Deep within the heart of a forest lay a den. It wasn't just a hole dug into the dirt, nor a tunnel carved out by instinct alone. This den had a master craftsman. Every detail hinted at the careful touch of someone with patience.

The entrance was discreet - just a narrow opening that was framed by roots. The floor was a smooth and polished stone. Rugs were scattered about, each embroidered with pale moon-shaped symbols.

The walls had sturdy wooden beams and a bar stood at the corner of the room, surrounded by short, cushioned chairs. It wasn't grand, but it had the air of something lived in.

There were signs of magic here too. A collection of unusual stones floated above dishes on the tables and shelves. On the floor lay piles of well-worn leather-bound books with hand-drawn symbols. Several other books lay stacked neatly nearby, their spines marked with simple sigils — a crescent moon. The faint glow came off every crest.

Above, two glass windows were set into the ceiling, cleverly placed where the sun’s early morning rays could get though.

But in the far corner of the den, craftsmanship gave way to something far simpler.

A bed sat on a mound of soft grass, its frame crafted from rough tree bark, unevenly stacked and crudely held together with clay and leaves. It was as if the one who built it had given up halfway through, satisfied with "good enough."

Curled on that bed, nestled snug in the tangled mess of grass and bark, was a little fox. But not an ordinary fox.

Their fur was light and baby blue, with soft brown spots dotting their coat. The most striking feature was their ears. Two fox ears sat upright on top of their head, while two smaller ones rested on the sides like an afterthought of nature’s design. A thin golden chain hung from their right upper ear, a tiny crescent moon dangling at its end, and from the lower left ear hung a small golden cylinder.

Then a sound.

Not from within the den, but outside. Soft crunches of grass and twigs. The fox's ears twitched at the noise, flicking once, then twice, but they didn’t open their eyes. It was too distant. A bird, maybe. Or a squirrel. Nothing to worry about.

The crunches grew louder. Closer. Too heavy for a bird. Too slow for a squirrel steps.

Their eyes opened, eyes lazily staring at the door. They didn’t get up, but their ears stayed upright now.

The steps came closer.

Then, the figure emerged from the forest’s edge. A feminine sheep-like figure. Not quite human. Not quite a beast. She walked with authority.

Her horns curled atop her head, but one of them had been broken - jagged at the end like something had snapped it. Her face was lined with the wrinkles of age. She had a sheep-like nose, with a long scar along the bridge. Her eye had a green with yellow rings around the outer edges, scanned. Her left eye was covered by a red eye patch, stitched with the symbol.

Her body was sturdy and strong, wrapped in armor and cloth. A gray, worn chestplate with gold trim hugged her upper body, scuffed with the signs of battle. A crimson coat hung over their shoulders not on entirely. Beneath the chestplate, she wore a long red sheath dress, split at both sides for easy movement. Her sleeves, long and wide like bells, were trimmed in wool cuffs. Grey wool covered her from the neck down. Other than her hands. Her legs ended in thick hooves that crushed the grass below her with every step.

At her side, she carried a sword. It hung low on her hip, the scabbard marked with the same sigil as her eye patch.

The sheep-woman stopped just outside the den. Her eye glanced toward the entrance

"Arbor, wake up. You'll sleep the whole day away if you linger any longer, and Goddess Atheria would not like that."

The fox lying in the bed didn’t move. They squeezed their eyes shut tighter, curling in on themselves like a ball of fur. Their nose wiggled, followed by a low growl from the back of their throat. It wasn’t an angry growl, more like a child's playful grumble when asked to leave a warm bed on a cold morning.

"Arbor," the voice said again, firmer this time. "You know I can't understand you when you're like that."

The fox huffed loudly, letting out another exaggerated growl. The grumble trailed off into a long, drawn-out sigh as they finally uncurled. One ear twitched. Then the other.

“Fine. Fine. I’m up.” They thought

Their limbs stretched out slowly, claws flexing against the bark. Then, with a flick of their tail, their body tensed. A sudden swirl of blue-smoke burst from them. It spiraled upward, thick and twisting, until it cloaked the den in a soft blue fog. The smoke lingered for a bit before it started to dissipate.

Where the fox had been, now lay a figure.

Arbor, in their more humanoid form, Laid sprawled on the floor, for a second seeming to have forgotten their tail. And in another poof, their poofy tail reappeared. “I don't know how people go around without these, it feels wrong,” Arbor thought with a puzzled face.

"I'm up, Freya," Arbor called, voice muffled by the stone floor. "No need to keep tapping on the glass."

Outside the den, the familiar voice scoffed. Freya.

"Every day I come here, you wake up later and later," she said, her words laced with thinly veiled irritation. "One day, I swear I’ll leave you in your little hole. And when Atheria sends someone less kind than me, maybe then you’ll take mornings seriously.” Her hooves crunched softly against the grass as she moved just outside the entrance.

“Now get up, Arbor. And put some clothes on. I’ll be out here.”

Arbor groaned, pressing their face harder into the smooth stone floor. “Yes, Freya,” they muttered into the cold surface, the vibration of their voice buzzing against their cheek.

They stayed like that for a moment longer. A small rebellion against the inevitable. But the moment passed. Reluctantly, they pushed themselves up. Their fox-like feet pressed lightly against the ground as they stood, stretching with a loud yawn, jaws wide and sharp teeth on full display.

Fine. Clothes it is.

Their eyes drifted to the wooden shelf across the room. On the top shelf, tiny specks of light flickered - magic light bugs in tinted glass jars. It was faint, but it was better than fumbling in the dark. Arbor stepped closer, rising to their toes as they reached for one of the jars.

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Their hand brushed against one of the jars at the wrong angle, and it tipped over, clinking against the edge of another jar. That second jar tipped too. Then a third. A chain reaction of disaster.

Clatter! Crash!

Three jars hit the ground, their glass lids rattling loose. Light Bugs shot out in all directions. Little glowing orbs of yellow, green, and soft blue zipped through the den like startled fireflies. Arbor froze.

"Ah, seriously?" Arbor said hissing, swatting at one of them, only for it to dart past their head. Another zipped by their ear. They knew better than to chase them.

One by one, the lights slowly floated down. Their wild flight paths grew steady, as if they’d gotten bored of the lack of chase. The bugs hovered near Arbor’s lap, spiraling down in slow, lazy circles before finally settling on the fabric of their shorts. Their soft glow illuminated the floor like scattered lanterns.

"Finally," Arbor muttered, brushing their hands together.

“Now they could see.”

They turned to face the far wall. A wooden closet. Its frame was dark, aged oak, but faint blue light seeped from the cracks around the door. It wasn’t just any closet. This one was special.

The carvings on the wood told a story. Intricate images of warriors clashing under a storm-filled sky, a tree sprouting from the center of battle, roots reaching beneath the ground. The story wasn’t one Arbor understood. They’d asked the craftsman about it once, but all they got in return was a shrug and a laugh.

"Doesn’t matter who it belonged to," the craftsman had said. "It’s yours now. Use it well."

It was a magic closet. One that made clothes, New ones, Every day. And each outfit it created carried a tiny reserve of magic, a buffer of energy that Arbor could call upon when their own magic ran dry.

Arbor reached for the handle and pulled it open. The glow of blue light flooded the den like a wave of calm water. Their eyes squinted at the brightness for a moment before adjusting.

Inside, folded neatly on a hook, hung the outfit of the day.

A kimono. Slightly oversized. Its colors shifted from soft pinks blending into deep purples and embroidered along its hem was the image of a towering tree, its branches reaching toward the shoulders. Beneath it hung a sleek black bodysuit with a small metal moon symbol nestled just below the neckline.

Arbor smiled, sharp teeth poking through their grin.

“Not bad,” they muttered.

They dressed quickly, slipping into the bodysuit first. It hugged their frame snugly, the soft material cool against their skin. The kimono draped loosely off their shoulders, hanging just enough to not get in the way. The final touch was a pair of knee-high boots, each one adorned with the same metal moon symbol as the bodysuit.

At the edge of the room sat their bag — a simple cylinder-shaped bag of light brown leather with small crescent moons stamped on both sides. They looped it around their waist, securing it behind them like a belt pouch. Next, they picked up their journal — a thin notebook with a scrap of fabric tied around its binding — and slipped it onto their hip. Lastly, they grabbed a few small, jagged stones from the dish on the table, the ones with faint streaks of shimmering color.

With everything in place, Arbor stood before the small mirror near the entrance. They adjusted the tuft of hair at the center of their forehead, tugging it down just slightly so it sat in perfect defiance. Their reflection grinned back at them. Sharp teeth. Mischief in their eyes.

“Looks good,” they said.

Turning on their heel, Arbor strode toward the entrance of the den.

They stepped outside.

Freya sat against a tree, one leg propped up. “Finally.” Her voice was dry. “I was starting to think you’d gone back to sleep.”

“Don’t tempt me. I just might.", Arbor said.

Outside the den, the world was cloaked in a misty fog. The trees above were not the usual shade of green found in ordinary forests. Their leaves instead had deep blue hues and from their bark oozed thick, sticky green sap dripped in slowly. Each drop hit the ground with a faint plop, shimmering stains on the grass below. The distant chirps of unseen birds echoed faintly through the mist. Everything felt slow.

Freya was already moving ahead.

Her hooves crunched against the dirt path, which had been worn smooth by countless journeys through the woods. She glanced over her shoulder, her one green eye watching as Arbor trailed behind.

"Alright," Freya called back, voice sharp and direct. "We can get going now."

Arbor followed with their hands folded behind their head, eyes half-open still in sleepy. Their kimono shifted softly with each step, the flowing sleeves catching faint swirls of mist as they moved.

On occasion, they’d veer off the path just long enough to snatch up a rock. Not just any rock — the good ones. The smooth ones with streaks of color. The ones with odd shapes or sharp edges. Rocks with “personality,” as Arbor liked to think of them. With every few steps, they’d find a new one, brush it off with their thumb, and slip it into their side pouch.

The walk stretched on, until Arbor finally let out an exaggerated groan. Their ears flattened slightly as they tilted their head back.

“I’m tired of waking up sooooo early,” they whined, dragging out the words. Their tail swished behind them, a slow, dramatic motion of complaint.

Freya didn't stop walking.

Her voice cut through the mist. “You know why we have to do this, Arbor." Her words were steady and practiced."The Goddess Atheria sees potential in you. More than most. She’s giving you the chance to join the Elite Legion and protect this Eden.”

She glanced over her shoulder again, her one green eye narrowing. “A chance most people would beg for.”

Arbor tilted their head to the side, staring at her with that dry, unimpressed look. Their fingers fiddled with a small stone they’d just picked up, rolling it between their thumb and forefinger. Their eyes flicked down to it, inspecting the surface like it was infinitely more interesting than Freya’s "motivational speech."

“Don’t see much worth protecting out here,” Arbor muttered, giving the rock a final spin before slipping it into their pouch. “No strange outsiders. No other warring factions. No ‘great enemies’ to fight. Just fog, weird trees, and sap that sticks to everything.” They tossed a glance at one of the blue-leafed trees, watching the sap ooze down its trunk. “Seems like a lot of work for nothing.”

Freya stopped walking.

Her ears twitched slightly as she turned, resting one hand on her hip.

“That’s because the Legion does a good job protecting you all,” she said plainly, She didn’t blink or flinch. Just stared them down, waiting.

Arbor's mouth opened like they had a retort ready, but nothing came out. Their teeth clicked shut with a soft tch. Their ears twitched in mild irritation.

They hated it when Freya did that. It wasn’t the words that got to them — it was the way she said it. Certain. Like it was a fact they couldn’t argue with. They scratched the back of their neck, eyes flicking to the side.

"Yeah, yeah," they muttered, kicking a small stone off the path. It tumbled into the fog with a soft thump.

Then there was long silence as the two walked.

After a while, Arbor glanced at Freya again, eyeing the way her bell-sleeved dress shifted with every step. The way she walked in a way that felt… stable. Solid.

“Why’d she pick you anyway?” Arbor asked, ears tilting toward her. “To train me, I mean.”

Freya's face stayed still, but her fingers tapped against the hilt of the sword at her side. She didn’t answer right away.

“Because I’m one of the few willing to do it,” she said flatly, eyes forward. Her pace didn’t slow. Didn’t quicken. Just steady. “You’re difficult. No sense of discipline. No control over your magic. No patience.” She let that sit for a moment before glancing at them again, brow raised. “You see why nobody volunteered?”

“Ouch.” Arbor placed a hand over their heart, leaning back with mock offense. “You wound me, Freya.”

Freya rolled her eyes. "If you were wounded, you'd have to heal yourself, and we both know how that'd turn out."

Arbor smirked, sharp teeth poking out. "Rude."

“True,” Freya countered, folding her arms. “Now stop dragging your feet. The sooner we get to the training grounds, the sooner you can complain about something new.”