We were led to a tent that dwarfed all others, a grand silhouette against the embers of the fading bonfires. Its tapestry was a masterpiece of crimson and gold, woven from a fabric so fine it seemed to capture the starlight. The moment we passed through the flap, the world outside vanished. The clamor of the camp was swallowed by a profound silence. The air grew cool and still, thick with the scent of old parchment and beeswax.

An immense, intricately carved table dominated the space, its dark wood polished to a mirror sheen. It was encircled by high-backed chairs that stood like silent judges, a stark contrast to the humble furnishings of Paitelia’s tent. This was no simple dwelling; it was a chamber of council, a place where the fates of nations were weighed.

As if drawn by an unspoken command, the elves took their seats. They moved with a synchronized, unnerving grace, settling into their chairs with the rigid poise of ancient statues. Their faces, etched with the wisdom of millennia, still held an ethereal, ageless beauty. But their eyes—their eyes were sharp, analytical, and carried an air of regal authority that left no doubt. These were the Elders.

Cassius claimed the seat at the head of the table, a king returning to his throne. I hesitated, my heart hammering against my ribs, before taking the only empty chair at the opposite end. In perfect unison, every head turned, and a dozen pairs of ancient eyes fixed upon me. Their expressions were unreadable, carved from stone and shadow. My blood ran cold. Had I just committed some grave offense? My gaze darted to Cassius, pleading for a sign. He offered a slow, deliberate nod, a silent transfer of assurance that did little to calm the tremor in my hands. I took a shallow breath and tried to settle into the hard, unyielding wood of the chair.

The collected gazes of the Elders shifted from me back to Cassius. My eyes locked for a moment with one of them, a flicker of confusion in his expression before it was smoothed away into a mask of neutrality.

Cassius’s voice, steeped in authority, filled the sudden vacuum. “Explain this intrusion. To interrupt a celebration of reunion requires a matter of grave importance.” His brow furrowed, the lines of concern deepening on his regal face.

An elf with solemn, narrow eyes rose slightly from his seat, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white. “My king,” he began, his tone respectful but strained with a palpable dread. “We know you have only just returned, and for that, we rejoice. I fear, however, we bring news that has festered in the dark for too long.”

A heavy pause hung in the air. “Go on,” Cassius commanded, his voice low and resonant.

The elder took a steadying breath. “Our last seer is gone. We have been blind. It was her final vision that drove us from our home. After your departure, King Cassius, Aelindoria began to wither. Our light started to fade. Elves vanished from the forests, not to the creatures, but to the world of men.” He spat the word “men” like a curse. “Hunted things, they became. Bound by contracts of ink and parchment, forced into servitude from which there was no escape. Our society unraveled. Our home was dying, and we were powerless to stop it.”

A cold weight settled in my stomach. The wounds he spoke of were clearly still raw, the shame a fresh poison.

He pressed on, his voice dropping. “The seer commanded us to flee. Her words were clear: ‘A time of darkness draws near. If the elves remain in Aelindoria, they will face annihilation. They must find a sanctuary, a place to hide from the grasping hands of humankind until the proper time arrives.'”

“So we did what was required,” the elf said, his voice heavy with the grief of a people exiled. “We veiled Aelindoria from the eyes of the world and sought refuge in this forgotten corner of it, a place to wait for your return.”

A profound silence descended upon the tent. Cassius broke it, his gaze unwavering. “And I have returned. But your presence here tells me there is more. Continue.”

“Yes, my king.” The elf lowered his voice, his eyes darting around as if the prophecy itself had ears. “She assured us all that you would return. But she came to me later, in secret. She entrusted me with her true final vision.” He paused, gathering his courage. “She spoke of a darkness that would not be confined to our lands. An age of despair that would threaten all things.”

He leaned forward, his voice now a conspiratorial whisper as he quoted the seer. “‘Do not lose hope, for when the shadows are longest, a child of two worlds shall appear to restore the balance. You must follow this person, for they are the fulcrum upon which our survival rests.’”

The words hung in the air, electric. A wave of shock washed over the Elders. 

A child of two worlds.

The prophecy… it was about me.

The certainty of it resonated in my very soul, a sudden, powerful chord that silenced all fear. Tia’s sacrifice, my mother’s love—it wasn’t a tragedy without meaning. It was a path. And it had led me here. In that instant, everything changed. A fire of pure, unadulterated determination surged through my veins.

Before the silence could be broken, a different elf—the keeper of the scrolls—held up a hand. He ducked beneath the table and emerged with a collection of scrolls bound with cracked leather ties and several heavy, leather-bound tomes, which he placed carefully in the center. The parchment was brittle with age.

“I have spent years collecting lore on this… darkness,” the elf announced. “Among my findings was a missive from an elder of Oakhaven—one of those who first defeated K’tthar. I believed they might prove invaluable, so I brought them for you, King Cassius.”

“My thanks, Lorian,” Cassius replied with an appreciative nod. “They will be.”

Just then, the elder who had first stared at me with such confusion fixed his analytical gaze on me once more. “And who is this?” he demanded, his tone sharp as he gestured in my direction. “She returns in your company, yet she is a stranger to us.”

A slow, unreadable smile touched Cassius’s lips. “An excellent question,” he said smoothly, his eyes finding mine, a silent challenge within them. “Why don’t I allow her to introduce herself?”

The weight of every gaze in the room fell upon me. The silence was absolute, a crushing pressure. Let them stare. Let them judge. I would not be cowed.

I straightened my spine, meeting their collective stare without flinching. “My name is Thalia Cevraen,” I announced, my voice ringing with a strength I didn’t know I possessed. “I am the princess of Tirrila. My father is King Zylairs.”

The name landed like a thrown stone in a silent pool.

“Zylairs?” one of the elders roared, leaping to his feet, his chair scraping violently against the floor. “You dare bring the spawn of that tyrant into this sacred place?”

The chamber erupted into a maelstrom of angry voices and accusations. It was exactly what I had anticipated.

“SILENCE!”

Cassius’s voice was not a shout, but a physical force that cracked like a whip through the tent. Every elf froze, their protests dying in their throats.

“My king, she cannot be—” an elder began, his face a mask of fury.

“I said,” Cassius repeated, his voice dangerously low, “let her finish.”

The dissenting elder sank back into his chair, his jaw tight. I let the silence stretch, then delivered the second blow. “My mother,” I said, my voice softening, “was Syanna Lorendel.”

If the first name was a stone, the second was a blade that slid between their ribs. Shock—pure, unadulterated, and absolute—was plastered on every face.

It was Lorian, the keeper of the scrolls, who finally broke the spell, his voice trembling. “Then the prophecy… You are half-human? Half-elf?”

“I am,” I confirmed.

A low murmur rippled through the gathered elders, a sound of awe and disbelief. A new confidence, one I’d kept buried for a lifetime, surged forward.

“The fight you were warned of is already upon us,” I declared, my voice steady and strong. “The darkness approaches. Glen’s Crossing has fallen, and more will follow. My father intends to resurrect K’tthar. I am not asking, but telling you: our peoples must unite to stop him.”

The council was silent, the weight of my words settling over them. Finally, the elder who had first roared in fury spoke, his voice thick with conviction. “I will follow King Cassius,” he said.

One by one, a wave of solemn nods and quiet affirmations passed through the room. They had made their choice. My eyes scanned the chamber and found Vorian. I had almost forgotten him. He stood apart from the others in a shadowed corner, arms crossed, his stare fixed on Cassius with an unnerving, hostile intensity. Only Vorian remained silent.

“That is all for tonight,” Cassius announced. “Tomorrow, we depart for Aelindoria. We will forge our strategy once we have returned home. Are we in agreement?”

Heads nodded in unison.

“Very well,” Cassius said, rising. “For now, let us celebrate.”

As the elders rose and the formal tension in the room began to dissolve, I moved to Cassius’s side. But Vorian remained in the corner like a statue of dissent. Cassius noticed him, too. “What troubles you, Vorian?” he asked, his tone even.

Vorian finally moved, stepping from the shadows. “I have never questioned your judgment, my king. Until now.”

“And why is that?” Cassius’s head tilted slightly, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.

“It is how you look at her,” Vorian bit out, gesturing sharply in my direction.

A cold confusion washed over me. How he looks at me?

“We elves do not break our oaths, Cassius,” Vorian hissed, his voice low and dangerous as he drew closer. “And you have one to uphold.”