The moment Noah stepped into the Grove, the world changed.
Gone were the ethereal lights and crystalline architecture of Elvaria. In their place was silence. A deafening, intimate silence that pressed against his ears like fog.
The Grove of Memories was not made of trees or stones—it was made of thought, of fear, and of memory itself. Tall spectral trees shimmered in and out of form, their leaves whispering words in voices that sounded far too familiar.
The moment his foot touched the moss-covered earth, it began.
Flash.
He was in the throne room of the Everain Palace. Not as he was now—but as the villain prince from the novel. Drunk on power, eyes filled with contempt, voice laced with arrogance.
"You're a disgrace to the crown," his father's voice thundered.
And Noah—the past version of him—laughed. "No. I am the crown."
Flash.
A battlefield now. Ashes rained from the sky. Innocents screamed. Knights in white and gold were slaughtering orcs. Among them, Aren Velthorn—face grim, sword red with blood—was cutting down Noah's orc allies without hesitation.
"Aren?" Noah whispered.
But this Aren didn't recognize him. This was the Aren from the original story. The hero, unwavering in his belief that Noah Everain was the villain who must be stopped.
Flash.
A child cried.
Noah turned, and saw a boy. Small, shaking, hiding behind a bookshelf.
It was him.
Before the palace. Before the pride. Before the title of "Prince."
Just a boy who wanted to be seen.
Just a boy who was forgotten.
He knelt beside his younger self.
"I'm sorry," Noah whispered. "For everything they made you. For everything you thought you had to become."
The boy looked up, tears in his eyes.
"You'll become a monster," he said.
Noah clenched his jaw. "Not this time."
The Grove trembled.
A shadow rose from the ground, taller than the trees, its form flickering between all the worst versions of himself—the tyrant prince, the coward, the failure, the manipulator.
It lunged.
Noah raised his sword, but the shadow didn't attack like a beast—it attacked like a memory.
Every swing of its blade carried guilt.
Every strike echoed with the voice of someone he'd hurt.
He faltered.
Then, from beyond the grove, a voice pierced through the shadows.
"Noah! Remember who you are!"
It was Aren.
And behind him, Barbrekan. The orc king. Even Queen Sylrielle stood at the edge of the grove, eyes glowing, lips moving in silent encouragement.
They weren't allowed to intervene—but they were watching.
Noah steadied his breath. His grip on his sword tightened.
This wasn't just about fighting a monster.
It was about choosing who he wanted to be.
He stood tall and let the shadow rush him one last time. But instead of parrying, he dropped his sword… and embraced it.
The darkness slammed into him—
And shattered like glass.
The Grove went still.
Noah stood alone in the quiet.
He had passed.
Back in the Elven Court
Queen Sylrielle watched as Noah emerged from the Grove, clothes torn, sweat on his brow—but eyes clear.
"The Grove accepted you," she said softly.
Noah didn't answer right away. He was still catching his breath.
"Then the Elves of Elvaria will answer your call," she declared. "From this day, we ride with the orcs… and with the prince who defied fate."
Barbrekan grinned, his tusks showing. "Told you the boy was different."
Aren placed a hand on Noah's shoulder. "You did it."
Noah finally smiled. "I think… I finally believe that I can."
But far beyond the elven borders, in a ruined temple swallowed by the mountains, something stirred.
A crimson eye opened.
A voice, ancient and cold, whispered into the void.
"So… the prince has chosen a new path."
And for the first time in centuries, the Shadeling King stirred from his slumber.