it. There was no gate, but none was necessary with mages about. The wall itself became a gate, its fibrous strands coming apart with the sound of paper tearing until it settled as a hole large enough to accommodate five alves stood side-by-side.

  Beyond the hole lingered a company of warriors in full armour, their faces severe but their dispositions professional. Flynn’s group was marched inside without fanfare, and though he saw a few eyes briefly study him as he passed, they were quick to return to the steely calm of a soldier.

  Around him loomed makeshift tendril-forged structures scattered around the entrance to a regular burrow, and it was to the largest of these structures that he was led to.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  The priest entered first, and he heard soft conversation inside before it strode back out a minute later.

  “The others will be taken to their holding areas. You will meet with the cohort-chief.” It glanced at Cheek hovering around him, and then his bow. “Alone, and unarmed.”

  “That’s a no on the bow. As for Cheek, it's a part of my magic. I can’t dismiss it.” he lied smoothly.

  The high priest bristled at the denial, and the guards around him tensed ever so slightly. Flynn’s mana ebbed to his fingertips, ready to unleash hell if he needed to. Before he could, another voice cut through the tension like a knife through butter.

  “Leave it be. Just bring him inside.” The voice was deep and thickly wrapped in the natural baritone of a man used to command. The high priest slackened, its eyes narrowed as it glanced into the structure. It was a moment before it relented without a word, though a sliver of disobedience had been evident there. Interesting. Flynn made a note of it and after shooting his group a confident look, he followed it inside into a room lit by a warm yellow glow.

  There, surrounded by tables filled with parchments and documentation was an alf. A surprisingly small one, given his deep voice. Small, but no less a warrior because of it. He was sure from the outline of muscle on the alven leader’s bare arms, and the swathe of markings that littered his skin.

  The man hadn’t deigned to look up from his papers yet, so Flynn and the high priest had to wait until he was ready. It was probably a power play, he figured, but he didn’t really care. It gave him time to better study his surroundings.

  “Sorry about that.” apologized the alf, snapping Flynn from his survey. “I’ve been swamped with my duties for what feels like an age, hah. My name is Sthrilas of the Cuaerin Tribe, and I serve as the cohort-chief in charge of this duty. Now, firstly, what exactly is that?”

  All eyes turned to Cheek where it hovered by his shoulder. Flynn introduced it as his construct, and a part of his magic. The man seemed amazed by the sight of it.

  “Incredible. I have never seen such magic before. The mages of the wall have constructs as well, yes, but nothing so life-like. Amazing.” The alf turned to the high priest and there was a wordless sign passed between them. The high priest nodded and raised an arm towards Flynn.

  “I will use my magic on your wrist. Do not resist. It will not harm you.” warned the alf.

  Flynn mustered his magic, but kept it leashed. “What will it do?”

  “Determine the truth from lies. That is all.”

  Lie detection magic? Well, in a way he supposed that it made his job here easier if he could convey to the best of their understanding that he wasn’t a threat, or whatever they thought he might be. Still, he felt the need to poke them a bit.

  “You don’t trust me? I’m hurt.”

  “Just a precaution.” remarked the cohort-chief with a wave of his arm. "I would also ask you to remove your mask. I like to see the face of those I speak to."

  Flynn's eyes narrowed. "Only for a moment." he said steely.

  The cohort-chief seemed to mull that for a moment before he agreed. Flynn slipped off the mask, hiding his discomfort at the loss of his stats. He let the alf take a good long look at his face before he slipped it back on and then outstretched his arm. “Hope you don’t mind if Cheek keeps a close eye on you as you do this though. It’s a protective little thing.”

  The high priest clearly did mind, its gaze flickering towards the undrawn arrow on Cheek’s string. Unfortunately for it, Sthrillas had no complaints, so it was forced to bear with the discomfort as it mustered its magic. Finger-thin tendrils of white split from the second-skin that covered its body and wrapped around his wrist like a dozen little snakes, twisting and turning until they joined together to become a strange bracer.

  “Good, now that we’re done with that, let’s get to the questions, shall we? Where did you have that made, or did you make it yourself?” asked Sthrillas.

  “Nowhere. He just comes from me.”

  “Comes from you? Naturally? Interesting. And is that common amongst your race? Can all your people summon such constructs?”

  Flynn’s eyes narrowed. The man was poking him for information about his origins, clearly, and he wasn’t even being subtle about it. He was probably confident in the centre of his power as he was. No need to jump through hoops to get what he wanted. Flynn wasn’t even surprised. He’d largely expected as much from a questioning. In fact, the surprising thing was how diplomatic the cohort-chief was being, if anything, even with the truth-detector thing on him.

  “Just me, as far as I know.”

  “And what is the name of your people? Where do you hail from?”

  “Human, and I don't know how to answer that in relation to this place. Far away, probably”

  “Mhm. Are you a leveller then?”

  A beat.

  Flynn stared, his eyes wide. Sthrillas’s eyes glistened like a cat that’d finally wrapped its claws around a mouse, and the man likely knew then that he had his answer, even without a word from the youth.

  “I had suspected.” he said with a smile. “It isn’t often that we get strange new races popping up with odd magics in this world. Not even the coloured ones can be so surprising. Tell me, do you know what a leveller is, High Priest Astralien?”

  The high priest shook its head, the chains of its staff rattling with the motion. He could see the question in the glimmer of its eyes. Flynn had questions of its own, but better to let the man voice his first, and then he would understand where he stood.

  “I am unsurprised. They are beings largely relegated to myth, and not even those are widely known save for a few appreciators of the old like me. The only references you could find of them come from a scarce few parchments and tomes so old that they’re more dust than paper.”

  “What little we know of them speaks of beings of great power, or more accurately, the potential for great power. They grow from strength to strength at miraculous speeds, unmatched by any of us. A weakling today could grow strong enough to contest the entire wall by the morrow. Incredible, isn’t it? Just the thought of that?”

  “Interesting is not the word that I would use.” drawled Astralien warily. The high priest glanced at Flynn like he’d suddenly grown two horns and a tail.

  Sthrillas chortled. “Indeed! The stories grow even more fanciful from there. The last recorded leveller – in so much as these tales could be called records – entered our world ninety years ago. Descriptions of it differed greatly from you, but it apparently caused great carnage amongst the Valien Clans to the east.” The alf pointed to a parchment pinned to a distant wall, and he realized that it was a map. A world map. In it, he saw the full extent of the fungal forests, but also the vast swathes of bubbling acidic pools that he’d seen before right in the middle. And further to the east, a desert-like plain marked with drawings of fire and flame.

  Above it all loomed a stretch of desert that touched upon all three biomes marked as the coloured lands, and above even it, a jagged mountain range that bordered everything, like a wall around a city, before it converged onto a single open gap at the very top of the coloured lands.

  “You said that you wished to visit The Mouth, did you not?”

  Flynn nodded.

  “So had that leveller. All levellers, in fact. We believe the place to be a story, just like the Heartlands and the Rearlands. But they believed it was real. It was the one commonality they shared. Well, that and their strength, and their talk of these levels, of course.”

  “All of them are said to have walked into the Coloured Wastes eventually and disappeared never to be seen again. Of course, they made sure to leave their mark on the world before they left. Some were terrible scars, as the Valien can attest to. Scars they bear still. A good thing that you did not choose that place as your destination. They do not treat strangers well there. I do not think you would enjoy the feeling of being flayed alive.”

  Flynn shivered. No, he did not think he would.

  “And alves?” asked Flynn.

  “Our experiences were fortunately much different. The last suspected instance of a leveller in our lands was nearly two hundred years ago. It is a long time for a record to last, but such was the grandeur of she who we call the Light Against the Dark.”

  “Imphar’Illar was one of these... levellers?” questioned Astralien, shocked.

  “Indeed.”

  “May the chains raise her to eternity.” whispered Astralien. Sthrillas nodded.

  “Imphar’Illar. She was a being nearly ten feet in height, with a great many arms and eyes like dark stars. The sight of her had struck great fear in our people at first, but her heart was of the purest light, and she quickly turned our fear to love. With her strength, our forefathers held against perhaps the greatest coloured horde in our history.”

  “Strange thing that. Another commonality shared amongst all the levellers. They seem to always arrive before events of great importance. Or perhaps, they cause these events.” The cohort-chief looked to him them, a question in his eye.

  “Correlation doesn’t equal causation.” said Flynn evenly.

  “Wonderful phrase. I may use that in the future. Still, that was not an answer, outsider Flynn.”

  “I don’t plan to cause any great event. All I want to do is leave.” Astralien nodded to the truth of his words. Sthrillas seemed convinced.

  “Did you have anything to do with the attack on the Caracarn Tribe?”

  “No.” he answered immediately. “I haven’t attacked a single alf in my time here. Well, except during my trial by the Aziethi.”

  “Yes. We learnt of that.” The warrior settled back into his mushroom-moulded chair. His mien grew contemplative for a few seconds, and Flynn could see that he was weighing some large decision in his mind.

  “Do you mean any harm to the alf, either directly or indirectly or as a consequence of inaction?” he asked just as the silence started to grow oppressive.

  “No.” answered Flynn decisively. The man seemed to like that. “You said you have questions for me. Speak your mind.”

  “Do you know where the spirit of the forest is?”

  Sthrillas looked entirely unsurprised by his question. He’d likely already heard about the attack, and the losses they’d suffered. “Yes.”

  “Was the Caracarn Tribe attacked by taken-beasts?”

  “Yes.”

  Flynn frowned. “That isn’t normal, I’m guessing.”

  “Attacks on a tribe are expected here in the north. The monsters we live amongst are not the feeble-spined sort you find in the south. But an attack on this scale, with the level of coordination that the evidence suggests? No. Not at all.”

  “You thought it was me that manipulated them somehow?”

  The alf didn’t even bother to pretend he hadn’t. “It was a theory.” he admitted readily. “It would not be the first time a fool attempted to weaponize the spirit of the forest. The pages of history are littered with their remains.”

  “Tell me its exact location.”

  “So, you can attempt to kill it?”

  “Yeah.”

  The man smiled softly.

  “You speak of it as if it were as easy as swinging a spear. The spirit is no mere beast. It is powerful beyond measure, and just as old. It survived the days of Imphar’Illar, and it has only grown stronger since. Do you believe yourself stronger than a legend of our people, Flynn the Outsider?”

  “No, just more pissed off.”

  Sthrillas blinked, his eyes wide before he burst into laughter. His voice was booming, assaulting his keen hearing like the clamour of a bell. Flynn bore it with calm, waiting until the man had finally settled.

  “So be it. I will share with you its location. I will even come with you.”

  “You don’t need to.”

  “Yes, in fact, I do. You are angry at the loss of your slaves, yes? We have lost a tribe, Flynn the Outsider. Hundreds of men, women and children. Your anger does not compare to mine.” It said so calmly, but the youth felt a trace of that anger then. It bubbled underneath the cohort-chief's amiable exterior, hidden behind easy smiles and polite words. This man understood, he realized.

  “That aside, it is also the duty that I have been tasked with. The spirit has been tolerated for too long. We must strike now, whilst we have the warriors and time to spare.”

  Flynn couldn’t argue against that. Reluctantly, he nodded. He’d never been that good at making good with others, less so when he had no choice in the matter. But for this, he would swallow his reservations.

  “You are in agreement, then? You will work with us to slay the spirit?”

  “I will.”

  “Good. Show me then, Flynn the Outsider. Show me how your legend unfolds.”