The suns of Aethelgard were dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of violet and burnt orange. The village of Silverleaf was winding down.
As Elara walked down the main thoroughfare, the metallic-wood houses began to hum, their walls glowing with a soft, ambient amber light to ward off the encroaching dark. The air smelled of roasting nuts and pine smoke.
Her arrival did not go unnoticed.
Sylvarians paused in their evening chores. A group of women weaving baskets by a communal fire stopped their chatter, their eyes darting to the bundle in Elara's arms. A blacksmith cooled his hammer, watching her pass. They didn't speak to her, but the whispers trailed behind her like a gust of wind.
"A child? But Rian is already born..." "Look at the cloth... that is not Sylvarian weave." "Is she mad? The forest at this hour?"
Elara kept her head high, clutching the basket tighter, shielding the sleeping infant from the prying eyes. She turned off the main road, walking up a winding stone path toward a sturdy house that sat near the edge of the village. Like the others, it was grown from the copper-colored wood, but it looked stronger, reinforced with thick vines.
Before she could reach the door, it swung open.
A man stepped out, wiping grease from his hands with a rag. This was Thorne. He was a mountain of a Sylvarian, broader in the shoulders than most, with arms that looked like they could wrestle a bear and win. His hair was tied back in a messy knot, and his eyes, usually sharp, softened instantly when he saw her.
"Elara," he breathed, stepping forward. "You were gone too long. I was about to—"
He stopped. His gaze dropped to the basket.
The silence that followed was heavy. The infant, exhausted from the cosmic journey and the forest air, blinked sleepily, looking up at the towering figure. Thorne looked at the baby, then at his wife, his brow furrowing in deep lines of worry.
"The forest?" Thorne asked, his voice a low rumble.
"The roots of the Elder Oak," Elara replied quietly. "He was alone, Thorne. Abandoned."
Thorne looked around nervously, checking if the neighbors were watching. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. He spoke of food shortages, of the strict village laws regarding outsiders, and the danger of keeping a child with no lineage.
The baby didn't understand the words. To him, it was just a low, vibrating sound, like distant thunder. He felt the tension in Elara's arms, the fear in the man's scent.
But Elara didn't flinch. She simply looked at her husband, her eyes pleading but firm.
Thorne looked at the boy again. He saw the pale skin, the strange, dark eyes, and the helpless way the boy's tiny hand gripped the edge of the blanket. The tension in the big man's shoulders slowly drained away.
He let out a long, defeated sigh—a sound that shook his chest.
"You have a heart too big for this world, woman," Thorne grumbled, though there was no heat in it.
He reached out a massive, calloused hand. The baby flinched, but Thorne was surprisingly gentle. He patted the boy's head, his rough palm covering the entire skull.
"Welcome home, little burden," he muttered.
The inside of the house was warm, lit by floating crystals that drifted near the ceiling.
They moved into the nursery. In the center of the room lay a woven crib made of golden vines. Inside, another baby was sound asleep—Rian, their biological son. He had the same healthy, sun-kissed skin as his father.
Elara gently lifted the white-skinned boy from the basket. He was barely keeping his eyes open now. She placed him in the crib, right beside Rian.
The contrast was striking. Rian was golden and warm; the new boy was pale as moonlight and cool to the touch. Rian shifted in his sleep, throwing an arm out. His hand landed on the new boy's chest. The new boy didn't cry; he simply leaned into the warmth, closing his eyes.
Elara stood over the crib, her hand slipping into Thorne's.
"Look at them," she whispered, a smile touching her lips. "They fit together, don't they?"
Thorne watched the two boys—one born of their blood, one born of the stars—sleeping side by side. A small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Aye," Thorne nodded. "Let us hope the world thinks so too."
Silverleaf was not merely a village; it was a fortress of solitude in an unforgiving wilderness. Founded three generations ago by Thorne's grandfather, it stood alone, miles from the nearest kingdom. Yet, it did not crumble.
The people of Silverleaf were forged by this isolation. The men were hunters and scouts, moving through the dense foliage like ghosts. The blacksmiths forged weapons not just for show, but for the daily battle against the forest's beasts. And at the heart of it all stood Thorne.
He was not just a father; he was the Chieftain. His word was law, and his strength was the shield that protected them all. Elara, his wife, held a power of her own. As the Master Weaver, her loom produced cloths that were rumored to be lighter than air yet tougher than leather, enchanted with the fibers of the forest itself.
But the true source of their prosperity was the Elder Oak.
It was the village's heart, a towering giant that radiated a healing aura, curing sickness and knitting broken bones. It was the reason the villagers refused to leave, even when the winters were harsh. But there was a secret known only to the Chieftain line: The Tree was not just a plant. It housed an ancient Spirit. A contract had been struck by the First Founder—a pact of protection in exchange for something... else.
This pact brought power, but it also brought rules. The strictest of which was the Law of Succession.
The title of Chieftain was not a birthright; it was a prize. It could not simply be handed to the firstborn. It had to be won. Any child raised under the Chieftain's roof had the right to challenge for the seat when they came of age.
By bringing Aael into his home, Thorne had not just adopted a son. He had introduced a competitor.