That night, Luenor sat alone beneath the vastness of so many stars.
The glade that served as his battlefield and his sanctuary was quiet. The fires crackled softly. The voices were whispers in their sleep. The evening birds had even returned—cautiously, but returning.
He touched his chest again.
Still no core. Still no heartbeat of mana.
And yet… he had changed.
"Seiránna," he whispered, remembering Thalanar's speech.
He didn't feel like a champion of balance. He felt like a child trying not to carry responsibilities that they couldn't name. He felt like a brother trying not to repeat failure after failure. He felt like a son who had no opportunity to say goodbye.
And yet, they followed him.
The elves. The tiger. Even Arwin, once convinced he was nothing more than a child.
He didn't know what terrified him more: the weight of their trust, or the amount he wanted to be worthy of it.
A sound interrupted his thoughts. Hera moved into the moonlight, blanket over her shoulders. She sat down beside him without complaint.
"They're really going to follow me," he said.
"No," she said gently. "They're following what you represent. Hope."
He turned to her, uncertain. "Do you believe in that?"
"I believe in you," she said, laying her head against his.
In that quiet moment, with fireflies dancing above them and the forest finally still, Luenor allowed himself a smile.
Tomorrow, they would leave the only world they had ever known.
But tonight—they dreamed of new ones.
___
The day after the funeral was thick with quiet.
There were no birds, no wind, only the dull crunch of boot on forest floor and, from somewhere in the encampment of the forest tribe, a muffled sob. The elves moved slowly and carefully, helping the unclaimed, carving rough markers out of bark, stone, and bone.
The line of graves was short, there were only seven, but together they fashioned a corridor at the edge of the glade, each holding the weight of a life once lost.
Hera stood at one of them with condemned shoulders, shaking. They put her father's name into the ground, carved a sign into a piece of blackwood, and called it a grave. Hera held a dead flower and cried in silence.
Luenor stood behind her.
He didn't cry. He hadn't cried since the night the home burned.
It wasn't that he didn't feel it. No, he felt it. It roared inside of him like a volcano primed for eruption. But he couldn't give over to it. Not now. Not when all the elves were counting on him. When Arwin was fighting for him. Richard didn't die for him to cry and be weak. He wasn't free to collapse at the funeral.
He stood there. Quiet. Stoic. The tears clawed at the back of his eyes, but they never fell.
Lyssari's wail sliced through the air like broken glass.
She had collapsed into the kneeling position in front of a ring of stones that surrounded the resting place of Kirellion—or what served as one. His body was never retrieved, lost under the rubble of the fallen fort and the stampede of beasts. The absence was greater than the presence.
"I wasn't ready," she shrieked, her fists pounding against the ground. "I wasn't ready to say goodbye..."
Thalanar knelt softly beside her and placed his palm over her back. "None of us were."
Arwin, in the meantime, laid a carved rune down over another grave. His eyes were red from the previous crying. He had only wiped his nose, pressed down his lips, and was silent.
Faren closed the last grave of a fallen scout, placing a bow over the grave and bowing his head while doing it.
They had the tribe gathered.
__
The silence was abruptly broken when a noise from the edge of the forest sounded.
A pair of elven scouts rushed into the glade with their clothes in tatters and shock on their faces.
"Chief!" one shouted. "Humans! Armed!"
That already put everyone on edge. But, the next words sent every heart into a panic.
"They wear gold armor. And they have a blond boy with them... He looks about ten years old. And…"
He paused. Thalanar stepped forward. "And what?"
"I don't know what to call it," the scout said just above a breath. "Lurking in the trees. He looked right at us... and smiled. But let us go."
Thalanar went white as sheet. "He saw you?"
The scout nodded.
The elder leader turned abruptly back to the gathered elves. "Pack your things. We are moving. Right now! Do not stop until you reach Eclion, and do it at double pace!"
But it was too late.
Something in the air changed.
The pressure on everything in the glade changed, not violent, but heavy, almost like the trees themselves were bowing. Birds flew off, fires flickered and died.
Suddenly, as if from nowhere, a figure landed in the center of the clearing like a gust of wind and a flash of gold.
A man. Clad in gold armor. Wide shoulders. Long black hair, and a faint stubble on his chin. He wore armor, which punished the earth as though the earth was inclined toward him.
A low growl sounded from Valdrak in the shadows. Arwin reached for his sword — then froze.
The knight's voice cracked as he took a step backward, pale. "He's... he's a Grand Knight."
Gasps murmured across the clearing. Even Telmar trembled, and his hand shook as it hovered over the hilt of his sword.
The knight did not say anything at first, he surveyed the camp quietly, and the knight's gold mantle flapped in the wind slightly as he shifted his head, gaze piercing.
Then his gaze went to Luenor.
But the knight did not speak, before Thalanar stepped forward, he stood with calmness, but a sound of finality to him.
"We are forest dwellers. We are not involved with the kings of the humans, why are you here?"
Finally, the knight spoke. His voice was deep and strong, but not angry. "I am here for Luenor Sureva."
The man straightened, the air around him vibrating faintly with restrained power.
"I am Sir Albrecht Valen," he said. "A personal knight to His Highness, Prince George of Aprosia—second son of King Henry of House George."
He spoke, and at once he unfurled whatever the deep blue and gold sash had been, and held it outward. The insignia of House Aprosia glimmered there: a crescent moon nestled between eagle wings. Gasps followed that, as did a few curses, especially from the older elves who recalled when Aprosia had once known glory in the high courts of Ruthenia.
"This is the house of Lady Elira," Albrecht continued, "mother of Prince George and Princess Avelyn. My liege is well on his way here, however I was sent ahead to ensure there are no... misunderstandings."
He looked around the tense circle of elders, holding his voice now steady but laced with warning. "I see none. You have taken good care of the prince and princess. I commend you for that."
Some of the warriors visibly relaxed. Telmar still loosely held his sword, not willing to fully let his guard down, but Arwin exhaled and nodded.
But then Sir Albrecht grasped the back of his waist.
Every one of the elven individuals jumped, hands tightening around their hilts and bows.
Luenor even took a nervous half-step backwards.
The knight pulled out a majestic longsword, which had old runes carved into the blade, whose edge was sparkling with faint energy, and he raised it high above his head.
"May the skies of Aprosia," he bellowed out loud, "bear witness that the last Surevas lives!"
And while the sky was entirely cloudless, a singular line of lightning came straight down—pure white, roaring—that struck the blade like a heat-seeking missile.
Light erupted. The glade was filled with magnificent gold dust.
Hera gasped . Lyssari clutched Thalanar. Even Valdrak looked up with narrowed, brightened irises.
Then just like that it was gone.
Sir Albrecht had lowered his sword and was composed.
"I will return," he said, "with the Prince."
He turned and simply walked away—leaving silence, astonishment, and a hundred new questions in his wake.