The trees of Mistveil stood silent. Their roots gripped the land like the last of the old world, as if the very forest knew something was wrong.

  King Ithilien Alastrassa stood upon the cliff’s edge, staring out over the valley below, the southern winds biting at his face. His silver hair, braided and bound in intricate elven fashion, caught the first rays of dawn. Beside him, his daughter Anarór?, captain of the Mistveil Scouts, adjusted her armor, the quiet clink of her sabers cutting through the stillness.

  Ióm?, the prince, stood in the background, his hand held out before him, drawing runes in the air. A soft hum of mana vibrated around him. His powers, immense, a blessing of his lineage—yet even now, the weight of the land seemed too great for him. The land whispered of something coming.

  “Father,” Anarór? said in a hushed tone, “they’re coming.”

  There was no sign. No scream. No warhorn or drumbeat. The forest remained unnaturally still as mist crept along the ground. The wind had stopped as if holding its breath. Then, with a crack of breaking brush and a sharp whistling sound, the first strike came.

  A figure moved through the fog—pale as the moon, its features obscured by strange markings. The others followed, shadows with purpose. Warriors. But not men.

  Chamuel, one of Ithilien’s bodyguards and a member of the Seven, stepped forward, his bracers gleaming under the sun, fingers flexing as his eyes scanned the mist. “What are they?” he asked, his voice calm but betraying a tinge of uncertainty. “They’re not like any enemy we’ve faced before.”

  Azrael, as swift as a shadow, was gone in an instant. The air barely shifted where she stood, and she vanished into the trees. Only the heavy drop of a body could be heard as she dropped the first assailant fifty paces from where she was last seen.

  Ithilien focused on the one before him, ready to cut his opponent down with his fabled sword as the mana of Ióm? weaved a complicated ward around him—a shield of shimmering light. Undeterred by the magic, an attack came from his opponent—a blade, an unnatural one, not steel but something darker—sharp enough to cut through the barrier like paper.

  He staggered back, surprised. It wasn’t magic—it was the weapon. The enemy’s weapon. Strangely, its surface seemed to absorb the very light around it. The barrier surrounding him flickered and sputtered as he defeated his enemy with a single swing of his sword.

  “What are they?”

  They were upon them faster than expected. Their movements weren’t quite human—too precise, too coordinated. There were no cries of battle. No shouts for victory. Just the cold determination of a force that didn’t seem to fear anything. Only that unnerving silence, and the chill in the air that followed them.

  Anarór? fought like an animal, her sword and dagger a blur of motion, cutting through one of the pale invaders in a flurry of precision. Yet when the body fell, no blood splattered. Just blue—blue as the sky at twilight. Their blood wasn’t red.

  Ióm?, standing at the rear, clutched at his power, his mana desperately trying to form shields around his family and the two members of the Seven. His power surged through his hands, a radiant light. But when the enemy approached—when one of the figures drew near—his magic sputtered and cracked. A wave of uncertainty rolled through him. He couldn’t make sense of what was happening.

  “They’re not of this world,” Ithilien muttered under his breath as he called forth his illusions once more, creating a vortex of blinding light that enveloped their attackers. His magic, linked to the very fabric of this land, seemed to affect them less than he’d expected.

  Anarór?, standing over one of the fallen invaders, wiped her blade clean. “We’ve never fought anything like this before,” she said, looking to her father. “Who are they? What do they want?”

  Ithilien glanced at her, then to Ióm?, who seemed to have exhausted his mana after days of fighting. He didn’t have an answer. These invaders—they were unlike anything he had ever seen. They didn’t even bleed the same.

  “We’re not alone,” Ithilien said, his voice low, more to himself than to anyone else. “And whatever they are, they won’t stop here.”

  ***

  Mistveil Forest, once alive with birdsong and silver-lit canopy, now whispered with the hush of smoke and ash. Where moonlight used to thread gently through the branches, firelight flickered instead, casting long shadows over the wounded, the grieving, and the dead.

  King Ithilien stood at the edge of a shattered glade, his cloak torn at the shoulder, streaks of blood—none his own—dried along the seams of his armor. His crown had long been abandoned in the heat of battle, replaced by a simple silver circlet worn low on his brow. Around him, Chamuel and Azrael stood silently, watchful.

  They had won—for now. But the cost hung heavy.

  Soldiers limped among the makeshift encampment beneath the trees, their armor charred and dented, their spirits dulled by exhaustion. Civilians, huddled near the roots of old trees, whispered prayers not to the gods—but to the silence, as if afraid to stir it.

  Ióm? stood beside his father, wiping blood from his cheek with a stained cloth, trying and failing to hide the tremble in his fingers. Anarór? moved through the survivors like a shadow, checking wounds, offering water, clasping hands too cold from shock.

  “Father,” Ióm? murmured, voice quiet, “how many did we lose?”

  Ithilien didn’t answer at first. His eyes traced the broken arch of a once-grand tree hall, now splintered and sagging.

  “Too many,” he said at last. “And too soon.”

  Azrael approached with a slight nod, her cloak fluttering as she walked like mist over snow. “The scouts have swept the northern pass. No sign of pursuit. But the language those creatures spoke—it is unlike any we’ve recorded.”

  Chamuel added, “We’ve isolated one of the bodies. Its blood is still… blue.”

  Ithilien exhaled sharply through his nose. “They bleed like they don’t belong in this world. And perhaps they don’t.”

  He looked to the tree line—where the once-hidden path toward the old temple glimmered faintly. A place only those of Alastrassa knew how to find.

  Anarór? approached, mud on her boots, hair pulled back, eyes sharp. “Faelar returned. He brings word from the southern realms.”

  “Go on,” Ithilien said, standing straighter.

  Anarór? motioned, and Faelar—stoic and lean, draped in green and bark-toned leathers—stepped forward, a roll of parchment in hand.

  “House Hawthorne holds, for now,” he reported. “But Davenmere… its capital—Brackenfeld—has fallen.”

  Gasps rippled from nearby soldiers. Ithilien’s jaw tensed.

  “Evacuation efforts?” he asked.

  “Disrupted,” Faelar said grimly. “Only a fraction made it to the mountains. The rest—taken or gone missing. There are whispers that these invaders don’t leave the dead behind. They take them.”

  The forest grew colder at those words. Even the trees seemed to hush.

  Chamuel stepped closer to Ithilien, folding his arms. “If they are taking the fallen, they may be harvesting mana. Or worse.”

  Azrael’s voice, soft as steel sliding from a sheath: “We need to know what they’re building. What they’re preparing.”

  Ithilien’s gaze lingered on his daughter—still aiding the wounded. His son, watching him with wide, exhausted eyes. His people were grieving but not broken.

  “We hold Mistveil,” he said. “And we prepare.”

  He turned to his guards. “Send word to the Capital. We need answers. And reinforcements.”

  To Faelar: “Secure the survivors from Brackenfeld. Whatever remains, we bring them home.”

  And then, almost to himself: “Let the forest grieve. But not for long.”

  Ithilien’s gaze lingered on the horizon, his mind racing through the possibilities. What were they? These invaders, these things that bled blue and moved like shadows—what were they doing in Primera? What did they want? Where had they come from? And more importantly, why did they feel all too familiar?

  Ithilien remained still, eyes shut, grief drying like salt on his cheeks.

  The sanctum remained quiet… until the soft sound of footsteps whispered through the mist.

  He didn’t move as Anarór? entered, pausing by the entrance, her silhouette haloed by the pale-blue glow of the runes. She had removed her armor, dressed now in a simple forest cloak, her red-gold hair unbound, falling like flame across her shoulders. Her sharp eyes, so like her mother’s, softened at the sight of him kneeling there, aged not by years—but by weight.

  “I didn’t mean to intrude,” she said quietly.

  He finally turned, not surprised. “You never intrude, daughter.”

  Anarór? stepped closer, her eyes falling briefly on the closed trinket in his palm. She said nothing of it—only knelt beside him, and for a time, they sat in silence, shoulder to shoulder, letting the sanctum hold their shared quiet.

  “I thought I’d lost this in the march south,” Ithilien said as he plucked a small object from his green pouch, his voice tired but warm.

  Anarór? turned, a question in her eyes.

  He held out the bundle.

  She took it, gently unwrapping the cloth. Nestled within lay a small wooden dove, delicately carved, its wings slightly outstretched as if ready to soar. Anarór? blinked, caught between surprise and wonder.

  “You remembered,” she whispered.

  Ithilien gave a faint smile. “I promised you something from beyond the forest. A piece of the world you’ve yet to see.”

  She turned the dove over in her hands. The enchantment within stirred—soft, pulsing, faintly golden. When her fingers closed around it, the magic awoke.

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  A rush of memory—not her own. Laughter from a distant marketplace. Children dancing through puddles in spring rain. Wind sweeping across endless fields. The hum of a bard’s tune at sunset. A hand reaching out, offering a flower.

  Anarór? gasped quietly. Her eyes shimmered with sudden tears.

  “It’s… it’s beautiful,” she breathed. “All those memories. All that joy.”

  Ithilien stepped closer, his expression unreadable.

  “The dove shares visions it’s touched through others,” he said. “A fragment of happiness to carry into the dark. A little gift from Mother Willow to you.”

  Anarór? laughed softly through her tears. “I didn’t think you’d remember, with everything going on.”

  “I didn’t forget,” he said simply. “You’ve given more than most could. You deserved something… true.”

  She held the dove to her chest for a moment, letting the warmth of the memories settle inside her. Then, more quietly:

  “I wish I could see it for myself. The world out there.”

  “You will,” Ithilien replied, his tone firm yet gentle. “When this is over.”

  Anarór? looked down, then to the side.

  “And Godric?” she asked, voice softer still.

  Ithilien’s eyes flickered, not in surprise—but in understanding.

  “He walks a path only he can,” he said. “But I believe it leads back.”

  She nodded once, her expression a mix of longing and resolve.

  “For now, I’ll fight. Not just for Mistveil, or our people—but for that world. For those memories to be made real.”

  Father and daughter stood side by side as the light faded, the weight of war pressing in—but for a moment, softened by hope.

  ***

  The fire had long since dimmed in the hearth, and the once-whispering leaves outside the great hall of Mistveil now stood silent. For the first time in an age, Ithilien allowed himself to rest.

  Sleep came not like a thief, but like an old friend—soft, and sorrowful.

  He dreamed.

  The forest around him was quiet, unreal in its beauty. Shafts of moonlight pierced through silver trees, the air tinged with the scent of memory. There, beneath the singing branches of a grove long forgotten, stood a woman of golden grace. Her hair shimmered like woven starlight, and her eyes—gentle and deep—had not aged a moment.

  “Illyrana...” Ithilien whispered, breath caught in his throat.

  She smiled—not with lips, but with presence. A warmth that wrapped around his weary soul.

  His steps faltered, and then the weight of centuries broke him. The mask fell. He sank to his knees before her, voice cracking with grief.

  “I’m failing them,” he said. “Our people. Our children. You. The world turns to fire and shadow, and I—I've grown brittle in the wind. I’ve no strength left.”

  She knelt beside him, cupping his face with hands that only existed in dreams.

  “You have more strength than any I’ve ever known, my love,” she said softly. “Even now.”

  He shook his head. “I gave it all away. I gave it to them. For them.”

  Illyrana’s gaze softened as memory overtook the dream.

  The grove dissolved, replaced by an ancient sanctum bathed in blue firelight. The two of them, younger then, stood before an altar shaped of root and stone. Her hands trembled as she reached for his. Tears ran freely down her cheeks.

  “I cannot carry them,” she had whispered. “They will die inside me.”

  And so, Ithilien made a choice. His fingers brushed the sacred etching on the altar, and in the tongue of the firstborn, he spoke a vow not meant to be broken. The old gods listened.

  “Let them live. Take what they need. I will become the vessel.”

  The forest howled as something ancient shifted. Power poured into his soul, splitting and reshaping it. From that day forward, he carried what they could not. And when the twins were born, they were radiant—Ióm?, with mana like moonfire, and Anarór?, with the strength of the forest in her limbs.

  But never whole. Because their wholeness lived in him.

  Back in the dream, Illyrana kissed his brow.

  “You gave them what I could not. And still you carry the weight, even when none see it. But Ithilien... now is the time to let them stand. Let them carry you, as you once carried us.”

  His tears came freely now, unashamed.

  “I miss you.”

  “And I am always with you.”

  The dream began to fade, her presence slipping through his fingers like fog. But just before he awoke, she spoke one last time:

  “Don’t fear the fading of your power. The world does not need the king you were. It needs the father you became.”

  The first light of morning spilled gently through the great stone arches of Mistveil, bathing the old elven keep in a golden hue. Dew clung to the leaves outside like breath on glass, and the air was still.

  Ithilien stirred.

  For a moment, he didn’t move—his eyes open but distant, holding onto the echo of her touch, her voice. It was already fading, like the scent of lilies on a dying breeze. But it had been real, as real as anything could be to one who had seen ages come and go.

  He sat up slowly, the weight of the world still on his shoulders, but the sharpness of doubt had dulled. There was still time to falter—but also time to rise.

  Donning a light outer cloak of forest green, he stepped softly into the corridors of Mistveil, the halls echoing with the silence of a home rebuilt under siege.

  He passed by the War Room first—empty for now, maps still spread across the table, marked in charcoal and red pins.

  Outside the archway, the morning bustle of the Elven stronghold was already beginning. Rangers sparred in the training courts. Healers carried supplies. Scouts mounted their silver-horned elk for patrol. There was movement, order, and just beneath it all… tension.

  But his eyes sought only two figures.

  He found them in the garden terrace—his children.

  Ióm? sat cross-legged beneath the shade of a blooming ashwood, eyes closed, threads of mana dancing at his fingertips. He was focused, serious, but not rigid. Progress. Discipline. Pride stirred in Ithilien’s chest.

  And Anarór?—golden-haired and clad in light armor—stood near the balcony edge, watching the treetops, the wind catching her cloak. In her hand, the wooden dove rested, turning gently between her fingers. A smile touched her lips—a rare, gentle smile. She looked… peaceful.

  Ithilien remained where he stood, hidden behind a column of carved ivy stone, not wishing to interrupt. He simply watched, listened.

  For the first time in what felt like an age, he allowed himself a quiet moment to breathe—not as king nor Firstborn, but as a father.

  And in that stillness, he felt something shift.

  The fading of his power no longer felt like a failing.

  It was a passing of the torch.

  He turned and left them undisturbed, his steps lighter than before, even as war loomed on the horizon.

  The clang of hammer against metal echoed through the inner courtyards, sharp and steady. It rang like a heartbeat—constant, alive, familiar.

  Ithilien turned his steps toward the forge.

  Mistveil’s forgemaster, Elmar, stood at the center of the heat, flame, and steel dancing at his will. His arms, corded with age and muscle, bore burn scars and calluses earned over centuries. Sparks leapt around him as he quenched a heated blade into the oil bath, steam hissing and curling into the air like ghostly fingers.

  The young elf didn’t need to look up.

  “I was wondering when you’d come, my lord,” Elmar said, voice deep and gruff but not without warmth. “Didn’t think the king could ignore a forge-song this loud.”

  Ithilien gave a faint smile, stepping beneath the open arch.

  “I don’t ignore it. I’ve simply learned to listen from afar.” He paused, eyes scanning the neatly arrayed racks of spears, the reinforced plating stacked high, the glinting silverleaf arrowheads lined for inspection. “I see you’ve been busy.”

  “Aye,” Elmar grunted, straightening. “Reinforced the northern palisades. Re-tempered half the forest guard’s blades. And your daughter nearly took my arm off yesterday sparring with one of the scouts.”

  “She’s eager,” Ithilien said fondly. “And dangerous.”

  “She reminds me of Godric and before him, Evander, the glint of fire evident in their eyes.”

  A quiet beat passed between them—long and weighted.

  Then Elmar turned, wiping his hands on a cloth. “But tell me, since you’re here—how fares Stargazer?”

  Ithilien looked down for a moment, almost caught off guard by the name. “Still sharp. Still willing.”

  “You haven’t used it in centuries,” Elmar said carefully. “Not truly.”

  “No,” Ithilien replied, voice soft. “But the blade has not dulled. Nor the bond.”

  He crossed the forge slowly, resting a hand on the hilt at his side. The sheath was silver and white, etched with the seal of House Alastrassa—a crescent moon.

  “When I first held it,” he murmured, “I was no more than a boy—if such a word even applies to the Firstborn. It was placed in my hands by a figure I can no longer see clearly. I don’t remember his voice. Only his presence. Like the weight of the stars themselves pressed upon me.”

  “A god?” Elmar asked, eyes narrowing.

  “A fragment of one, perhaps. The old world was full of them then.”

  He drew Stargazer slightly from its sheath. The blade hummed faintly in the forge-light, a whisper of light dancing along the runes near the guard.

  “Elmar,” Ithilien said, looking up, “if it comes to it… will the armory hold?”

  “It’ll hold,” the forgemaster replied with the steel certainty of one who had shaped kingdoms at his anvil. “But even steel can bend. What we’ll need more than weapons… is resolve.”

  “I worry that mine is not what it once was.”

  Elmar grunted again, but his voice was softer this time. “You feel less, my king. Because you carry more.”

  They stood in silence, broken only by the low crackle of the forge. Then Elmar added, “Your children… they are strong. Not just in skill. But in spirit. The world’s changing. That much is clear. But I believe… the forest will endure.”

  Ithilien sheathed the blade again and nodded once.

  “So do I.”

  The great hall of Mistveil was alive with light, dappled gold pouring in through the branches high above, filtered through leaf and vine. It was a sacred place, not because it was carved in ancient stone or sanctified by old rites—but because it felt alive. A place of warmth in the midst of the world’s cold unraveling.

  At the long, curved table of polished wood, Ióm? sat across from Anarór?, laughter in his voice as he retold a moment from their sparring sessions. Chamuel listened with a serene smile, sipping morningroot tea, while Azrael polished the edge of her scythe absentmindedly, her eyes flicking between the siblings with quiet amusement.

  When Ithilien entered, the warmth grew still warmer.

  “Father!” Anarór? stood instantly, her golden hair catching the morning light. “You’re late.”

  “Am I?” Ithilien offered a tired smile as he took the seat at the head of the table. “I was delayed by the forge. Elmar had things to show… and questions to ask.”

  “We have been talking about the Capital,” Ióm? said, voice dropping slightly. “Still no word.”

  “Nothing yet,” Chamuel confirmed. “But knowing Gabby, if there was a true threat, she’d have handled it before ink even touched paper.”

  Azrael hummed. “I have faith in them. If the Royal Guard cannot handle them, Sir Byronard, Raphael, and Gabriel are more than enough.”

  The family ate quietly after that—fruit, nut bread, warm broth from the forest’s deeproots. It was a rare calm, the kind Ithilien longed to freeze in time. Watching Anarór? uncharacteristically tease her brother, Azrael raising a rare smirk at Chamuel’s dry wit—it made him ache, the beauty of it.

  And yet… the ache wasn’t all joy.

  He reached beneath the table, fingers brushing the hilt of Stargazer.

  Still sharp. Still willing.

  Then the doors to the great hall burst open.

  A ranger—dirt-smeared, wind-cut, breathing hard—stood at the entrance, bow slung across his back.

  “My lords. My ladies,” he bowed quickly. “Urgent news from the Capital. A runner crossed the Stormspine before dawn.”

  Everyone turned to him.

  “The Capital stands,” he continued. “A siege began without warning. But Sir Byronard, the remaining members of the Seven, and the Royal Guard held fast. All the heads of the Great Houses are accounted for. The city endures.”

  A ripple of relief spread through the table. Ióm? let out a breath. Anarór? grinned, closing her eyes briefly in thanks.

  But the ranger wasn’t finished.

  “They… they also captured the leader of the attack.”

  Ithilien’s eyes narrowed.

  “A woman. fair-skinned and beautiful but covered in black markings. She calls herself… Lilith.”

  The name hung there.

  Azrael sat forward. Chamuel’s eyes turned flinty.

  Ióm? blinked. “Finally, we now have an edge over the enemy.”

  But Ithilien didn’t hear them.

  He was no longer at the table. Not truly. His mind was adrift—in old visions, in whispers of the past that had refused to die.

  He didn’t speak right away.

  And when he did, it was barely a whisper, meant for no one but the ghosts that walked beside him.

  “I know that name.”