On a Small Laugh, Two Faces, and the Rain That Bore a Visitor
Since the day the word Mama first escaped the small lips of Vleresia, the Zeneris estate seemed—by some subtle allowance—to possess a little more life. Not through any grand alteration, but through trifles long overlooked beneath the weight of fear.
Friesy found herself smiling more often.
She no longer startled at the indistinct sounds her daughter produced—sounds that only faintly resembled speech. Though Vleresia could not yet articulate clearly, could not yet form sentences, each utterance felt like a fragile thread, slowly weaving language into the fabric of the world.
"Ma… pa…"
"Ma… na…"
"…pa."
"Gently," Friesy would say one morning as she wiped her daughter's mouth after a meal. "There is no need to hurry."
Vleresia looked at her and smiled—a bright smile, unburdened, free of the depth that so often silenced Friesy.
This one, she thought, is merely a child.
And for that, she was grateful.
Months passed.
Vleresia's first birthday arrived without ceremony. No feast, no outside guests—only the family, a brief prayer, and a single candle allowed to burn for a moment before being extinguished.
Yet in the days that followed, something began to change.
Not abruptly.
Not conspicuously.
But enough for parents who watched too closely.
Vleresia began to grow… restless.
She still cherished the book, still gazed upon the Villainess with the same intensity, yet now—on occasion—she crawled away. She explored corners of the house, touched objects that had once held no interest for her.
And one afternoon, as Friesy conversed with a servant in the central hall, Vleresia vanished from sight.
"Vleresia?" Friesy called, her voice rising at once. "My love?"
There was no answer.
Before concern could fully harden into panic, a servant hurried toward her.
"Lady Friesy," she said quickly. "The young lady… appears to be heading toward Lord Blenoris's study."
Friesy closed her eyes briefly.
"Of course," she murmured. "There of all places."
Within Blenoris's study, the world continued in its usual order.
Documents lay neatly arranged, the pen moved with steady rhythm, and Blenoris's mind was wholly absorbed in the affairs of the clan—until the soft creak of the door drew his attention.
He raised his head.
The door stood open.
Yet no one was there.
"I gave orders that no one enter without permission," he remarked, more out of habit than irritation.
He looked down once more.
And then—
Something tugged at the hem of his trousers.
Blenoris startled, turned swiftly, and found a pair of violet eyes gazing up at him, brimming with curiosity.
"…Vleresia?"
His daughter stood unsteadily, both hands clutching the fabric of his trousers as though it were her sole anchor in the world.
That innocent gaze—unjudging, unburdened by hidden meaning—drew a long sigh from him.
"You win again," he murmured, conceding.
He lifted her and settled her upon his lap.
Vleresia let out a small cry of delight, a thin laugh escaping her throat. She patted his chest, and then—
"Pa! Pa!"
Blenoris froze.
Then he laughed—a short sound, rare within that room.
"Yes," he said softly. "Papa."
Vleresia repeated it, again and again, as though the word were a new and delightful toy.
"Pa! Pa! Pa!"
"Very well," Blenoris smiled. "Let us not spill the ink with such enthusiasm."
It was then that he understood something he and Friesy had long discussed, but only now truly felt.
This child… shifted.
There were days when Vleresia was silent, fixated upon a single thing, regarding the world as though all else were merely temporary footing. And there were days like this—bright, energetic, inquisitive, incapable of stillness.
"Like two children," Blenoris murmured. "Within one body."
He spoke not in complaint,
but in acknowledgment.
Seeing Vleresia peer with interest at his writing—though she clearly could not comprehend it—Blenoris retrieved a blank sheet of paper and a pencil from a nearby shelf.
"Would you like to try this?" he asked, setting them before her.
Vleresia grasped the pencil incorrectly, too tightly, yet with great determination. Random lines appeared upon the paper—meaningless, unbeautiful, yet honest.
Minutes passed.
Then ten.
Then silence.
Vleresia fell asleep upon his lap, the pencil still clutched in her small hand.
Blenoris exhaled softly.
He lifted her with care, laid her upon the sofa, and draped his own coat over her small body.
"Sleep," he whispered. "The world is still far too large for you."
Outside, the sky darkened.
Thunder rolled, tearing through the air.
Rain fell—heavy, sudden—as though the heavens had decided to release something long restrained.
And amidst the sound of rain—
Blenoris felt another presence.
He straightened.
His hand moved slowly behind him, prepared.
"It has been some time," said a voice—calm, far too calm.
Blenoris turned.
A tall man stood by the window, long hair of pale yellow cascading past his shoulders, eyes green with pupils of blue that were not entirely human. The smile upon his face was friendly…
and hollow.
"Who are you?" Blenoris asked coldly.
The man glanced briefly toward the sofa, toward the small form sleeping peacefully.
"Be at ease," he said gently. "I did not come to harm her."
His smile widened, just slightly.
"I am merely… curious."
Lightning struck again.
And beyond the rain, the world of Fletcher knocked upon the doors of the Zeneris estate for the first time—
not as a guest,
but as the beginning of a threat never recorded in any prayer.
On the Unseen Tree, the Vermin That Guard the World, and an Offer Too Great for a Father
The rain came without warning.
There was no wind to herald it, no scent of wet earth to foretell its arrival for those long accustomed to the world of Fletcher. It simply fell—like the decisions of gods—without permission, without preparation.
Blenoris stood firm in the centre of his study, his back straight, his breath half-held. Behind him, upon the sofa, Vleresia slept peacefully, his coat still draped over her small body like a final, fragile bastion.
The stranger did not advance.
He remained near the window, lightning carving his silhouette in sharp relief: tall, slender, long pale-yellow hair falling past his shoulders, and eyes—eyes that unsettled Blenoris—green with pupils of blue, too clear to belong wholly to man.
His smile was cordial.
And for that very reason, dangerous.
"I suppose," the man said at last, his voice smooth, as though accustomed to addressing matters far greater than a single room, "it would be polite to introduce myself."
Blenoris did not lower his guard.
"Proceed," he said curtly.
The man inclined his head slightly—not in reverence, but from habit devoid of emotion.
"My name is Zrenis Fran Chey," he said. "Great Sage of the Imaginary Tree."
The name itself drew no immediate reaction.
But the title—
Blenoris frowned.
"…Imaginary Tree?" he repeated. "I know of no sect or clan by that name."
Zrenis smiled faintly. "Because it is not something commonly known."
He stepped forward once, then stopped, as though respecting an invisible boundary upheld by Blenoris.
"Imagine the world as a river," he continued, "and magic as the water that flows within it. Yet narrative—destiny, possibility, history—is the land through which that river runs. The Imaginary Tree is its spring."
Blenoris fell silent.
Zrenis raised a finger, pointing upward—not toward the sky, but toward something far beyond.
"Not one tree," he said slowly. "There are nine. Nine Imaginary Trees, each rooted in a different world, yet interconnected through layers of reality unreachable by prayer, magic, or ordinary travel."
The rain intensified outside.
"Each tree," Zrenis went on, "supplies magical and narrative energy—the raw material of existence—to the world in which it stands. Without them, worlds do not collapse dramatically… they simply rot, slowly losing meaning, until history itself ceases to move."
Blenoris folded his arms.
"And you?" he asked. "What is your role in all this?"
Zrenis glanced toward the sofa—toward Vleresia—and for a moment, his smile softened.
"I am a chosen incarnation," he said. "Fifth generation."
He turned back to Blenoris.
"Each Imaginary Tree selects one living being as its voice, its guardian, and—when necessary—its blade. We are called Great Sages."
A chill crept along Blenoris's neck.
"The fourth generation," Zrenis continued, his tone lowering slightly, "has fallen."
"Fallen?" Blenoris echoed.
"In war," Zrenis replied. "Against the Vrezsoh."
The name weighed upon the air.
"What are the Vrezsoh?" Blenoris asked, more quietly now.
Zrenis did not answer at once. He watched the rain, as though seeking words that would not terrify the man before him too quickly.
"They are remnants," he said at last. "Remnants of the explosion of creation. Fragments of existence that failed to become worlds, failed to become laws, failed to become meaning."
He smiled bitterly.
"Creatures that consume narrative and magic."
Blenoris clenched his jaw.
"They appear," Zrenis continued, "where energy is dense—at great intersections of history, in regions of concentrated magic, or… near anomalies."
He did not need to gesture.
Vleresia was there.
"Do not misunderstand," Zrenis added quickly. "They are not mere vermin. They are also… cleaners."
"Cleaners?" Blenoris repeated, grimly.
"Corrupted narratives. Failed destinies. Histories without purpose," Zrenis answered. "If left unchecked, these accumulate and destroy a world from within. The Vrezsoh consume them."
"So they are monsters," Blenoris said coldly, "and guardians both."
"Like fire," Zrenis replied calmly. "It warms—yet burns those who approach too closely."
Silence settled between them.
Then—
In the blink of an eye, the world shifted.
Blenoris felt the ground beneath his feet vanish—not collapse, but replace itself. His study, its walls, shelves, sofa—all withdrew like a curtain drawn aside.
He now stood in an endless field of grass.
The sky was clear, the wind cool, and in the midst of the green expanse stood an old park bench of wrought iron, modestly adorned, with a peculiar machine beside it.
Blenoris turned sharply.
"An illusion?"
"A folded dimension," Zrenis replied, sitting casually upon the bench. "Safer for conversation."
The machine clicked softly. Zrenis retrieved a cylindrical object from within—smooth metal, gleaming, cool with dew—and tossed it to Blenoris.
"Drink," he said. "A gift from the Sixth Imaginary Tree's Great Sage. Their world has entered the twenty-fifth century."
Blenoris caught it by reflex.
He examined it, puzzled—metal containing liquid? He opened it and tasted its contents. His eyes widened slightly.
Sweet.
Bitter.
Cold.
"…Strange," he murmured.
"Coffee," Zrenis said. "You will like it."
Blenoris drank again.
Zrenis leaned back, crossing his legs.
"I have come," he said at last, "to offer a contract."
"No," Blenoris answered immediately.
Zrenis raised an eyebrow.
"I have not yet explained."
"I do not need to hear it," Blenoris said firmly. "I am finished with that path."
Zrenis sighed softly.
"Phaldium."
The name resonated.
A title dreamed of by every true knight. Protector of the world. Pillar between ruin and civilisation.
Blenoris gave a short, dry laugh.
"I was defeated once," he said. "My arm was broken. My dream buried. I have a family."
He looked sharply at Zrenis.
"And I have a daughter prophesied as a calamity."
Zrenis rose.
He stepped closer and placed a hand upon Blenoris's shoulder—not as a superior, but as one who knew the weight of living.
"Precisely because of that," he said quietly, "you still have a chance."
"You will not be a Phaldium like the others," he continued. "Not to conquer. Not to attack."
He smiled faintly.
"You will be a special Phaldium."
"A guardian."
"Of a calamity that has not yet learned how to become one."
Blenoris's eyes widened.
"…You are saying," he whispered, "I will protect the world?"
Zrenis nodded.
"And your daughter," he added, "will live long enough to choose who she wishes to be."
The wind stirred gently across the endless field.
And for the first time since Vleresia's birth,
Blenoris realised something more terrifying than any prophecy of destruction—
The world had decided to involve his family.