After a day and a half of wandering, Glade, Pels, Nathariel, and Galiris reached a well.

They had descended from the foyer and climbed down the rigid slopes of an orchard-covered valley. The ground here was still divided up into discrete ledges, carved out by sapient hands, but the thousands of little fruit-bearing trees scattered across it made it look more smooth than it was.

They had walked through the orchard, aiming for the nearest, large tree—if there was a source of spiritual energy they could harvest, it was likely there. Every step, their boots squished through a half-foot high layer of fallen, rotting fruit. If Glade wasn’t cycling, he would have held his breath for as long as he could to keep the slightly sweet, slightly alcoholic, and mostly rotting smell out of his nostrils.

The ground began to slope upwards with smooth hills—the roots of one of the massive central fruit trees. After a few more hours, the roots burst out of the ground, forming a massive hill of intertwined roots and wood.

The well itself was tucked into the exposed roots. It was a simple tube of cobblestone plunging deep into the greenhouse soil, and Glade was surprised it hadn’t been crushed by the roots long ago. But instead of crushing it, they wrapped around it, like they were a dead Order Elder clutching a sword to their chest for burial.

Nathariel ran over to the edge and peered down into it. Glade ran up beside him and asked, “What is it?” Spirit water glowed blue at the bottom of the well, but there was so much fallen fruit in it that the light could only seep out in cracks.

“A Life Elixir,” said Nathariel.

“Life?”

“The life aspects of the decaying fruit, with nowhere to go, are seeping down into the well, replacing some of the spirit energy with…different natures. I suspect that this is only half spirit energy, by now.”

“Different natures?” Glade pushed himself back from the edge of the well. “What does it do? What is the other half?”

“Life energy, for enhancing the body,” Nathariel explained. “It will expand upon the concepts that you just ingrained into your muscles, and push them a touch further. Normal God-heirs would do this through special meats and wines over the course of their life, but you have an opportunity to use it now and give your body the best refinement you can get.”

“While also getting some of that fancy spirit energy stuff, right?” Pels asked. “It’s still an elixir, as I take it.”

“Aye, you’ll still be getting some almost-purified Arcara for your body,” Nathariel answered. “Not as powerful as the pure elixirs on the other side of the dome, but it has a dual purpose—”

Before he could finish, the roots around the well erupted. Seven columns of debris shot up into the air, and in each, there was a human-shaped silhouette. One emerged right beside Galiris, who was hanging back. Before the debris had settled, a flash of turquoise Arcara sizzled through the air. A small spurt of blood shot out from the elf’s midsection, then she collapsed. The top half of her body slid forwards and her legs crumpled.

Glade ripped his sword out of his sheath and ran back to Nathariel, who had drawn his spear. They sandwiched Captain Pels between them.

“This, Captain,” Nathariel said, “is why we figured you should stay back…”

“Not regretting it.” Pels cocked his pistol and pointed it at one of the seven attackers.

When the debris fell, seven human-like creatures walked towards them. They were all shaped vaguely like women, but their skin was formed entirely out of bark and wound-together white roots. Their hair was turquoise moss and their eyes were glowing Arcara.

With a woody, nasal screech, they all opened their mouths, revealing Arcara fangs, too. A few pressed their hands together, Moulding Arcara into claws.

“Fun,” Nathariel muttered, then pointed his spear at one of them. The cracks in her wooden flesh glowed orange, and she shrieked. A second later, she exploded, scattering chunks of flaming wood all around the well.

“Or, alternatively, we just burn ourselves to death,” Pels grumbled.

“Quit your whining,” Nathariel snapped back. “The roots are wet; they won’t catch, not while I control the flame.”

“What are they?” Glade asked, flourishing his sword.

“Wood nymphs. They rarely ever get so advanced—these are all around Second or Third Lieutenant grade, but they only have channels, not a core. They get more human as they advance, see, and their Arcara system develops much slower…but it will be developed enough that I can destroy them. Chances are, they’ve never had to defend against spiritual fire attacks.” Nathariel whirled his spear, then pointed it out at the next closest nymph. “They will try to kill us without a second thought.”

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The six remaining nymphs charged. Nathariel popped one more before they got too close—the explosion of flaming wood had a high chance of hurting Glade or Pels. Then, he swept his spear around to push back three more nymphs.

The other two sprinted at Glade. He ran his hand down the blade, conjuring a hair-thin stand of Arcara along the cutting edge. It rang out with a sshing, and when he swept it through the air, it made a crystalline chattering sound.

He used broad strikes to push the two nymphs back. He hacked left to right, then sliced right to left. The nymphs dodged away from his blade the first few times, no matter how far he swung.

Each swipe flew a little further than he intended, the follow-through too far and the direction harder to control. It was stronger than he knew.

He had practiced using his enhanced body over the past few days, but the sudden improvement in strength, as if his muscles were working twice as well, wasn’t folding into his previous training.

When he slashed to the right, both nymphs charged him—he had left an opening that wouldn’t have existed before his advancement. Pels shot one, sending it tumbling back onto the root mound, but the other went for a tackle.

Glade hit the ground hard, falling on his back, but it didn’t feel as hard as it usually would have, and it barely forced any air out of his lungs. He skidded along the ground, borne by the strength of the nymph’s attack, until he tumbled into a crevice between two roots.

He landed in a shallow root cave, the nymph right on top of him.

She took a bite out of the flesh around his ribcage, and he shouted.

With as much strength as he could muster out of his Dawnspear body, he struck her in the side of the head with the pommel of his sword. She tumbled off to the side, but not as violently as he had expected.

She was a Lieutenant of some sort, after all.

Glade jumped to his feet and swiped at the nymph. His sword caught her across the chest. It slashed straight through the wood, leaving a shallow cut. Sap leaked out, sealing the wound and dripping like blood.

Glade pressed his hand down on the chunk she had taken out of his side. It was bleeding enough to soak the palm of his hand, but he’d live—as long as that was the worst it got.

He held his sword up in a fighting stance, then gave it a quick flourish to clear his mind. The nymph charged across the peat-covered floor of the cavern, claws on the tips of her fingers flashing.

He stepped to the side, expecting to arrive just to the side and slash down just in time.

He crossed twice the distance with a single push. There was no point in swinging; the nymph was already out of range.

The nymph spun and charged again.

“Alright, Glade…” he told himself, whispering softly. “Don’t push it as hard. She’s coming again. Just dodge.”

Yelling something in a completely different language, the nymph sprinted at him again. Glade put less force into his sidestep and saved it for his swing—both for cutting as fast as he could, and for stopping the sword exactly where he wanted to.

He caught the nymph across the back as she sprinted past him, leaving another light slash. Her claws were outstretched, however, and they sliced across his gut. Even though the claws ripped his coat and skin, the surrounding force of the blow flung him away and into one of the wooden cavern’s walls.

That was enough to knock the breath out of his lungs.

Taking stock of his wounds, he pushed himself up to his feet. Another glancing, shallow blow.

The nymph was already charging, but he took a low guard, presenting his shoulders as an easy target. He pushed more Arcara along the blade—it’d need to be a clean cut, and he’d need the technique at its most powerful.

He focussed on the idea of sharpness, and tried to form a loop of power instead of just a single filament of strength.

In a second, the nymph had arrived. She aimed at his shoulders, like he expected. He swung upwards, hacking up through her body with a single, clean strike. Before the two halves fell apart, he delivered another strike to her waist, cleaving her in half in the other direction for good measure.

The chunks of the nymph’s body fell into a heap of wood and sap, and Glade fell to his hands and knees.

A moment later, Nathariel peered over the edge of the cavern. “You’re alright down there? I heard you use a contraction while you were talking to yourself! Must’ve been pretty bad.”

Glade gulped. Nathariel had probably sensed everything. “Apologies, sir, I—” He squinted. “I did not use a contraction; that would be awfully informal and unbecoming of an Order of Balance disciple.”

“Aye, you did, and I won’t tell anyone.” He flipped his spear over in his hand, then held the blunt end down to Glade. It was just long enough. “You did well, though.”

With a jump, Glade sprang back to the surface. He clutched Nathariel’s hand and let the Admiral pull him the rest of the way up.

Bits of the other nymphs were scattered all around the well, and it looked like a few of them had tried to feed on the remains of Galiris. But every one of them was dead—charred or blasted apart by sheer force. Pels had used a second of his pistols, and now, he bent down, reloading them both.

Glade exhaled and walked over to Galiris’ body, then nudged her body. No way she lived through that.

But it wasn’t the first time one of his comrades had died. With a grimace, he said, “We should clean up. Bury her. Then I will get started processing the elixir.”

“Now you’re thinking as you should be,” Nathariel said, offering a congratulatory pat on the back. “We’ll make a swordsman out of you yet.”