The great castle door groaned in protest under Cassius’s hand, a low, mournful sound that echoed through the cavernous hall beyond. A spear of golden sunlight pierced the high, arched window, slicing through a tomb-like stillness. It ignited the air, transforming motes of dust into a swirling cosmos in miniature, tiny forgotten spirits dancing in the sudden light.

And in the center of that celestial spotlight stood a tree.

It was a living sculpture of silver bark and blossoms like shards of mother-of-pearl, its branches reaching for the vaulted ceiling in an act of silent supplication. My gaze traveled upward, past two sweeping staircases that curved like marble arms toward a broad landing, but the tree held me captive. It seemed to thrum with a quiet, primordial power, a heartbeat in the heart of the stone.

“Why a tree?” I murmured, my voice a fragile thing in the vastness.

Cassius hadn’t moved from the threshold. His attention was fixed on the pearlescent blossoms, his posture one of strange, sorrowful reverence. “It is a covenant,” he said, his voice soft but resonant, a sound that carried without effort. “Planted on the day this kingdom was born. A living promise to honor the life within these walls, and the world beyond.”

I circled its base, the air still and cool on my skin. Cassius remained, a statue carved from shadow, lost in his contemplation. My eyes drifted to the landing again, to a massive portrait half-swallowed by the gloom. It depicted a king and queen, regal and serene. The queen’s hair was a cascade of polished jet, a stark contrast to her startlingly blue eyes—a gaze that could have commanded armies or soothed a crying child. The king, with his dark brown hair, shared those same sapphire eyes, piercing and kind. Tucked between them, a hand on each of their shoulders, was a boy no older than ten. He had his mother’s dark hair and a formal smile, but his eyes… his eyes held a different story.

It was the boy who ensnared my gaze. In the guarded set of his jaw, in the shadow of sorrow that lay deep within his smile, I recognized something. The same guarded sorrow I saw in the man standing beside me.

Cassius moved to my side, his silence so absolute he might have been a ghost. “The queen was beautiful,” I whispered, unable to tear my eyes from the family frozen in time.

A sad, soft smile touched his lips. “She was.”

“What were they like?”

“They were this kingdom,” he said, his voice gentle, yet impossibly distant. “They were its heart.”

“And the boy…” I hesitated, the impossible question forming on my lips. “He would be king now?”

A muscle in his jaw clenched. For a fleeting moment, the mask of calm control slipped, revealing a raw agony beneath. “Perhaps,” he said, the word rough, like stone grinding on stone. He turned from the portrait, a definitive, final movement. “Their age has passed.”

My mind raced, the boy’s shadowed eyes and Cassius’s pained silence colliding with the force of a revelation. Before I could speak, he broke the heavy stillness, striding to the wall and wrenching back a heavy velvet curtain. A ghost of the past erupted from the fabric—a thick, choking cloud of dust that exploded into the sunbeams. He was swallowed by the grey haze, a choked cough tearing from his throat as a fine powder settled like ash on his dark hair.

He brushed at his shoulders, disturbing more ancient dust. “You lead,” he rasped, gesturing down a long corridor. “I will follow.”

The hall stretched before us, paved in polished moonstone that seemed to drink the light. Silver sconces, wrought in the shape of twining ivy, clung to the walls, their magic long since extinguished. Each heavy, dark oak door we passed promised secrets we couldn’t unlock. We moved through a series of guest chambers, each exquisitely furnished but sterile, as if the entire castle were holding its breath, waiting for a return that would never come. They offered the same silent welcome, the same empty answer.

We turned into a smaller antechamber and opened a door to a sitting room that stole my breath. Here, artistry was not mere decoration; it was life itself. Vines of carven wood, so lifelike they seemed to tremble with an unfelt breeze, wrapped around the windows. The ceiling was a breathtaking mosaic of colored glass depicting a star-filled sky.

“The artisans who made this…” I breathed, tracing the delicate, cool veins etched into the stone of the fireplace.

“All elves take deep pride in their craft,” Cassius said quietly. “For us, time is not an enemy to be conquered, but a medium to be shaped.”

Our search yielded little more than beautifully bound books of elven histories and fables, none of which told the story of a mass vanishing. We continued on, the weight of the profound silence pressing in, until we stood before a pair of large doors leading back outside. I pushed one open, and the sudden rush of sunlight was a physical blow, forcing me to squint as the world resolved into focus.

Before us lay a vast circle of hard-packed earth—a training ground, bordered by two long, low buildings. At the far end, splintered training dummies stood like patient, forgotten sentinels. The first building was a storehouse of empty crates. The second was the skeleton of an armory. Its walls were lined with vacant hooks and empty racks. It had been stripped bare, save for a few forgotten swords lying on a stone table.

I lifted one. The metal was cool, etched with delicate patterns that flowed like water. It felt less like an object and more like a limb I never knew I was missing. A low thrum of latent power seemed to vibrate from the steel, up my arm and into my very bones. I glanced at Cassius. “Now I understand,” I said, my voice hushed. “The care… it’s in everything they made.”

A compulsion, sharp and fierce, rose within me. “I want to try,” I said, my gaze locking with his. “I want to feel what it’s like to fight with a real sword.”

He closed the distance between us, his presence a sudden, grounding warmth. I had to tilt my head back to watch his face as he reached for the weapon. His fingers brushed mine as he slid it from my grasp, a spark, fleeting and hot.

“Thalia,” his voice was a low murmur, a gentle admonishment. “Your shoulder is not yet healed. This is not the time.”

A defiant heat coiled in my chest. I crossed my arms. “It’s fine. I won’t use that arm.”

“That is not the point—”

“Please, Cassius,” I whispered, letting the raw, desperate urgency I felt flood my eyes. “Teach me the basics. I need to know.”

He fell silent, his gaze searching mine, the stern set of his jaw softening almost imperceptibly. “Given that you manifest a blade from your own mana,” he mused, his voice taking on a thoughtful cadence, “it would be… beneficial. To feel the grain and balance of tangible steel.” He sighed, a quiet breath of resignation that seemed to carry the weight of centuries. “Besides,” he added, a wry shadow of a smile returning to his lips, “I suspect you have no intention of accepting ‘no’ for an answer.”

Relief washed through me, pure and bright. “Thank you,” I breathed.

“There may come a day when a blade of steel is all you have,” he said, his tone growing solemn once more as he offered the sword back to me, hilt-first. “When your mana is not enough.”

As my fingers closed around the familiar, perfect weight, he pushed the heavy armory door fully open. We stepped back into the sunlit training ground, and a thrilling and terrible anticipation churned within me. Never had I imagined I would be here, about to learn the ancient art of the sword.