Mula told the Champion and the Sorceress that the mist engulfing all of Lundeheim was actually a dream—a grand, all-encompassing dream belonging to the Matriarch.

The Sorceress’s first reaction was relief.

Whatever the thick fog truly was, Mula had mentioned the Matriarch, hadn’t he?

That proved they were no longer trapped in the false Lundeheim—they’d returned to reality.

*How utterly delightful*, Lyselle thought with zero enthusiasm.

She then questioned Mula:

“The Matriarch’s dream? What exactly *is* your Elves’ Matriarch? Can She even dream?”

She’d almost asked what the Matriarch *was*, but caught herself—sounded too much like mocking their faith. Better rephrase.

Mula, missing her disrespect, answered quickly:

“The Matriarch… is the being who birthed all of Lundeheim. To us Elves, She isn’t a goddess—but She might as well be.”

*Lyselle’s mental eye-roll was audible.* The Governor had said the same vague nonsense.

But—

The Sorceress narrowed her eyes, locking onto the Elf’s face. Her tone turned sharp:

“I don’t want ambiguous concepts, Mr. Mula. You know we’re here to fix Lundeheim’s anomalies. I need specifics—”

“What *exactly* is your Matriarch?”

Respect for his faith could wait.

*Riddle Master, enough already. Keep this up, and I’ll drag your mother away.*

Technically true—Fawena’s mission *was* to kill the Elven Matron.

But Mula knew nothing of that. He only looked troubled.

“I…” He paused, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Sorceress. Even I struggle to explain what our Matriarch truly *is*.”

Lyselle blinked. He’d used “*is*”—not “She.”

Shockingly irreverent. If the Matriarch was near-divine, why call Her an “it”?

Unless…

*This Mula—and the Elves he represents—don’t truly believe.*

Lyselle’s eyebrow lifted. Things just got interesting.

The Matriarch birthed Lundeheim, its creator-god… yet some Elves weren’t loyal? Didn’t even know what She was?

*Absolute loyalty is the only loyalty.*

Before Lyselle could press further, Shall spoke up:

“Then tell us what the Matriarch *does*. Has She given your people orders? Commands?”

Annoyed her point was stolen, Lyselle swallowed it. Intel mattered more. She watched Mula.

After a silence, Mula raised his Lantern high.

Its glow intensified, burning away thick mist. Houses and streets snapped into view.

“The Matriarch gave us miraculous seeds,” he said. “We planted them. Tenderly cared for them. Soon—sprouts broke the soil…”

He turned, emerald eyes tracing the fog-hidden streets upward. Like the Sorceress and Champion, he couldn’t pierce the mist—but he *knew* what stood eternal beyond it.

“*Trees*,” he breathed.

“Legend says the first Elf was born in the Matriarch’s arms. When She came of age, the Matriarch gave Her a seed. Told Her to plant it.”

“A tree grew. You know its name.”

“—*Lundeheim*.”

Mula faced them again, his expression unreadable.

“That tree is beneath our feet. It *is* our Elven city-state.”

Lyselle froze.

She remembered her first sight of Lundeheim:

A colossal tree piercing sky and earth. At its base, she’d looked up—only to see a wall stretching infinitely wide, a true Wall of Sighs.

The Elves’ city lived in its branches. *Lundeheim* never named their city—it named the *tree*.

So when the Governor and Mula said “the Matriarch birthed Lundeheim”…

*Ah.*

Lyselle processed it fast. In a world of magic, nothing was impossible. The Old Sage’s White Tower rivaled this tree’s grandeur—and she joked with *him* daily. Why gawk now?

She waited for Mula’s next bombshell.

He didn’t disappoint.

“But those are ancient tales, drowned in time. Today, ‘Lundeheim’ names both the tree *and* our city in its crown.”

His gaze swept the misty streets, the delicate wooden houses.

“When the great tree matured, the Matriarch birthed more Elves. She named each one. Gave each a new seed.”

“They planted seeds on the tree’s crown. When blossoms bore fruit—they harvested homes from the wind and rain. Food to fill bellies. Tools for survival.”

“A civilization rose from nothing. Hidden, self-sufficient, peaceful—by the Matriarch’s will.”

“This lasted millennia. All Elves believed it would last forever. Until…”

Mula’s eyes drifted past them, into the endless fog behind.

He left it hanging.

Shall finished for him:

“Until this mist swallowed Lundeheim. Until these anomalies began.”

Mula’s dazed expression shattered. His unfocused eyes sharpened on Shall’s face.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Until the mist came.”

A slightly bitter smile touched his lips.

“Mr. Shall… Lundeheim was always *too* stable. I told you my name is Mula—but I also have another: 09527. Every Elf does.”

“I am 09527—the nine thousand, five hundred twenty-seventh child birthed by the Matriarch. The Governor is 00134—one of the first.”

“From birth, the Matriarch assigns our duties. I was born to command Lundeheim’s Guard. Trained since childhood. Became Captain the moment I came of age.”

His gaze swept the wooden houses again, that unreadable weight returning.

“My kin are the same.”

“Some are born craftsmen. Merchants. Farmers. Every Elf has a purpose—decided before their first breath.”

“All by the Matriarch’s design.”

“It seems perfect. I’ve heard the outside world churns with chaos. Empires crumble in centuries. But Lundeheim? Three thousand years. Dynasties rose and fell beyond our branches—yet we remained unchanged.”

“But…”

A fog-thick confusion clouded his face.

“Sometimes I wonder: Did the Matriarch tailor duties to *us*… or did She craft *us* because Lundeheim needed those duties?”

“I’ve heard of ‘machines’ outside. The grandest are built from countless parts.”

“Gears. Pistons. Levers…”

Mula stared at his own flawless, sculpted Elf-body.

Then, like a sleepwalker, he whispered:

“—What’s the difference between us and those parts?”

[To Be Continued]