They return a while later, and with only one seed.
The owl was waiting.
It does not greet them, barely even acknowledging.. It simply turns its head as they step into the clearing, golden eyes reflecting a light that does not belong to the forest. Pluto feels it before, he understands it — a pressure, faint but deliberate, as though the space around the creature is denser. It was unnervingly similar to the presence he had earlier felt. But it wasn't the same one.
Mira drops the single battle seed at the owl's talons.
"For information," she said firmly.
The owl looks at the seed, then at them.
"Measured growth," it murmurs. "Measured payment."
It swallows the seed whole.
The change is small — but undeniable. Its body expands slightly beneath its feathers, wings settling heavier against its sides. The feathers around its neck darken by a shade. The air tightens.
Pluto's breath slows. Fear sipped into his muscles as the air's density increased.
He notices something else.
The owl is not surprised to see them.
Not curious.
Not cautious.
It speaks as if this meeting has already happened more times than it should have.
"You wish to know about the shift," the owl says.
Neither of them had spoken yet.
Mira's fingers tighten around her log. "The regions."
The owl's gaze slides to her weapon briefly — and Pluto feels something cold in that look. Something deeper than hate.
He feels familiarity.
"Regions are not places," it says softly. "They are results."
It explains without explaining.
"As entrants die, the forest rearranges. Paths thin. Distance compresses. Creatures change. When enough blood sinks into the roots, the forest does not remain forest.
It metamorphoses."
"Into what?" Mira pressed.
The owl's beak curves faintly into what resembles a smile. "Into what it was always meant to be."
Pluto studies it carefully now. Its heat is wrong. Larger than its body suggests. Layered. There is a second warmth behind the first, deeper and slower.
The owl tilts its head toward him.
"You feel more clearly now."
It is not a question. A simple fact.
He stiffens. He shivers.
They have only met twice.
Twice.
But the certainty in its tone makes it feel like more. Like something has been looping, tightening, rehearsed.
His gaze drifts briefly to Mira.
She rests her hand against the log and calls the sharpening force without thinking.
It answers, delayed but deliberate. Cleaner than before. Pluto's mind shakes at the sight, it emanated a sense of stark wrongness, and weirdly enough, in a borrowed way. Eager.
Too eager.
A thin chill runs through him.
That power had surged the first time under stress.
Now it responds like it belongs to something else.
Like it was lent.
The owl watches Mira's log split the bark of a nearby tree with forced precision.
"A useful refinement," it says mildly. It says knowledgeably.
Pluto feels the eel tighten faintly along his ribs.
He says nothing.
He does not share the thought forming in him — that perhaps their growth is not entirely their own.
They ask again about the regions.
The owl refuses detail.
"When half have fallen, boundaries will emerge. When more fall, the forest will shed its skin. You will not need directions. The change will find you."
It leans closer, eyes bright.
"Grow carefully."
The warning sounds like amusement.
They leave with less than they hoped for and more than they wanted.
Pluto does not look back — but he feels the owl's gaze between his shoulder blades until the trees swallow them.
High above, something dark shifts in the owl's shadow, stretching longer than its body.
***
Elsewhere, the remaining two from the trio find the clearing without hesitation.
They do not ask as many questions.
They bring one seed, then another.
The owl eats both.
It grows again — slightly broader, voice deeper, less disguised.
The woman watches it carefully. "More death makes it stronger."
"More death makes everything stronger," the owl replies smoothly in a cunning tone.
They do not hesitate.
They strike a similar bargain and leave with no visible doubt.
Their next hunt is quick.
A lone entrant, unprepared.
The man from the duo drives him to the ground; the woman's sharpened log pierces cleanly. The seed forms. They absorb it without ceremony.
Stronger.
Faster.
Confident.
...Then the air splits. Space distorts briefly.
The world shifts in a blink.
A figure appears three steps away — then vanishes.
Reappears behind them.
A strike lands before either can turn fully.
Short bursts.
Precise.
The entrant is young, calm, eyes focused — moving in violent fragments of space. Each jump covers only a few meters, but it is enough. Enough to disorient. Enough to wound.
The trio's woman swings — her sharpened log slicing through empty air as the figure blinks aside.
The man barely blocks a blow.
They realize quickly.
This one is ahead.
Absorbed too many. Or something else entirely. It was either knowledge or power.
Another flash — the attacker appears close enough to whisper breath across the woman's ear before striking again.
They retreat.
Not disorderly.
But decisively.
For the first time since arriving, they run.
The teleporter does not pursue far. He watches them disappear, then vanishes again in a short, controlled burst.
Silence settles.
***
Far away, Pluto pauses mid-step.
He does not know why.
But for a moment, the heat patterns in the forest ripple — as if space itself had been disturbed.
And high in the canopy, unseen, the owl closes its eyes.
Growing. Watching. Waiting.