The Elven Kingdom
The World Tree stood at the center of everything — ancient, quiet, and breathing. Its roots stretched deep beneath the Elven Kingdom, pulsing with a soft light like a heartbeat under the earth. Its branches reached high into the sky, brushing stars. To the elves, it wasn't just a tree. It was life itself.
Beneath its canopy, the kingdom lived in peace. Walkways of woven vines connected trees that stood like towers. Water streamed gently through the land, clear and slow, catching the soft glow of the tree above. Flowers bloomed without being asked. The air smelled like wild herbs and old magic.
The castle wasn't made. It grew. Shaped by song and time. Its silver wood shimmered faintly in the dark. Windows of crystal scattered light across the forest floor. Vines curled lazily along its walls, always blooming, always listening.
Inside, the king walked alone. His silver-white hair fell in loose braids, catching what little light passed through the hall. His Pale gold with moss-green flecks were tired — not dull, just… heavy. Like someone who'd carried the weight of too many years and never set it down.
His robes, soft and moss-lined, flowed with each step. No crown on his head — just a circlet of living vine that pulsed gently, more alive than it had any right to be.
As the king passed through the hall, two maids standing by a flowering archway paused and bowed.
"Blessings upon you, our king," one of them said softly, with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes — more reverent than joyful.
He gave a quiet nod, not breaking his stride.
The hallway beyond was empty, save for the gentle creak of the wooden floor beneath his steps and the faint sound of birds somewhere beyond the walls. He slowed down, letting the silence stretch.
Another day gone.
I wonder how she's doing...
My daughter. My little girl.
He exhaled quietly, rubbing the side of his temple.
She doesn't write like she used to. Used to tell me everything — even the smallest nonsense. Now... it's just silence. Like I'm some old statue left behind.
There was no anger in him. Just a kind of ache that had worn itself smooth over time. He still remembered the way her laugh used to echo in the gardens.
Love didn't go away when someone left. It just stayed. Waiting.
Then — soft voices ahead. Not raised. Just murmurs behind hands.
"Did you hear about the king?"
"He opened the sacred grove. For everyone."
"Even the sick from the village showed up. No one expected that."
"He said healing shouldn't be for the highborn alone."
"Strange, isn't it? With sloth lurking so close…"
"I don't think it's strange. I think he understands something we don't."
"…Like what?"
"That sometimes, rest is sacred. That slowing down isn't giving up. It's survival."
A pause.
"He always sees things like that. The balance. He's not like the old kings."
The king turned the corner, catching sight of the four young elven women leaning against a wall of flowering ivy. They fell silent immediately, cheeks flushed, and bowed deeply as he passed.
"Blessings, my king," they said in a hushed, unified tone — not out of fear, but something closer to awe.
He offered a faint smile. One of the girls peeked up at him as he walked past. There was admiration in her eyes, but something else too — worry.
He continued down the corridor alone.
They still believe in me, he thought.
That's good. That's what they need.
But he couldn't shake the feeling curling in the back of his mind.
Peace is a still pond. Beautiful — until the ripple comes.
Then — a voice behind him. Familiar.
"My king!"
He turned, already recognizing the voice before she even stepped into view.
She moved with that same effortless grace she always had — like moonlight skimming across water. Midnight-blue hair flowed around her shoulders, the silver at the tips catching the light like stardust. Her lavender eyes glittered with mischief, and something softer underneath.
He sighed. "Didn't we agree you'd stop calling me that?"
She raised an elegant brow. "Yes. And I promised I'd pretend to agree."
He groaned, touching the bridge of his nose. "You never change."
"As your older sister, I consider it my duty."
A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. Her teasing had always been a balm — light in all the heaviness he carried.
"Trouble in the kingdom?" he asked, trying to keep his tone light.
She folded her arms, thoughtful. "You ask that every time. Always braced for the worst."
He looked past her, out through a crystal-paned window. The World Tree shimmered under the moonlight, its swaying branches like arms cradling the sky.
"I don't ask out of habit," he said softly. "It's instinct. Something feels… off. The world's shifting, even if it hasn't cracked yet."
She stepped beside him, gaze following his.
"Inside the walls too?" she asked.
He nodded. "It's subtle. But I can feel it — like the ground's humming just beneath our feet."
She was quiet for a long moment. Then she spoke, her voice gentler.
"The people still call it peace," she said. "They laugh, they sleep, they raise their children under the Tree's light."
"They see peace because I hold it up," he murmured. "But I know it's a veil. Thin. And wearing thinner."
Her hand brushed his arm, grounding. "And still you keep holding it — that's what makes you a good king. You don't believe the lie, but you carry it… so they don't have to."
He turned to her, eyes searching. "Then what do I do, knowing what we've already lost?"
She tilted her head, studying him with a familiar fondness. "You already know what to do. You just want me to say it out loud so you'll believe it."
He chuckled — tired, but sincere. "You always read me too well."
"I raised you," she said with a grin. "You're not hard to read — just hard to keep out of trouble."
His smile faded slightly. "Speaking of trouble… what of Aurelia?"
She blinked, then smirked. "Still as lazy as ever?"
The king leaned on the windowsill. "He barely moves. Sleeps most of the day. Doesn't speak. Doesn't stir."
"Sloth indeed," she said with a small laugh. "Living proof of his name."
He didn't laugh.
"I'd rather that than the alternative," he said quietly. "Because when he does stir, it won't be to stretch."
Her expression sobered. "You think he's dangerous still?"
"I know he is," he said, turning toward her. "You and I both know what he's capable of. That's why he's been staying at his mother's place. The further from the castle, the better."
She nodded, the lightness in her dimming.
"I don't think he'd enjoy staying here anyway," she said, trying to lift the mood. "Too quiet. Too many old elves snoring."
He glanced at her, offended. "I do not snore."
She burst out laughing, and for a moment, the weight lifted — just a little.
But then she paused, eyes narrowing as she looked out the window.
"…Wait. What's that?"
The king turned, following her gaze out the tall window.
Beyond the balcony, sunlight streamed through the branches of the World Tree — its canopy casting shifting patterns across the city below. The air shimmered with late-morning warmth, birdsong curling lazily through the sky.
And then, something strange.
Thin papers — dozens, maybe more — drifted downward from above.
Not like they'd been thrown. Not like they'd fallen.
They descended — soft, deliberate, slow — glowing faintly as if catching light from nowhere.
Pale script shimmered across them in unknown languages, symbols flickering in and out like memories.
The king leaned forward, brows furrowed. "That's… not wind."
The papers floated like leaves, but the branches hadn't moved. Not a breeze stirred. Only silence, thick and alert, like the world had paused to watch.
They spiraled downward — all of them — toward the World Tree's massive roots.
There, hidden among tangled bark and earth, a mouth-shaped cave yawned open. Few knew it existed. Fewer still dared enter.
Even now, light bled faintly from within — not gold, not silver, but pale gray, the color of stillness and dust.
Deep beneath the roots, far from the living world above, the cave barely breathed.
A thin bed. A worn blanket.
And a boy who didn't belong anywhere.
Aurelia lay curled on his side, unmoving.
His skin was dark as wet obsidian — smooth, untouched by light. Jet-black hair spilled across his pillow like shadows pooling in a corner. His eyes, closed now, hid the smoldering red glow that watched the world with lazy, bitter apathy.
Around him, silence wasn't just quiet — it was suspended time. Even the dust motes hesitated, as if unsure whether to fall.
One paper landed at the cave's threshold.
Then another.
Then many.
Still, he didn't stir.
But eventually… something shifted. A breath. A thought.
He exhaled slowly, as if waking was a choice he regretted.
One eye cracked open — red, glowing dimly like embers beneath ash.
"…So," he murmured, voice thick with sleep, "it's almost time."
There was no fear in it. No urgency.
Only the sound of someone remembering they existed.
He closed his eye again.
"Not like it matters."
The cave pulsed once, softly — like a held breath released.
Shadows settled again.