The mist floated through the trees like a pale ghost as the aftermath of the battle was shrouded in an unsettling silence. The ashes from the fallen undead danced in the air, melting as they touched the mossy ground. The young elf lowered his bow, though his stance remained cautious—like a wolf deciding whether the figure before him was a wounded victim or a threat in disguise.
The boy knelt, one hand gripping the ground, the other clutching the throbbing wound in his ribs. His breathing was shallow and uneven. The radiant power that had burst from him moments earlier was fading, leaving a weariness that seeped deep into his bones.
The elf approached cautiously, each step as light as a falling leaf. "Stand up," he said again, though his voice—still firm—had softened slightly. "If you stay here bleeding, the forest will finish what the undead can't."
He tried to stand. His legs shook violently and nearly broke. He caught her again—this time without hesitation.
"You're heavier than you look," she whispered, wrapping her arm around his shoulder.
"I'm sorry..." she whispered, embarrassed.
"I didn't mean to be mean."
They stood there for a moment, the forest humming around them. Then, with relief, she put her arm around the man and began to guide him through the plants.
The Whispering Forest
They moved slowly under the ancient branches, the path winding like a snake through thick ferns and shimmering mushrooms. The sun's rays filtered through cracks in the canopy, illuminating floating grains of golden dust.
"Where are we going?" the boy asked softly.
"To my village. Close enough—but not close enough to make you faint again." He tightened his grip on her as she stumbled. "You're bleeding too much. If the smell attracts a vagrant or a night warg, I'll have to—"
SHe stopped.
"What?" he asked.
"I'll carry you," she sighed. "Which I'd rather not do."
he laughed softly. He pretended not to hear her.
They continued deeper into the woods. The trees murmured with every step, their voices hitting the boy's consciousness. Strands of incomprehensible syllables crisscrossed like a lullaby he could barely remember.
He winced. "The forest… does it speak?"
"Of course," the elf replied, as if it were obvious. "The Whispering Woods have spoken since the First Dawn. But only elves and a few ancient creatures understand its language."
"But I... I can hear something."
She paused, turning to study him closely. Her eyes were narrowed with curiosity rather than suspicion this time.
"People can't hear the forest," she whispered. "Not even wizards. You're... strange."
"I hope not," He replied weakly.
There had been something flickering in her expression before—maybe sympathy—but it was gone.
"We'll talk about this later," she said quickly. "For now, tell me what you remember."
he hesitated. "Flashes. Fire. A hall... collapsing. Screams. A woman calling my name... but I couldn't hear it clearly. There was a bright light. A falling crown. That was it."
The elf was stunned.
"It wasn't just that, human. Those visions... weren't ordinary memories."
"It felt like a nightmare."
"No." His eyes flashed with emotion she couldn't fathom. "It feels like a tragedy."
The Elf Hunter
After walking in silence for a moment, she spoke again.
"My name is Lira Aerendyl."
He repeated the name softly. "Lyra..."
"Don't get too comfortable," she said sharply, even as a faint color touched her cheeks. "I still can't decide if bringing you to our village was wise."
"Then... why would you help me?"
Lira's footsteps didn't stop, but she took a slow breath before answering.
"Because the undead have entered sacred territory. Because you carry a symbol that should no longer exist. Because your magic..." She glanced at him. "Your magic is like the sun itself. The forest answered you."
"And that makes sense?"
"In our lands, everything has meaning." His tone became serious. "The undead are not just vagrants. They serve a force older than the human kingdoms. If they are coming for you—an amnesiac boy lying in the woods—then you are important... or dangerous."
"I don't want to be either."
"It's too late," she whispered.
They reached a fallen tree that bridged a narrow stream. Lira stepped lightly upon it, guiding her across with surprising gentleness. The water beneath them glowed with an unnatural blue light.
"What is it?" the boy asked.
"Moonwater. Infused with elven magic. Stop here and it will heal you..." She paused. "Or burn you."
he paled. "Why?"
"Because the river senses truth. If you have corruption or dark intentions, the water responds."
"And I crossed it unharmed."
This time, Lira didn't hide her reaction.
"Yes," she admitted. "Which deepens the mystery of who—or what—you are."
The Crest
They soon entered a clearing filled with silver lilies. Lira finally stopped to catch her breath. She carefully laid him down against the trunk of a moss-covered tree.
"Look at the wound," he said.
She hesitated but nodded. She lifted her torn dress, revealing a cut, red and swollen. But her attention went down—up.
It shimmered slightly again.
She touched her fingers to it. Her eyes widened.
"This... this can't be real."
"What is this?" he whispered.
"This crest belongs to the royal line of Dorotheou."
The air seemed to have broken.
"Dorotheou..." he repeated, the name sending shivers down his spine. "Is that a kingdom?"
"It is," Lira said softly. "Before it fell."
"Fall?" His pulse quickened. "How?"
"No one knows. It disappeared from the world in a single night. Not conquered... not destroyed... just gone."
A chill swept over them both.
Lira stood up and extended her hand to him.
"We need to reach my village before sunset. The elders will know more." Her voice softened. "And maybe... they will know who you really are."
She took his hand.
For the first time since waking up, a glimmer of hope flashed through him—fragile but true.
He didn't know how deep the truth would penetrate.