He was in a jungle, aimlessly wandering through hosanna bushes, ducking under vines, and stepping over long, gnarled roots from Gemora trees. Insects buzzed his ear, birds chirped, and monkeys howled. Being surrounded by nature provided the comfort he never found in anything else. People were too loud and destructive; trees were reserved and resilient. Silent watchers. Protectors. Guardians.

Long had Tegen wished he possessed the strength and reliability of the trees. They could be counted on, could provide shelter until old age made their roots weak or natural elements, like lightning, wind, or water, tore them down.

Alas, he could only dream. He had the strength and willpower of a hosanna bush—one easily pushed over and too frail to regain stature.

His tribesmen had exposed his folly in believing such a dream. As a youngling, Tegen received ridicule for not relishing warrior training. Maturity brought no relief. He was not seen as a warrior; he was not capable—he was a disgrace to the Kemiji race. The warriors included him on missions in hopes that he would be killed.

Then came that horrid day ending with his exile...

Tegen shut his eyes against the memory: Xomati slaughtered... his blood running down his face...

In ways Tegen could not have expected, his banishment was a blessing—it gave him freedom. He traveled as he pleased, visiting libraries throughout Ethea, learning more of its forgotten histories and lore. How he found such pleasures in pages!

But no matter his contentment in libraries, he was always drawn back to the jungles hiding Estys, longing to be back with his kind. The peoples of Ethea saw him only skin-deep—they viewed him as a dangerous Kemiji; his people did not. They viewed him as less than a Kemiji.

He allowed a heavy sigh as he remembered his tribe, then cleared his mind to refocus on the jungle. No enjoyment came from dwelling on the past.

A beautiful scarlet macaw caught his attention as it stopped on a branch and looked down at him. Since he had always been in tune with nature and had its trust, Tegen understood its focus: it wanted to lead him somewhere.

So, he nodded in acknowledgment and gestured for it to lead on. It turned around and launched into the air, a striking plumage of bright red, blue, and yellow against the canopy backdrop of lush emerald—impossible to lose. He followed his guide through the jungle; the bird flew just ahead of him, in no hurry and never checking back on its follower.

Tegen walked behind the bird on its invisible path for a few minutes before he smelled burning firewood. Up ahead, he could make out the curved shapes of huts and their thatched roofs of dried hosanna leaves. The scarlet macaw slipped through the outlying trees, but recognition stopped him at the edge of the village. Estys.

He was home.

But that was not right. The Elders had banished him for refusing to kill the rival chief's infant son when they raided their camp. He could not murder an innocent baby—he paired it with slaughtering a deer for fun instead of necessity: there was absolutely no reason for it. So, his fellow tribesmen butchered the poor boy in front of him, smeared his blood over his face, and once they returned, the Elders marked him as a traitor and ordered him never to step foot in Estys again. He had not been back in six years.

He should not be here. If seen, he would be killed without a second thought. Even though no Kemiji walked around, he could not risk going in. The red bird landed on the top of a hut—the chief's home—and looked back at him. It waited for him to overcome his fear of disobeying his tribe's law and breaching the boundaries.

Tegen took a heavy breath, let it out, and forced his legs to move. They did not respond. He tried again: a foot lifted but dropped to the ground before crossing the village line. He was too scared to cross over; he could not break the rules. Looking up at the bird, he shook his head.

Like the unnatural ability birds had, the scarlet macaw cocked its head to the side as it observed him.

Where is your strength? it asked in his head.

"I never had it," he answered in a whisper, worried his tribe would hear and come kill him.

Wrong. It is here; come reclaim it.

Tegen shook his head. "I cannot do that."

You must; the world needs your steadfastness or it will disintegrate.

Just like when Fangril attacked the beaches of Lausane, Estys practically exploded—sturdy huts were blown off their foundations; the enormous Gemora trees were uprooted; things like tanning racks to hay with stuck spears disintegrated. Unlike then, bolts of lightning streaked unnaturally through the village instead of vertically striking from the sky, leaving fires in its wake. An earthquake shook the ground, destroying even more homes as trees toppled into them. The ground split apart and opened, swallowing everything it could into its black gaping maw.

The crack raced toward him; he lost his footing as the ground broke apart under him. Tegen tried to jump to grab on to a tree branch above him, but the dirt under his feet disappeared. He fell into the blackness, seeing the scarlet macaw turn its head and fly away.

Tegen snapped out of the nightmare. No, it was not a nightmare; it was a vision—one that would come to pass if he did not go back to Estys, facing death.

He was the second chosen to become a true Elemental.