Paitelia glided toward one of the ancient trees, its boughs like sleeping giants against the twilight sky. She laid a delicate hand upon its bark, and a soft, emerald light bled from her palm, tracing glowing veins across the wood. She began to sing in the elven tongue, her voice not a whisper, but a song that was both prayer and command, a melody the wind seemed to reverence rather than steal. Before us, the very fabric of the tree warped and groaned, the bark peeling back to reveal not raw wood, but a perfect, shimmering archway of woven light.

A current of pure anticipation jolted through me. The elven sanctuary. I had pictured a second Aelindoria, a city of impossible grace and starlit beauty.

The portal hummed and then sighed open. As we stepped through, the breathtaking vision in my mind didn’t just fade—it was annihilated, shattered by a reality so stark it stole my breath.

There were no soaring crystal spires, no lanterns of captured starlight, no grand halls ringing with music. The silver light of a cold, indifferent moon illuminated an ocean of canvas tents spread across a vast, empty plain. Each one was dark, silent as a tombstone. The only sounds were the mournful sigh of the wind through tall grass and the ceaseless, lonely chirping of crickets. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, dew-soaked cloth, and something else… the faint, metallic tang of sorrow. For a people who had dwelt here for centuries, the emptiness was a physical blow.

My gaze snapped to Cassius. He wasn’t just frozen; he looked like a statue commemorating a forgotten tragedy. The moonlight carved his face into sharp angles, illuminating the brutal line of his jaw. His fists were clenched at his sides. He wasn’t breathing. It was as if the desolation before him had punched the very air from his lungs. The hope he had nursed for centuries died in his eyes.

“Paitelia…” His voice was a raw, broken thing. “What is this? Where are the halls? The homes?”

She stepped gracefully into his line of sight, a slender, unyielding figure forcing him to see her instead of the ruin of his dreams. “Cassius,” she said, her voice a soft, steady anchor in the crushing silence. “I know this is not what you foresaw. This is the truth of our long wait.”

She paused, her eyes holding his. “There were times our hope wore thin, but it never broke. The Seer promised us, before she passed into memory, that you would return. She told us we must be ready.”

Paitelia’s gaze was a testament of faith. “How could we build a new home when our hearts never left Aelindoria? To raise new spires would have been a monument to our despair. It would have been an admission of defeat.” She swept a hand towards the silent tents. “This is not a city. It is a vigil. We have been waiting for our king to lead us home.”

The title landed on Cassius like a physical blow; I saw him flinch. The invisible weight of his people’s sorrow, their faith, their unending patience—it pressed in on me, an immense tide of grief and responsibility. In that instant, my perspective fractured and reformed. I looked out at the dark tents, and what I had mistaken for decay, I now saw as devotion. Each humble shelter was a hope. The burden on his shoulders felt unimaginable. I felt woven into their story, and yet, I had never felt more like an intruder.

Paitelia’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. “It is late,” she said, a deep sadness coloring her tone. “We rise with the sun and rest with it now. It is a simple life.” She hesitated. “We have no guest lodges—it has been an age since we had a guest. You may take my—”

“We couldn’t,” Cassius interjected, his voice firm but strained.

“No,” Paitelia insisted, her gaze like forged steel. “I have a small workshop that will suffice. It is settled. Please, follow me. Quietly.”

We moved like ghosts through the maze of tents, the whisper of our feet in the wet grass the only proof of our passage. She stopped before two shelters, one slightly larger than its neighbor. Pulling aside the heavy fabric flap of the larger one, she gestured for us to enter.

“You may rest here,” she whispered, the sound barely disturbing the air.

As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw the stark simplicity of the space. It held little more than a workbench scattered with delicate tools, a single, neatly arranged bedroll of plush furs, and the lingering scent of dried herbs and wood shavings. “Paitelia, this is your home,” I protested, the words thick in my throat. “We can’t take your bed.”

Her eyes met Cassius’s over my head, a silent, powerful exchange. Her voice, when she spoke, was unwavering. “He is my king. I would offer him my life’s blood. My bed is a trifle.” She turned that intense gaze to me. “And you are his Chosen. That makes you our hope. Therefore, I accept you, Thalia.”

The warmth of her acceptance bloomed in my chest, a sudden, startling flower in a barren field. I was still wary of the others, of this entire nation holding its breath, but in that moment, all I felt was a profound gratitude.

Cassius inclined his head, the weight of his invisible crown seeming to settle on him once more. “We are in your debt, Paitelia. Thank you.”

She gave a slight, formal bow. “Rest well. I will return for you after sunrise.” With that, she turned and slipped into the night, the tent flap falling closed behind her, plunging us into a sudden, profound silence.

My gaze swept the small space one last time before landing on Cassius as he sank onto the bedroll, his movements heavy, exhausted.

“Come here,” he whispered, his voice barely a breath.

I moved to his side, kneeling on the surprisingly soft furs. His muscles were strung as taut as bowstrings, his gaze unfocused, seeing ghosts in the canvas shadows. I shifted closer, my presence a silent question.

“This is not what I imagined,” he breathed, the sound hollowed out by grief. “I hoped they were at least living in peace.”

I laid my hand gently over his clenched fist. His gaze dropped to our joined hands, as if seeing them from a great distance. “I think they are, Cassius,” I said softly. “They are at peace because they have faith. This whole place… it’s a testament to their faith in you.”

His fist tightened beneath my palm. “I know I cannot change the past. Fate decreed it. But to see them like this… a life of hardship I never intended.” He looked up, his eyes, shadowed with pain, finding mine. “I will bring them home. And then I must ask them to march to war. How can I offer freedom with one hand and demand sacrifice with the other?”

“Cassius,” I said, my voice earnest. “Look at what they’ve built from their faith alone. They will follow you home, and they will follow you into any battle. We have to win. If K’tthar rises, this world becomes ash. There will be no home for anyone.”

And we have to stop my father and Blair before it even comes to that, I thought, a cold dread coiling in my gut.

“I know,” he murmured, releasing my hand to lie back on the furs, his eyes closing. “We have no choice.”

I lay down beside him. He slid an arm under me, pulling me flush against his side, his other arm wrapping around me in a secure cage. I rested my head on his chest, listening to the steady, solid rhythm of his heart. The sound was an anchor, drowning out the chaotic litany of what must be done. A soft yawn escaped me against his shirt. I felt his chin brush the top of my head, a silent acknowledgment, and then, finally, the tension bled from his body as he held me in the quiet dark.

His breathing evened, deepening into the slow cadence of sleep. His warmth seeped into me, a steady comfort I was quickly learning I couldn’t live without.

“Thalia,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against my ear.

“Mmm,” I hummed in response, my eyes drifting closed, feeling the vibration of his voice more than hearing the word.

A quiet moment passed, filled only by the sound of our breathing.

“Good night, my love.”