What were the odds that Elvie would come to another world on the cusp of devastation? On the brink of war, just as her own had been. Was it fate that brought her toward another plane of existence, one that called for saving, when she had not been able to save her own? Was it punishment?

Perhaps she would never know.

Maybe it would never have mattered in the end.

The dream visitor’s words were sobering in her ears, and she stared at the choice laid out in front of her. Door one, two, and three; each calling out to her with promises and hope that she wished to deliver. She would have to try to save one of them, did she not?

And though her heart ached at the thought of a wolf, a soul, trapped in the chains of a world that wished to tear him apart—she could not shake the feeling of pain and sorrow that engulfed her spirit at the thought of a tree—of nature—dying.

The choice, in the end, was easy.

She moved through door two with certainty, with grit, and with determination to rid the wraiths that wished to tear root from soil. Even at the cost of her own body and spirit. She could not stand by and watch a piece of nature—balanced and healing—be torn apart by the epitome of death and destruction.

Elvie wasted no time in surging forward, a snarl atop her lips as her teeth—glistening ivory in the pulsing magic that wept from this Tree of Life—as she aimed for one of the ghostly apparitions that clawed and bit at its roots.

She bulleted toward it.

A scream—a cry—on the cusp of her lips as she aimed to sink teeth into flesh (or whatever sludge these beings were created from).