The forest spirits had waited a hundred years for the child who would end their war, and that child could not lift its own head. Bailey Sunfield lay in a nest of moss, six months old, blonde hair damp with dew. The prophecy named this baby the one to unite the warring woodland spirits. But Bailey could only kick, drool, and cry. A circle of glowing spirits hovered above the nest. They were made of light and leaf. One flickered angrily, its voice like wind through reeds. "This is the savior? It cannot even speak. It cannot promise peace. We are wasting our time." The others murmured and began to drift apart. The war would go on. No spirit would follow a helpless infant. Bailey wailed. The sound scattered the spirits further. They had come expecting a leader. They found a baby. Then the ground shifted beneath the moss. A great tortoise rose from the nearby water, older than the trees. Ancient marks glowed across its broad shell. It had guarded Bailey since birth, silent until now. It planted its heavy feet and lowered its head beside the crying child. The spirits froze. Even the angry one dimmed. They knew this creature. Its shell carried the oldest writing in the realm, older than the prophecy itself. Bailey stopped crying. The baby reached out one small hand and pressed it against the shell. The glowing marks brightened under Bailey's palm. Light spilled across the moss. The symbols shifted and rearranged themselves into a shape every spirit recognized: the sign of the promised child. The angry spirit drew close. "The old shell answers to it," it whispered. "The mark chooses the child." It could not argue with the tortoise. No spirit could. The creature had witnessed the first war and every one after. One by one, the spirits sank back down. They bowed their light toward the nest. "We will wait," said the angry one, though it did not sound glad. "We will wait for the child to grow. The tortoise has spoken for it, and the tortoise does not lie." Bailey gurgled and patted the shell again, understanding none of it. The spirits scattered into the trees, carrying the news. By morning, every corner of the woodland would know the truth. The prophesied child was real. The old guardian had confirmed it. But the spirits had only agreed to wait. They had not agreed to peace. Two factions still hated each other, and now both wanted the same thing: to raise the child their own way, to shape the savior before the other side could. The tortoise had bought Bailey belief. It had also made Bailey a prize. The great creature settled around the nest, shielding the baby with its body. Somewhere in the dark trees, both warring sides were already turning back. They were coming for the child. And Bailey slept.