The caravan arrived at dusk.
First we heard them. The clatter of horses' hooves on the stone road, the creak of wagon wheels, the voices of soldiers calling to one another. Then we saw them. A column of yellow lights descending the hill, snaking between the blue pines like a serpent of fire.
Andy rode at the front.
Dark armour, silver‑blue hair tied in a ponytail, his face tired but firm. Delluzio rode beside him, his platinum‑blue armour stained with mud and dried blood. Behind them, a cart covered with a black tarpaulin. And inside the cart, a child.
We were in the main courtyard.
Irina, the teachers, the older students. Me, Ana, Sara, Ariny, Luna, Néris. Zirinos, with Mira by the hand. The servants, with lit torches. Arth, in the background, watching from the shadows.
The cart stopped.
Andy dismounted. He knelt. The cart rocked.
Delluzio helped the passenger down.
She was small. Very small. No older than ten, if she were human. Long hair, silver, almost transparent. Large eyes, of a blue so pale they seemed white. Skin pale, almost luminous. Pointed ears. An elf.
"Alethea Emeth," Andy announced, his voice dry, without ceremony. "The elf of truth."
No one applauded. No one spoke.
The child looked around. Her white eyes scanned the courtyard, the torches, the faces. They rested on Irina. They rested on Ana. They rested on me. They rested on Zirinos.
"You lie a lot," she said, pointing at him.
The silence grew heavier.
Zirinos did not move. His hand tightened around Mira's. His face remained neutral.
"Everyone lies," he replied, his voice calm. "Some more than others."
"You lie more than everyone."
"Perhaps."
The child did not insist. She looked at Andy.
"Are you hungry?" asked Andy.
"I am."
"Then let's eat."
---
The teachers' dining room was prepared for the visit.
Long tables, white cloths, lit candles. The servants served soup, bread, roast meat. Alethea ate slowly, her eyes always attentive, her small hands holding the spoon with an ancient delicacy.
Irina sat beside her. Andy at the head. The other teachers scattered among the tables.
The students were not invited.
I was in the corridor, leaning against the wall, watching through the half‑open door. Zirinos was also there. Mira slept in their room, exhausted from the day.
"Do you believe her?" I asked.
"In whom?"
"In the elf. In the power of truth."
Zirinos took his time answering.
"I believe that she believes it," he said finally. "That is enough."
"She said you lie a lot."
"It's true."
"And it doesn't bother you?"
"It does." He looked at me. "But I can't do anything about it. The truth is the truth."
"Even when we don't tell it?"
"Especially when we don't tell it."
---
Alethea Emeth was installed in the west tower, on the same corridor as the teachers.
The room was small but comfortable. A bed, a table, a window overlooking the sea. Andy left her in Irina's care and went to rest.
"Tomorrow we talk," he said before leaving. "I need to know what you saw in your world."
"I saw many things," Alethea replied. "Some good. Others bad."
"The bad ones interest me more."
"The bad ones are always the most interesting."
Andy almost smiled.
"You are too young to be so wise."
"I am too old to be young," the elf replied. "I am eight hundred and fifty years old."
Andy said nothing. He just left.
---
The next day, the academy woke up with the elf.
The students spoke of her in the corridors, in the dining hall, in the training yards. Some said she was a powerful warrior. Others, that she was an exiled princess. Others, that she was just a lost child.
"She has more mana than all of us put together," said Renan, admiringly. "Eight hundred and something units. It's more than Ierály."
"Ierály has one thousand four hundred," I replied.
"Yes. But Ierály is human. Alethea is an elf. Elves are different."
"Different how?"
"Older. Slower. Wiser." Renan shrugged. "I've heard they see time differently. For them, one year is like one day for us."
"That's frightening."
"It is." Renan looked at the west tower. "But it's also good. She can see things we can't."
---
Alethea appeared in the training yard at noon.
Her silver hair shone in the sun. Her white eyes scanned the students practising strikes with wooden swords. They rested on Zirinos, who was training alone in a corner.
"He is dangerous," she said to no one in particular.
"Who?" asked Andy, who was beside her.
"The one with the golden hair." She pointed. "He will kill many people."
"We will all kill many people. That's what war is."
"It's not war he wants." Alethea looked away. "He wants something else. I don't know what yet."
"Will you?"
"Perhaps. When he knows."
Andy did not ask more.
---
Zirinos, meanwhile, continued to train.
His strikes were fast, precise. His gold‑and‑blood hair shone with sweat. His face remained neutral, but his hands trembled. I was close enough to see.
"She knows," I said quietly.
"I know," he replied without stopping.
"Doesn't that worry you?"
"It does." The next strike broke the wooden sword. "But I can't do anything. The truth is the truth."
"Even when we don't tell it?"
"Especially when we don't tell it."
He dropped the pieces of the sword on the ground and left the yard without looking back.
I stood watching him.
The elf, in the distance, also watched.
The sun shone. The wind blew cold.
'What does she see in him?', I thought.
'And what does he see in himself?'