As Lyselle awoke from the Dream of Continuance, those behind her stirred one by one.

First was Shall.

He drew the Holy Sword instantly upon waking, stepping beside Lyselle to gaze up at the bizarre entity suspended within the vast hollow.

"Is that... the Elven Matron?"

he whispered.

Lyselle heard the confusion in his voice.

To a native of this magical world, the Elven Matron shouldn’t look like this.

She should be divine—benevolent, gentle, bearing an elven likeness, bathed in holy radiance, perhaps haloed and winged.

But the Matron’s form defied imagination.

Twisted armor. Shattered shield emitters. A hardened hull scarred by violent explosions...

And plants sprouting from every crack in her hull—lush, swaying branches adorned with scattered blossoms.

Countless roots converged from all directions, weaving a net. At its center lay the Elven Matron, faint blue light flickering intermittently along the roots as if feeding her...

Or powering her.

Lyselle felt her worldview shatter violently, then hastily rebuild.

She’d assumed this world ran solely on magic. Yet here *this* stood before her.

Science wasn’t just theory or technology—it was a mindset. A methodology. Even the White Tower studied magic scientifically.

Science and mysticism weren’t opposites. Born from different origins, they converged beyond a certain threshold of civilization, sharing one name:

*The Ladder*.

Both became civilization’s ladder to truth.

But clearly, no civilization on the Pan Continent had reached that height—not humans, Elves, not even mighty dragons.

Before the vast starry sky, they were all infants in cradles.

So why did an adult’s artifact lie in an infant’s cradle?

Lyselle stared at the Matron’s bizarre form.

What *was* the Elven Matron?

An AI? A ship’s core? Something stranger?

The being who spoke to every Elf might no longer be purely technological.

—She radiated both science and mysticism.

But how had *she* gone mad?

Lyselle didn’t understand.

Most anomalies in Lundeheim now made sense.

All stemmed from one truth: the Matron had gone mad.

But what drove her to madness?

She fell deep in thought.

Then a dazed voice called from behind:

"Mo...ther?"

Lyselle turned. Sylowei had spoken.

The Elves who’d shared the Dream of Continuance were now awake.

All who could fight had gathered here—save the very young fresh from the Nursery Chamber, and the couple who’d birthed Lundeheim’s first newborn.

Most saw their mother for the first time. A few, like Sylowei and Fawena, had met her before.

Every Elf now fixed their gaze on the strange entity floating in the hollow.

Lyselle saw fear, shock, and confusion on their faces—just as she’d expected.

Few would recognize this horror as their mother. Even Lyselle had frozen in disbelief at first sight.

But a child doesn’t shun an ugly mother. However strange the Elven Matron appeared, however incomprehensible her existence...

She remained the mother who birthed all of Lundeheim.

Lyselle hesitated, wondering if she should explain.

Before she could decide, Sylowei pushed past her. The aged Elf staggered toward the Matron, straining to look up at the mountainous form.

Compared to that colossal, twisted body, she was dust. A firefly.

Insignificant.

Yet she asked in a trembling voice:

"Mother... why... why do you look like this now?"

Lyselle froze.

*What?*

Had the Matron not always been like this? What should she have been? What change had Lyselle missed?

Before she could ponder, ripples spread through the hollow.

Everyone—Sorceress and Champion alike—felt a vast consciousness awaken.

From the Dream’s end? Or Sylowei’s call?

No one knew.

But the Elven Matron’s gaze settled on all living things before her.

Gentle. Peaceful.

She looked upon her children. As light rippled anew, her voice echoed in every heart:

"You’ve come..."

Soft, slightly mechanical, yet warm. Even Lyselle felt comforted.

Only maternal tenderness reached her.

As if... as if the Elven Matron had never gone mad. As if she still guarded her children like always.

But that was impossible. If she were sane, why the anomalies in Lundeheim? Why had Mula vanished into the mist?

Another puzzle gripped Lyselle.

The Elves had no such doubts.

All lifted their faces to their Matron.

Fawena. Sylowei. Austen. Strangers whose names and numbers Lyselle didn’t know—they gathered like mourners at a grand funeral.

Silent. Solemn. Grieving.

The hollow sank into heavy quiet.

Until the aged Elf before the Matron broke it:

"Are..." Her voice turned urgent, hopeful. "...you well?"

The Matron seemed puzzled. Everyone felt her confusion.

But it faded quickly. Her tone remained kind as she replied:

"I am well."

"But don’t you feel pain?"

"Pain..." The Matron sounded lost. "Why would I... feel pain?"

Sylowei shuddered.

She looked away, eyes downcast. In that moment, she aged decades.

"You’re mad."

The old Elf whispered it.

The Matron heard.

But she still didn’t understand.

Roles reversed: Sylowei became the mother, the Matron a child clinging to fantasies.

The child believed in giants of light, in Masked Riders who’d save the world. The mother said they were lies. Beautiful lies.

The child refused to believe.

So the Matron echoed, bewildered:

"I... am mad?"

"Yes. You’re mad." Sylowei’s voice grew hoarse. "Don’t you know?"

She lifted her head to her mother:

"You birthed those deformed abominations in the Nursery Chamber."

"You created the mist shrouding all of Lundeheim."

"You made countless Elves vanish without trace."

"Mother..." Her voice turned bitter. "All this time... you never noticed?"

The Matron seemed to finally grasp Sylowei’s words.

But she only fell silent.

Amid a soft hum, under her children’s stares, after a stretch of time both endless and fleeting—

Like a dreamer murmuring, the vast will here repeated her earlier answer:

"I am well."

"All is normal."

"They are all... safe under my protection."

Her voice echoed through the hollow. Tender. Chilling.

She seemed desperate to prove something.

So she repeated those three lines endlessly,

until Sylowei told her:

"But do you know? Your children... fear you now."

The Matron stopped abruptly.

Light along her root-tendrils flickered erratically. The hum swelled into a strained whine—like an overloaded machine. After a long pause, she asked in stiff, mechanical tones:

"...Why?"

"Because of how you look now."

"My... appearance..." The Matron murmured to herself, confused. "What’s wrong... with my appearance..."

She needed to know why her children feared her. Needed to see what she’d become.

So after years, she opened her eyes again.

Every lantern the Elves had brought—extinguished in the mist—suddenly reignited.

The final layer of dream dissolved.

The Matron revealed her true form.

Twisted armor. Shattered shield emitters. The hardened hull remained—but the lush plants were gone. Replaced by flesh.

—Grotesque, warped flesh. Oozing like mud. Embedded with countless eyes, mangled limbs, tentacles, and matted hair.

The gentle light vanished...

Darkness and mist swallowed everything once more.

[To Be Continued]

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