Deep underground, jars of black liquid burn with impossible blue fire. Spider-limbed bronze guardians stir to life, and the buried hall pulses like a heartbeat older than time itself. Its power seeps into the world above, through myths, whispers, and flickers of flame, awakening anyone curious enough to feel Tartarius stirring again.

***I highly recommend you watch episode 1 and 2 first

Part 1 is season 2 episode 8

part 2 is season 2 episode 9

Deep underground, jars of black liquid burn with impossible blue fire. Spider-limbed bronze guardians stir to life, and the buried hall pulses like a heartbeat older than time itself. Its power seeps into the world above, through myths, whispers, and flickers of flame, awakening anyone curious enough to feel Tartarius stirring again.

***I recommend you listen to part 1 first (season 2 episode 8)

Deep underground, jars of black liquid burn with impossible blue fire. Spider-limbed bronze guardians stir to life, and the buried hall pulses like a heartbeat older than time itself. Its power seeps into the world above, through myths, whispers, and flickers of flame, awakening anyone curious enough to feel Tartarius stirring again.

Part 1

The jungle does not forget. Not the blood soaked into its roots. Not the glyphs carved into its limestone bones. Not the heartbeat of those who once danced in the rhythm of the cosmos.

Before the world was bound by borders and laws, there existed a realm stitched between breaths known only as Valewood. In this liminal forest, where light bent in strange angles and rivers whispered names no map had marked, a child was born during the final eclipse of the age

There are forests that move, not by wind, but by will, and in one such forest, deep in the moss-choked folds of Nightroot Vale, a girl disappeared.

The sea did not rage for her, it called. Not like thunder, but like a heartbeat, steady, deep, and as old as the bones of the earth.

Before Hollifern was a forest, it was a hum, low, constant, like breath. No one remembered when the bees first came. No one remembered when the woods first whispered. But some said it all began with two sisters and a cart full of hives. Their names were Maeve and Lynne

It began, not with thunder or fate, but with a wounded moth and a boy who refused to crush it. His name was Emery, son of a blacksmith, born where a forest meets fog in the village of Wexlin. He wasn't remarkable by any tale's beginning. Quiet, slight, all elbows in curiosity. He had never seen magic, he had never believed in fairies, until the day he met one.

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They told her she was found near the old church steps, barefoot, soaked, and humming a lullaby no one recognized. No name, no memory, only a note pinned to her collar

-Bring her to the water-