A loud scream echoed through the forest.
"What was that sound?" Icariel muttered, tensing. It had come from far away—yet it was loud enough to reach him clearly. That alone was unsettling.
"Yeah... not my job," he added with a shrug, brushing it off as he made his way toward the cave with the skinned rabbit in hand.
Once inside, he lit a flame spell to cook the meat. The cave flickered with soft orange light. Still... the scream lingered in his thoughts. "That sound was too loud to come from a normal human..." he whispered.
Then, after a while—his White Sense kicked in.
"Someone's here." His mind went sharp, alert. The calm vanished.
"Voice," he whispered internally. "Someone just entered my detection range—and nearby. And they possess more mana than an average human. I can feel it clearly."
Ever since his one month of training, White Sense had expanded. He could now detect movement and mana within a 17-meter radius—without even focusing.
"What should I do?" Icariel asked, standing still. "Do I stay hidden or—"
The voice didn't hesitate. "Go. If they saw the light of your flame, they know someone's here. No use hiding now. Move—outside."
Icariel nodded, snuffed out the fire, and turned toward the cave entrance. But just as he took a step forward—his White Sense alarmed him again. "It's here," he said, a chill in his voice. "At the entrance. It's here."
At that moment, in the soft light of the moon, he saw it—a hand gripping the stone wall at the cave's entrance.
Without hesitation, Icariel summoned his Flame Spears. One—then two—then three. Each burst into existence with a pop of displaced air and a sharp crackle, like fire being born in reverse.
Four spears of hot flame spiraled into the air above him, their heat distorting the cave air like desert mirages. Sweat instantly beaded on his brow.
His wounded hand rose, trembling slightly. He gritted his teeth and grabbed one of the spears—
—Pain lanced through his palm. Flesh sizzled against heat-woven mana, but he held on. Just barely.
His heartbeat surged, and for a moment, the flames around him pulsed in sync—alive, tethered to his will.
"If it moves, I attack it," he thought coldly.
Then the figure slumped forward, collapsing at the entrance.
His grip faltered. The spear vanished in a rush of smoke and dying light.
"Huh...?" Icariel said, lowering his arm.
The spear in his grip vanished; the burn was too much to hold it for long anyway. He cautiously stepped forward, ready to cast again if needed.
As the light revealed her fully, Icariel's eyes widened—a young girl. A child, maybe not older than ten.
She had blood across her body, long silver hair matted and tangled, and what stood out the most—long, pointed ears. Her skin held an almost translucent quality under the firelight, and though unconscious, her faintly glowing veins pulsed with a slow, rhythmic light—like distant stars flickering underwater.
She wore a grey outfit, strange and elegant, etched with unfamiliar symbols—like a sword without a handle or edge.
"A child...? What is she..."
The voice in his head answered calmly.
"An Elf."
"An... Elf? I've never heard of them," Icariel muttered, still on edge.
"First, take her inside. She's barely holding on," the voice instructed.
Still, Icariel hesitated. He never took unnecessary risks. "Elves aren't hostile to humans. And she's still a child. There's no danger here."
After a moment of hesitation, Icariel bent down and carefully lifted her. She was light—too light. Her skin was cold. He carried her inside and relit his flame spell to warm the cave. The four summoned spears vanished into thin air. He laid her down where he normally slept—on the flat, worn stones—then checked her condition.
A deep wound ran through her right shoulder.
"Shit... I don't have the right tools," he muttered, biting his lip. Still, he did what he could—cleaning the wound gently and bandaging it tightly with torn cloth and strips from his own gear.
"That should stop the bleeding for now..." he whispered, letting out a tired breath.
He sat beside her, watching her chest rise and fall slowly. The fire flickered against the cave walls, casting both of them in warm, flickering light.
"So... what are Elves?" he finally asked aloud, directing the question to the voice within.
The voice in his mind answered with calm certainty. "They are wise beings—more connected to mana than almost any other race. They live far longer than humans, sometimes for centuries."
"So... they're immortal?"
"No, but they age at a glacial pace. Their bond with magic—particularly nature and healing—is unmatched. Most dwell in secluded forests or ancient, hidden cities, far from the eyes of the world. Peaceful. Reclusive. Their mastery of the arcane far surpasses anything humans typically achieve."
"Hah, I wish I was born an elf," Icariel muttered.
The voice paused, then continued again. "They are calm, graceful, and beautiful—ethereal, even. But they can also be proud. Cold to outsiders."
Icariel stared at the girl. Her silver hair glinted under the firelight, and her features, though young, were already striking—almost unreal.
"I never read anything about them..." he muttered.
"Your books were limited," the voice replied. "Damaged, missing pages. And you didn't have many to begin with. You were locked away from the world in Mjull, remember? It's not surprising."
A quiet moment passed.
"And don't worry," the voice added. "Elves are generally friendly toward humans... especially children. But what happened to her, I don't know. To be in that condition..."
"But tell me, about this healing magic..." Icariel said. "You never mentioned it before."
But suddenly, the girl stirred. Her body twitched. Her eyelids fluttered. Her silver hair caught the firelight again as she bolted upright. Her silver eyes darted around the cave in panic—until they landed on Icariel.
She froze, her expression twisted.
"MANIAC!"
The word rang out like a spell of its own.
Icariel stood frozen, the last embers of the flame reflecting in his eyes. The girl's trembling hands were clutched against her chest, eyes wide with pure, unfiltered fear.
He said nothing—just stared.
Slowly, he straightened. The flames at his fingertips hissed as he snuffed them out.
"...Maniac?" he asked at last, voice low. Calm—but dangerous.
She said nothing. Her breathing was ragged.
"Voice," he muttered mentally. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Silence.
"Voice?"
Still—nothing.
A flicker of something darker crossed Icariel's face.
"How dare you carve my body!" the girl shouted, trying to cover herself—even though nothing was exposed.
"Carve?" Icariel repeated, confused again. That word, at least, he understood. And then it clicked.
His eyes widened slightly. "Ah… Oh."
So that's what she meant. She thought he did something while she was unconscious. His expression darkened. "Give me back the bandages. You don't deserve them," he said coldly, reaching forward.
"Wha—No! Please! I'm sorry! I didn't mean it like that!" the girl panicked, trying to scoot away.
"Shut up," Icariel snapped. "That's how you thank someone who saved your life?"
"I just saw someone shirtless—I panicked, okay?!"
He paused.
Her words made sense. She was a child—scared, alone, and likely traumatized. His posture softened. "Fine," he said, sitting back. "I get it."
She pulled the bandages tighter and looked away, embarrassed.
"So..." Icariel began, tone calmer now. "What's a child like you doing alone in the forest? And with wounds like that?"
She hesitated. Her fingers tightened over the cloth on her shoulder. "A monster," she whispered. "It separated me from my family. It chased me. Attacked me. I barely escaped..." Tears formed in the corners of her eyes and slid down her cheeks. "I don't know if they're okay. I don't even know if they're alive..."
Icariel watched her quietly, his face unreadable.
"I see," he said at last. "You can stay here. Until you recover."
She wiped her tears and nodded slowly. "Thank you... I appreciate it."
A pause.
"You don't talk like a child," Icariel noted, raising a brow.
She turned to him with a frown. "Why should I? Just because I look like one, doesn't mean I am one. I'm older than you for sure." She added, rubbing her bandaged shoulder with a wince. "And if you'd ever studied even basic elven physiology, you'd know appearances are deceiving."
Now that was new.
"I just told you before..." The voice echoed in Icariel's mind. "Elves age slowly."
Icariel, still staring at the silver-haired girl, frowned. "Yeah, I remember, but..." He tilted his head slightly. "I didn't think they could look like this. She's basically a ten-year-old kid. How can she be older than me in that body?"
"That's how unique they are," the voice replied. "They grow differently. Their physical appearance doesn't match their age like it does in humans."
Icariel frowned. "Then how old are you?" he asked the elf girl directly.
She turned toward him, silver hair brushing over her shoulders. "I'm twenty," she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"Huh? For real?" he blinked.
"Yeah, for real."
She tilted her head, studying him curiously. "Seriously? You've never heard of elves?"
"I just found out about your kind today," Icariel replied bluntly. "So no, I don't."
"How… what are you even saying..." she mumbled, almost to herself. But before she could ask anything else, her stomach growled—loudly.
Icariel blinked. Then he smirked a little. "Oh. You're empty. You need food."
He grabbed one of the roasted rabbit legs from the fire and extended it toward her. "Here. Eat this."
But then—"No—!" the voice in his head interrupted, but it was too late.
The girl's eyes landed on the cooked rabbit leg. For a split second, her pupils dilated—not with hunger, but with something like horror.
She froze.
And then—"NO! GET THAT AWAY FROM ME!"
She scrambled backward, nearly toppling over, her breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps. Her hands flew up as if to shield herself, her entire body recoiling from the offered food.
Icariel stared, stunned. "W-What?! What's wrong with it?!"