Merrik Whisperleaf

Merrik Whisperleaf stood barefoot in Amoss-ringed hollow. His chest rose and fell with the rhythm of meditation, bare and glistening with sweat, marked by the many scars of blades that had danced off his skin. The moonlight poured down into the open space, highlighting it all in a clear, silver light. In his right hand, he held a a long, elegant blade, a leaf emblem carved into the pommel.

He exhaled. Then he moved.

Each step was measured, each motion deliberate, as if he were dancing with the shadows themselves. The blade sliced the air without aggression, only precision. This was not combat. This was rhythm, balance, meditation. A silent offering to Velithra. A prayer of restraint in a world aching for fury.

The trees loomed behind him. From the highest boughs, webbed lanterns swung gently, lit by trapped fireflies that blinked in solemn cadence. Merrik’s movements mirrored the flicker: slow, then sudden, still, then swift. He turned, twisted, and bowed low, holding the blade horizontal, a gesture of reverence. In the silver-glow of the grove, a shimmer passed beside him: Hysae. His Celestial Sprite, a mantis spirit, appeared in spectral flickers: long limbs folded in meditation, her compound eyes emotionless. Watching. Judging. Waiting.

“You are restless again,” Merrik murmured, not expecting an answer. Her presence pressed lightly against his thoughts, not words, but a thread of unease that tugged. The dreams had returned: visions of the Heartwood bleeding black. Of Aurelian shrouded in fog. Of Thorne, his eyes gold and wild, standing on a field of ash, wings buzzing. “Not mine,” Merrik whispered, voice steady. “Yours.”

He dropped to one knee and plunged the blade into the soil. "I do not want to choose a side with steel." Silence answered him, except for the distant chirr of cicadas and the rustle of the night breeze threading through leaves. He rested his forehead against the hilt, grounding himself. Peace is not absence. It is choice. The words of his father, long gone now.

Aurelian had asked for patience. Thorne demanded action. And Merrik stood in the cleft between them, a blade sheathed in purpose, but not yet drawn. Footsteps crunched lightly against the moss behind him. He rose, taking in a breath. “Have you come for a lesson?” He tilted his head, tall green antennae twitching curiously.