The twilight light filtered through the gnarled branches of the crimson trees, casting long shadows over the ground blanketed in golden leaves. Kael took a deep breath. He could still taste the metallic tang of his battle against the Lupharis, whose body now lay among the roots like a symbol of triumph. But what unsettled him most wasn't the weariness of his flesh—it was the constant chill at the nape of his neck.
Someone was watching him.
Ever since the Harnor Gorge, he had sensed hidden eyes, footsteps too light to be human. And now, in this clearing that seemed ripped from an elven dream, the presence finally revealed itself.
"So it's true," said a woman's voice, soft as the wind through crystal chimes.
Kael turned, his hand gripping his sword's hilt. Before him, emerging from the mist, stood an elf with silver hair and skin that gleamed like moonlight on snow. Her eyes were green, ancient—carrying the calm of centuries and the fire of impending judgment.
"You are Kael Eryndor," she stated, more an observation than a question.
"Depends who's asking," he replied, posture unyielding. "And what you want from me."
She raised an eyebrow—a subtle gesture, but laden with intent.
"I am Lysanthir Virellen, sent from the Deepwood. Rumors of your resurrection have reached even the living roots of the Matriarch Tree."
Kael frowned. The Deepwood rarely involved itself in human affairs—unless something threatened its own domain.
"And why send someone like you? An ambassador… or a spy?"
"Perhaps both." The faint smile she offered was disarmingly serene. "But I am here to gauge intentions, not bury daggers. Yet."
The tension between them was palpable, like bowstrings drawn taut.
"We'll talk," said Kael. "But only after we test the weight of our words… with steel."
She smiled as if she had expected nothing less.
"As tradition demands."
[Lysanthir's Perspective]
He was not what the elders had described. They had spoken of a fragile youth, shaped by rumors and tragedy. But Lysanthir saw beyond the scar on his brow and the gaze hardened by loss—here stood a warrior being forged. A blend of promise and threat.
When he lunged with "Descending Falcon's Blade," she countered with a sidestep, invoking "The White Mist Dance," an elven style that used gravity and joint leverage to redirect strikes.
The clash intensified. They spun between the trees like predators, every movement calculated. Kael tested angles, alternating his sword's aura with primal magic—an unstable yet effective mix.
"You hesitated," she whispered, deflecting a thrust. "Are you measuring my strength… or afraid to hurt me?"
Kael narrowed his eyes.
"Maybe a little of both."
She hadn't expected the honesty. And something in her heart—long dormant—pulsed. Like the echo of an ancient love whispering through that field of golden leaves.
[Kael's Perspective]
There was something hypnotic in the fluidity of her movements. It wasn't just technique—it was the way her body seemed to dance with the wind, as if nature itself bent to shield her. He struggled to focus. Every strike was a test—not just of strength, but of purpose.
"She's an elf. A diplomat. Maybe an assassin. So why… do I care about the way she smiles between attacks?"
In the next instant, she invoked an arcane skill.
"Silent Root."
Vines erupted from the ground, snaring his ankles. Kael channeled his aura into his feet, unleashing "Path of Cutting Shadows," leaping high before twisting midair and hurling his sword like an enchanted spear.
She dodged by inches, and the blade embedded itself in a thick trunk. He landed a few paces away, both of them breathless, sweating—yet smiling.
"You're… better than they say," she admitted.
"And you're more dangerous than you'd admit."
Silence. But not hostile. A silence heavy with respect… and something more.
Their swords now lay on the leaf-strewn ground, still humming with fading energy. Kael and Lysanthir sat facing each other near the edge of a hidden pond, nestled among roots and stones.
"Why did you really come, Lysanthir?" Kael asked, his voice calm now.
She gazed up at the canopy. The night breeze stirred, carrying the scent of damp forest.
"The Inner Kingdoms have awakened," she said. "Forces that slept beneath ancient seals are now moving their pieces on the board. The Eryndor were part of this once… and may be again."
Kael frowned.
"Inner Kingdoms?"
She nodded slowly.
"Realms beyond mortal comprehension. Places where the fabric of the world is thin… where magic, time, and reality intertwine. And there are eyes—ancient eyes—turned toward this continent. Your existence… disturbs certain age-old accords."
"So you've been watching me?" Kael asked. "Testing me?"
"Yes. But not just for that." She met his gaze. "You carry an ancestral memory, Kael. Your soul bears marks… even you don't yet understand."
He fell silent. Her words struck a chord, echoing the fragmented memories haunting his dreams—visions of ancient wars, ruins, and unfulfilled oaths.
"What will you do now?" she asked. "Return to your fortress? To a ruined house, circled by vultures?"
Kael looked away.
"Not yet. I need allies. Answers. And maybe… people like you."
She smiled. And for a moment, the wind stilled.
"I'm not easily won over, Kael Eryndor. But… walking your path may be less tedious than I imagined."
He returned the smile. And for the first time in years, he felt something new bloom. Not hope. But… possibility.
The moon rose between the trees, bathing the hidden pond in liquid silver. Reflections danced on the water like memories of a purer world. Lysanthir watched Kael in silence. No hostility remained—only the strange kinship of two warriors who had tested each other without victory.
"They say the Eryndor soul was forged between ages, on the threshold of ruin and rebirth," she finally said. "But you… seem a blade not yet fully honed."
"Maybe because I was forged twice," Kael replied, studying his reflection. "Once as a son. And once… as the Forgotten."
Lysanthir tilted her head, intrigued.
"The Mark of the Forgotten… it's not just a name, is it?"
He hesitated, then nodded.
"I don't remember what I was. But there are… echoes. And sometimes, they bleed inside me."
The elf weighed his words like an old poem. Then she approached, unhurried. Her hand rested on an ancient tree, and as she touched it, she whispered something in Elvish. Tiny blue-green lights flickered to life in the bark's crevices, as if the tree responded.
"This glade is one of the Fragile Veils. Places where reality is… thin. That's why I was sent here. And why you found it," she said. "Your presence parts the veil. Or perhaps… reveals what was always behind it."
Kael stood slowly.
"If I'm truly a key to something ancient… many will try to break me before the lock appears."
"Or use you," Lysanthir murmured. "As a tool. A vessel."
They both knew the weight of that. Kael clenched his fists, but his gaze was no longer that of the man who had wandered lost into the woods that morning. He was changing—too fast for someone who barely understood himself.
"I need knowledge," he said. "I need to know who I was… and why I returned. But I can't do it alone."
Lysanthir stepped closer, her feet light on the moss.
"The Deepwood does not take sides lightly. But there are… exceptions."
"Am I one?"
"Not yet. But you may become one."
Kael extended his hand—not as a challenge, but an offer. She studied it a moment, then clasped it lightly.
"While our paths run parallel," she said, "we walk together."
"And when they don't?"
She smiled, without showing teeth.
"Then we dance again. But not as allies."
He nodded. The silent pact was sealed—a thread of trust woven through combat, respect, and mutual curiosity.
Lysanthir stepped away, moving toward an ancient willow. She touched its roots, and an opening appeared, veiled in mist.
"The village of Nerath lies two days south, if you follow the river. There, you may find a man named Tarren Valgorn. A scholar… an exile. He'll know more about your mark."
"And you?"
"I return to the forest. There are things I must report… and others I may need to conceal."
She paused, turning back one last time.
"Kael Eryndor… take care. Ancient eyes do not look away easily. And many fear what you've yet to dream of becoming."
With that, she vanished into the mist, as if she had never been there.
Kael remained for a while, silent. The wind stirred again. But now, it felt different. More attentive. As if the world were waiting for him.
He retrieved his sword, sheathed it at his back, and headed south.
For the first time, his steps were not those of flight. They were of pursuit.
And with every heartbeat, one certainty burned brighter:
The true war… had not even begun.
[End of Chapter 12]