The grove was timeless, untouched by the chaos of the outside world. Encased in mist and forgotten by time, it thrummed faintly with the energy of its purpose—a duty bestowed ages ago. Victini hovered near the Mind Plate at the heart of the shrine, her tiny hands resting on the cool volcanic stone. The artifact glimmered faintly, its psychic resonance palpable even after centuries.

  Victini's flames burned low as she drifted toward Armarouge, her ever-silent companion and sentinel of the shrine. The crimson warrior stood motionless near the edge of the grove, its golden plume catching the faint emberlight. Armarouge had always been her anchor, steady and vigilant, even when her own resolve faltered.

  "This place feels heavier every year," Victini murmured, her voice soft but laden with weariness. "How long has it been, Armarouge? Decades? Centuries?" She gave a rueful laugh. "I've lost count."

  Armarouge didn’t respond, of course. It never did. But Victini liked to pretend it was listening.

  The memory of that day remained vivid. Victini had been soaring high above Virelia, delighting in the warmth of the sun and the freedom of open skies, when Arceus’ voice had reached her. It wasn’t a summons—not in the traditional sense. No booming command, no celestial display. It was a pulse. A resonance that vibrated deep in her core, guiding her to the shrine.

  When she arrived, the Mind Plate had been waiting. Its radiant energy was mesmerizing, and yet it felt impossibly heavy in her small hands. Arceus’ presence had filled the grove then, vast and incomprehensible.

  "Victini," Arceus had said, its voice a perfect harmony of power and serenity, "you are entrusted with the Mind Plate. This fragment of my essence must remain here until one worthy of its power appears."

  Victini had puffed out her chest, her frame glowing with pride. "You can count on me, Creator! I'll guard it with everything I've got!"

  Arceus' gaze—or what felt like it—settled on her. "This is not merely a duty of defense, my child. It is a vigil. The one who comes will not be chosen by strength alone but by something greater. Your task is to wait."

  Her flames had dimmed slightly at the solemnity of those words. "Wait for how long?"

  "As long as it takes."

  And then Arceus was gone. Leaving her alone. With the plate. And a purpose she could not yet understand.

  She was so full of hope in those early years. She explored the grove during the day, watched stars at night, and every time the mist stirred she dared to believe someone was coming. Someone worthy. Someone chosen.

  But no one came.

  The path never revealed itself. The mist remained unbroken.

  She tried to stay upbeat. Crafted games with Armarouge. Hummed to herself as seasons blurred. But slowly, surely, her fire dimmed. The world beyond the grove changed—war swept through Virelia. Cities fell. Soldiers marched. She felt it in the wind. Heard it in distant cries.

  One night, during the Great Pokémon War, a platoon passed near the grove. Victini watched, heart clenched, as wounded humans and Pokémon alike limped past the edge of her sanctuary. Some glanced in her direction. One man even paused, staring straight at the invisible path—as if he could feel it. But he turned away. None were chosen.

  "Why not them?" she whispered. "Why not the ones who need it most?"

  Her frustration boiled over. She pleaded with Armarouge to act. To break the oath. To intervene.

  "We have power! We could help!"

  But Armarouge stood, unmoving. Unyielding. Its golden eyes never wavered from the shrine.

  In a fit of rage, Victini had burst into flames, igniting the grove in a flash of defiance. But the mist swallowed her cries. And the grove remained unchanged.

  Time blurred. Her hope faded. She began to doubt. Was she still the right one for this task? Had Arceus made a mistake?

  Then—a shift.

  She felt it in her very bones.

  The mist stirred.

  The path opened.

  Her flames flared wildly.

  "It’s happening," she whispered, trembling. "It’s really happening."

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Two figures stepped into the grove: a boy with bright eyes and a goofy grin. And a girl—frazzled, sarcastic, tension written across her face like ink on parchment. The Azurill at her side squeaked cheerfully, hopping close as the girl muttered curses under her breath.

  The girl trudged forward, grumbling something about fog and ‘legendary bullshit.’ Her Azurill bounced beside her. The boy followed, notebook in hand, all bright-eyed wonder and messy optimism.

  Victini stared, her wings dropping slightly. “This can’t be right.”

  She darted toward Armarouge. “You see it too, right? There’s nothing. No spark. No echo. No anything. She’s just…” She paused. “She’s just a girl.”

  Normal. Completely, painfully normal.

  Just like everyone else who had walked by during the war.

  Just like the ones who had suffered and died.

  Just like her.

  And yet the Plate responded.

  As Isabelle stepped closer, the embers stirred.

  “No,” Victini whispered. “Not her. Not like this. She doesn’t even feel it.”

  But the Mind Plate began to glow—responding not to power, not to strength, but to something else entirely.

  She watched in stunned disbelief as the girl knelt by her Azurill, comforted it with a gentle hand, then faced the shrine. Her sarcasm faded into something quieter. Something more uncertain. But real.

  And then it happened.

  The wild Pokémon stirred. Numel. Slugma. Pineco. They weren’t attacking—they were testing. Guardians of the grove, drawn by the Plate’s resonance.

  Victini could feel it from where she hovered, unseen and intangible: the girl’s anxiety, sharp and ragged… and her courage. Small, uncertain, but stubbornly present.

  “Why her?” Victini whispered. “She’s scared. She’s angry. She’s not ready…”

  But still, she watched as the girl fought—fumbling, flustered, but never backing down. The boy with her never stopped encouraging her. Together, they pushed through the trial, not with overwhelming power, but with trust, and heart, and the refusal to give up.

  And Armarouge… he approved.

  The battle ceased. The shrine glowed. And then, the voice returned.

  “One of my worthy ones has come.”

  Victini’s heart thudded.

  “No,” she said, quieter this time. “But… why?”

  She tried to reach for the Plate—tried to stop it—but her form rippled, pulled away from the grove as if the world was done with her now. The connection severed. She hovered in a liminal space, unseen, unheard. Powerless.

  Armarouge stepped forward.

  Presented the Plate.

  And gave it to her.

  Victini watched, dumbstruck and spiritually offended, as the girl—this sarcastic, barely coordinated goblin in a hoodie—scooped up the Mind Plate like it was some random discount paperweight she found at a yard sale, complete with the reverence of someone trying to decide if it was a coaster or cursed.

  The Plate hummed in the girl’s hands, and Victini felt the world shift.

  Not just in space.

  But in reality.

  The grove collapsed like a folded painting. The mist swallowed the shrine whole, and Isabelle and Collin were no longer in the clearing.

  They stood in Hot Springs Pass, bewildered.

  Victini hovered in the nothing-space between, eyes wide. Her connection to the grove, once vibrant, had faded. Broken. Reassigned.

  The Plate had moved on.

  She wasn’t its guardian anymore.

  She watched as Isabelle, still clutching the Plate, muttered sarcastic complaints while storming ahead. The boy chuckled behind her. Rotom buzzed with static and confusion.

  The girl didn’t understand.

  Not yet.

  From her detached space, Victini floated in stunned silence.

  “She doesn’t even know what it is,” she muttered. “No legacy. No prophecy. No holy spark.”

  Her flames flared slightly. “What, did Arceus pick her out of a raffle?”

  There was no answer. Not this time. Not even the echo of a voice.

  Just the sensation—the gentle, pulsing pressure of a will pushing her onward.

  Her duty here was over.

  She wasn’t needed anymore.

  But her instincts, honed through centuries of isolation, twitched sharply.

  The Plate had moved, but the story hadn’t finished.

  There was something hidden in the girl. Something beneath what Victini could sense. Some strange, deep current that eluded even the Plate’s guardian. Not psychic. Not divine.

  She hovered in stillness for a long while.

  Then:

  “…Fine. Whatever. I’m done guarding magic dinnerware.”

  She turned her back to the grove, flames rising brighter. She felt something guiding her now—not words, not vision. Just the faint tug of will.

  A direction.

  A purpose.

  A path.

  “Yay. Mysterious divine nudges and zero explanations,” she muttered dryly. “This is definitely not a recipe for another existential crisis.”

  With one last glance toward the vanished grove—and the girl who now unknowingly carried a fragment of creation—Victini vanished into the mist, whispering softly:

  “I’ll see you again, Isabelle. Whether you like it or not.”