The light of dawn filtered through the clouds as the group halted before the living wall of trees that marked the beginning of the Forest of Larethil. The trunks, tall as ancient towers, seemed to absorb the daylight itself. The wind whispered in a tongue so old that even Kaelor fell silent.

  “This is as far as we go,” he said at last. “The horses won’t be of any use beyond this point.”

  One by one, they removed the saddles and stroked their mounts’ necks before letting them go. The animals vanished into the morning mist at an easy trot.

  The Wolf sniffed the air, uneasy.

  “Let’s move,” Kaelor ordered.

  They entered the forest. The gloom closed around them at once—not complete darkness, but an ancient green veil that seemed to strain every ray of light. The trunks, twisted as if grown according to unseen patterns, formed living columns rising toward a canopy of leaves nearly impenetrable above.

  Between them drifted a constant murmur, like voices chanting words in a language forgotten for ages.

  “I don’t like this,” Doran growled, tightening the strap of his axe. “There’s no wind… yet it sounds like the forest is breathing.”

  Kael offered a faint smile, never taking his eyes off the path.

  “It’s just a forest, Doran.”

  “A forest that watches,” the dwarf replied. “And don’t pretend you don’t feel it.”

  Kael opened his mouth to answer, but Kaelor raised a hand, listening intently to the sounds around them.

  Alden, a few steps behind, felt a sharp prickle crawl up the back of his neck—as if dozens of eyes, too high to see, were fixed on him from the depths.

  “Did you feel that?” Lyanna whispered, drawing slightly closer.

  Alden nodded.

  “We’re not alone.”

  Another crack.

  A dull thud in the distance.

  Then another.

  Doran frowned.

  “That’s no animal.”

  Kael’s shoulders tensed.

  “Did you hear that?”

  There was no time to react.

  Fluid shadows dropped from the branches. Bows already drawn. Curved blades glinting beneath the filtered light.

  Elves.

  They formed a perfect circle—silent, disciplined.

  An elf of firm bearing stepped forward from their ranks. His dark hair was tied back, and his gaze was sharp, leaving no room for doubt.

  Vaerion.

  “What are you doing in our forest?” he asked, without aggression, yet without a trace of trust. “Galathor’s people do not venture into Larethil. They know what awaits them.”

  Kaelor stepped forward, hands open.

  “We do not serve Galathor. We seek the Relics of Dawn.”

  Vaerion studied each of them with measured precision. His gaze lingered briefly on Lyanna—not because of her cloak, but because of her alert stance and the way her hand rested near her dagger—then moved on. Among the elves, Serah remained calm and silent.

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  “The Relics of Dawn?” Vaerion repeated cautiously. “Hard to believe that those who seek them do not act in the name of the Shadows. Galathor would gain the most from reuniting them.”

  Kaelor drew a deep breath.

  “The Bearer of the Mark is with us. The prophecies name him. He must gather the relics to face what is coming.”

  Vaerion narrowed his eyes, skeptical.

  “The Bearer? And which of you claims to be him?” He looked first at Kael, then at Alden, dismissing possibilities that seemed too obvious.

  At last, his gaze met Alden’s.

  A brief silence.

  Kaelor nodded.

  Alden opened his tunic and revealed the Mark.

  The change in Vaerion’s expression was subtle, yet unmistakable—a slight pull back of the shoulders, a tightening held in check, a sudden calculation in his eyes.

  It was not childish surprise.

  It was recognition.

  He hardened his features at once.

  “That proves nothing. Any fool can tattoo a symbol onto his skin.”

  Without a word, Alden drew the sword.

  The blade sang as it cleared the sheath, spilling a flare of light across the forest.

  Vaerion inhaled sharply.

  He did not step back, did not speak—but for an instant, the mask of control cracked.

  “Eryndhal,” he murmured, more to himself than to the others. “Then… it is true.”

  ***

  They were escorted in silence. The forest was vast, and the elves moved among the trees like living shadows. Alden walked beside Lyanna, alert, while Serah advanced a few steps ahead.

  “Where are you taking us?” Alden asked.

  Serah answered without turning.

  “To Thalan’dor, our home. Few outsiders walk its paths… and fewer still non-elves.”

  “Before the High Council,” she continued, eyes fixed forward. “Our elders and leaders. They will judge your words.”

  A flock of birds burst from the trees, leaving a harsh echo among the crowns.

  There was no time for more.

  A deep roar, followed by the splintering of branches, exploded to their right. A massive Agaroth burst from the undergrowth, accompanied by smaller creatures—deformed Krogars, some crawling low, others scrambling across roots and trunks. Dozens of them.

  “Hold the line!” Vaerion shouted.

  Chaos swallowed the clearing.

  The Wolf lunged at two Krogars at once, tearing them down with savage force.

  Doran swung his axe, splitting one creature’s skull and spinning to rip open another’s chest.

  “Damn it!” he roared, stepping back as three more leapt at him.

  Kael slipped between enemies, fast and precise, each movement a lethal thrust.

  “There are too many!” he hissed, narrowly dodging a jagged blade.

  Surrounded, Kaelor raised his sword and barely leaned aside in time as a claw grazed his cheek—the blow would have split his face in two. He recovered and countered with a horizontal strike that hurled the creature against a tree.

  The elves, swift and disciplined, moved through the forest with lethal precision: some fought up close with their curved blades, forming an agile, unyielding wall around the group, while others fired from the rear, shielding their companions beneath a calculated rain of arrows.

  Lyanna and Serah found themselves back to back, forming a defensive circle.

  Serah moved with unmatched agility, her twin blades tracing silver arcs that cut down creatures before they even touched the ground. Every turn of her wrist, every step, felt like part of a dance honed over years.

  Lyanna, by contrast, wielded only a dagger—yet her movements were just as steady. There was something different about her: small gusts of wind coiled around her, deflecting claws that reached for her, pushing creatures just beyond her reach. At times it was impossible to tell whether it was skill or that unseen current that kept them at bay.

  Still, the waves did not relent, advancing again and again without end.

  The Agaroth saw them isolated.

  And charged.

  “No!” Alden ran toward them, striking the beast with his sword and all the strength he could summon.

  The blade rebounded off the creature’s thick hide. The impact sent him stumbling, nearly losing his footing.

  The Agaroth raised its claw, ready to crush him.

  A silver blur cut through the air.

  The Wolf burst from the trees with a guttural roar and hurled herself at the creature’s neck, sinking her teeth into it from behind with the full force of her body.

  The Agaroth bellowed in fury and, with one brutal motion, flung her several meters away. The Wolf crashed through the brush, rolling to a stop.

  Alden felt a burning pulse ignite in his chest.

  Heat surged upward like a thread of fire along his spine.

  His pupils widened.

  An amber flash lit his eyes.

  The world seemed to slow.

  When the Agaroth turned toward him, Alden dodged the claw with a movement he did not understand—and guided by an impossible surge of strength and precision, drove Eryndhal into the creature’s abdomen.

  The monster roared.

  From the wound, a red radiance erupted, illuminating the Agaroth from within as though a fire were trapped beneath its skin.

  The smell of burning flesh filled the air.

  Alden screamed—not in fear, but swept along by the power coursing through him.

  The Agaroth staggered.

  Cracked.

  And fell backward with a thunderous crash.

  Dead.

  The silence that followed felt deeper than before.

  Serah stood frozen, staring at him with a mixture of shock and alarm.

  Lyanna whispered his name, barely audible.

  “Alden…”

  He tried to answer, but the breath left him all at once. He took a step toward them.

  Then he felt it—

  A brush. An ancient breath.

  As if the forest itself leaned toward him.

  A near-imperceptible hiss rippled through the leaves above, and for an instant the green gloom wrapped around him, warm and cold at the same time.

  Something had recognized him.

  Or marked him.

  Alden dropped to his knees.

  And collapsed onto the leaves as the forest light dimmed around him like a slow blink.

  Thank you for reading this chapter. I hope you enjoyed it and that you’ll continue on to the next one.

  I’d love to hear your thoughts on Larethil, the elves, and the battle within the forest. Did the forest’s reaction—or Alden’s awakening—surprise you?

  If you enjoyed this chapter and/or would like to support the project, you can buy me a coffee at:? [Ko-fi link]

  Remember, new chapters are released every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.See you in Myranthel.