The Last King of Eldoria E-Book

William Turner

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: The Twillight Prince Saga
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 479

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

A young prince holds the key to salvation in a realm where darkness threatens to consume all. Prince Elthorn Dawnwhisper embodies a complex blend of determination and self-doubt as he navigates the intricate web of his dual heritage, being both a Forest Elf and a High Elf. Fiercely loyal yet haunted by fears of failure, Elthorn must reconcile his internal conflicts while embracing both his nature magic and latent celestial powers.

Guided by enigmatic seer Ylliria Lunalight, Elthorn embarks on a journey of self-discovery and destiny. Alongside his loyal Night Sabre mount, Nyx, the prince faces trials, prophecies, and encounters with extraordinary beings. From the hidden Moonwell to the treacherous Whispering Woods, Elthorn's path leads him through ancient ruins that hint at a unified past for the divided Elven races.

As Elthorn's power and knowledge grow, so does the darkness encroaching upon their lands. Corrupted beasts and a mysterious woman wielding a black blade pose formidable threats, testing Elthorn's resolve and putting his allies in danger. With each step closer to fulfilling the prophecy of unification, doubts and sacrifices loom larger.

In his quest for unity, Elthorn must navigate political tensions, negotiate with rigid High Elf leaders, and earn the trust of the independent Shadow Elves. Alongside steadfast warrior Lyana Shadowstride and wise seer Ylliria, he strives to forge alliances that transcend centuries of mistrust.

The Twilight Prince is an immersive epic fantasy that explores themes of identity, destiny, and the power of unity. Join Elthorn on a captivating journey filled with stunning magic, breathtaking landscapes, and unforgettable characters. Will he overcome his self-doubt and lead his people into a new era? Dive into this mesmerising adventure where light and shadow intertwine!

Leseprobe

THE LAST KING OF ELDORIA

MAGIC REBORN

THE TWILIGHT PRINCE TRILOGY

BOOK ONE

WILLIAM V. TURNER

©INKSPIREGROUP

CONTENTS

The Sundering

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

About the Author

Upcoming

THE SUNDERING

They called it the Convergence Circle, though that was only a name for convenience. The actual name was lost, perhaps even to the oldest of the old, and no one seemed eager to go digging it up. There it sat, at the intersection of three worlds (so the stories said), and the place had about it a queer air. The stones, old as anything, seemed to reach for the sky, which could not decide whether it was day or night. The wind was full of odd lights and shifting shadows, as if the weather had not decided. There was a sense of power in the air, and of old secrets, and, on this particular day, a good deal of anxiety as well.

They came in three groups, each with their own ways and misgivings, but all with the same purpose: to see if anything could be done about the shadow creeping ever closer to their lands. The High Elves arrived first. They always did. They made a fine show of it. Their armour shone like stars; each looked like he had stepped out of a painting. Gold and silver everywhere, and faces that would not show a flicker of fear, though you could be sure they felt it. They moved with the sort of precision you get from centuries of practice. Their leader wore a crown that looked like it had been hammered out of the night sky.

The Forest Elves came next; you might have missed them if you weren't looking carefully. They seemed to step out of the trees as quietly as squirrels. Their shields were made of living wood, and the leaves and branches moved about as if they had a mind. Their armour was green and brown and twined with vines, and their eyes were sharp and green as new grass. Some had markings on their arms and faces, and the wood itself pulsed and shifted with their moods, which was rather unsettling if you weren't used to it.

Last of all, and least expected, were the Shadow Elves. They did not announce themselves, but appeared, as if the dusk had grown legs and learned to walk. Their cloaks were blacker than night, and their armour did not shine at all, but seemed to swallow up the light instead. Their eyes were a strange violet, and they watched the others with a look that said they were not entirely convinced this was a good idea. Their weapons were old, and their hands never strayed far from them.

So the three groups stood around the edge of the Circle, not quite together but not quite apart either, and the gaps between them seemed to speak louder than any words. Up above, the sky grew darker, as if it too wanted nothing to do with what was coming.

And what was coming was not an army, or a monster, but something worse. It was a creeping darkness, thick and oily, that ate up the light wherever it touched. It did not leave shadows, but something worse than shadows—a kind of emptiness that hurt to look at. The grass died where it passed, the stones cracked and bled, and the air smelled sour and wrong.

"It comes more quickly than the prophecies foretold," said the High Elf Archon leader. He wore his star-crown a little crooked, and though his face was calm, you could see a tightness around his mouth. His voice was the sort that made you want to stand up straight, even if you had never taken orders in your life.

"The prophecies speak true; it is our understanding that falters," replied the Forest Elf leader, the Heartkeeper. She held a staff that was growing even as she stood there, and there was a glow at the top, like a coal from a fire that never quite went out. Her eyes were old and kind, but just now they were set on the darkness with a look that brooked no nonsense.

The Shadow Elf, who was called Nightlord (though no one seemed to know if that was his real name), just grunted and dragged his sword along the ground, leaving a line of blackness that seemed to slow the darkness for a moment. "Words serve no purpose now," he said, his voice like gravel. "Only action will preserve what remains."

So the three of them took up their places around the Circle, and everyone else fell silent, for they knew something important was about to happen. This was old magic, not the sort you found in books or learned from your grandmother, but the kind that was passed down in whispers and dreams.

The Archon lifted his hands, and light poured from them like water. The Heartkeeper planted her staff, and roots burst from the ground, weaving an almost too complicated pattern to follow. The Nightlord stabbed his sword into the earth, and shadows rose, curling around the roots and the light, and for a moment it all seemed to come together.

“Ilúmar en’quessir thalanor.”

"BY THE COVENANT OF OUR ANCESTORS," SAID THE ARCHON.

“Thaelir en’vaelas noren’dil.”

"BY THE BLOOD THAT BINDS US STILL," SAID THE HEARTKEEPER.

Veynar en’sulthir draen, nar’velith tor.”

"BY THE POWER DIVIDED BUT UNDIMINISHED," SAID THE NIGHTLORD.

Their magics twisted together, and the Circle was filled with a light that was not just bright but alive, and a darkness that was not just empty but deep. The other Elves joined in, each in their own way, and for a moment it seemed as if the darkness might be stopped after all.

The shadow halted at the Circle's edge, writhed and hissed, but could not seem to get through. There was a brief feeling of triumph, and a few of the younger Elves even let out a cheer, though most of them just stood there, stunned.

But the darkness was not finished. It gathered itself, growing denser and heavier, and then it struck the barrier with a force that made the ground shake. The shield held, but cracks appeared, and the three leaders staggered. The hope that had just begun to blossom was snuffed out in an instant.

"It learns," gasped the Heartkeeper, and there was blood on her face. "It adapts."

The darkness struck again, and this time it broke through several places simultaneously. The warriors tried to fight it, but it was no good. Where the shadow touched, it consumed everything: armour, flesh, and hope. A High Elf vanished in a puff of ash; a Forest Elf's shield screamed as it died; a Shadow Elf's cloak and its owner fell apart.

There was a lot of shouting and a good deal of running about, but none of it made any difference. The Circle, which was supposed to be their last defence, had become a trap. The leaders drew the barrier tighter, pulling everyone inside, but it was evident to all present that it was only a matter of time.

"We cannot hold," said the Nightlord, with nothing more to say.

"Then we die with dignity," said the Archon, and his crown was no longer bright.

The Heartkeeper did not answer, but stared off to the east, where, against all reason, a strange and beautiful light had begun to grow, brighter than anything else in the world.

The light came on, neither sunbeam nor torch, but a radiance with its own shape and intent. Seraphine moved over the wasted ground, and wherever she went, grass uncurled, dust gathered itself back into stone, and the air seemed to clear. Her feet barely touched the earth, as if the rules of the world bent for her. Darkness shrank away from her, but she left behind not emptiness but a gentle glow—a mild luminescence that threw no shadow.

The battered barrier around the Convergence Circle opened without command or word for her. The magics of three peoples recognised a power older and deeper than their own. Seraphine stepped through, and her presence soothed the battered place. Her skin shone with shifting colours, each movement trailing a light unknown to mortal eyes. In her gaze, galaxies wheeled and died, stars kindling and fading in the blink of an eye.

Her clothing was simple, yet impossible: woven from purest light, it rippled and flowed, sometimes solid as metal, sometimes drifting like mist. She wore no crown, but authority clung to her with every step.

"The Starchild comes," whispered the Archon, and his voice had lost its usual command. His knees bent, star-crown dimming before her plain brilliance.

"The Light-Bearer," breathed the Heartkeeper, her staff's ember pulsing in answer to a power older than the oldest tree. She knelt, head bowed.

"The Void-Toucher," muttered the Nightlord, lowering his obsidian blade as he too knelt. For once, shadows did not cling to him; her light swept them away.

Around the Circle, Elves of all three kindreds followed their leaders, kneeling though they were exhausted, wounded, and pressed by the darkness. Even now, old customs are held. Some presences demanded it.

Seraphine regarded them with eyes that had seen the start and end of worlds. Her face was neither stern nor soft, but simply present, as if nothing could be more natural. "Rise," she said, and her voice sounded in their bones. "This is no time for ceremony."

She turned to the Circle, the old stones worn smooth by ages. She went to the centre, where the three leaders had stood, and laid her palm on the keystone. Light ran from her hand into the earth, and runes flared up that none had seen before: symbols older than words, carved by will into the bones of the world.

"The pattern frays," she said, tracing the runes as they brightened and faded under her touch. "The bindings weaken." Her fingers found a central glyph, a knot of three magics, and she paused there. "As was foretold."

The darkness pressed harder, sensing her as both enemy and prize. The Elven spell shuddered, cracks spreading like frost on glass.

"We cannot hold much longer," said the Archon, trying to keep his dignity, though fear was plain on his face. "Our strength together is not enough for this… hunger."

Seraphine nodded, as if she had expected nothing else. Her hand stayed on the rune, which now glowed steadily. "This was made in another age, when the boundaries between things were thinner. It was meant to prevent exactly this." She looked up, her gaze sweeping the Elves. "The seal needs a vessel of pure light."

"A vessel?" The Heartkeeper stepped forward, leaning on her staff. "What vessel could contain such darkness?"

"One not of this world." Seraphine's light dimmed, a tired sigh in the air. "Only a being of pure celestial essence can serve as both conduit and prison. The darkness must be bound in living light, sealed by willing sacrifice."

The leaders understood, and horror dawned on their faces.

"No," said the Archon, voice regaining its force. "We cannot permit it. There must be another way."

"Lady of Light," said the Nightlord, using a name older than memory, "your presence keeps the balance. If you are lost⁠—"

"The balance will fail if the darkness is not contained," Seraphine broke in, gentle but firm. "I have walked between worlds since before your kind drew breath. I have seen more than you can imagine. This choice is not made lightly."

The Heartkeeper came closer, her steps faltering. "The prophecies speak of the Convergence, of the three united. If we could finish the ritual as it was meant…"

"The time for unity has not come." Seraphine's eyes softened as she looked at the Forest Elf. "Your people are not ready. The wounds are too deep, the trust too thin." She nodded at the barrier, where cracks spread ever wider. "And there is no time."

"Then we fall together, with honour," said the Archon, standing tall. Around the Circle, Elven warriors straightened, hands on weapons.

Seraphine stilled them with a calm and final gesture that even the proudest obeyed. "Your time is not ended. Your purpose is not yet fulfilled." She stood before the three leaders, her light so bright they had to shield their eyes. "This sacrifice buys time, not victory. The darkness will return when the seal breaks again."

Her voice dropped, meant only for the three. "The prophecy remains. The Convergence must happen, but at its proper time, with its true vessels." She touched a pendant at her throat, hung on a chain of starlight. The gem at its heart was neither light nor dark, but possibility—a swirl of what might be.

She took it off and pressed it into the Heartkeeper's hands. "Keep this. When the child of two bloods stands here, give it freely. Not before."

The Heartkeeper's hands shook as she took the pendant; it seemed heavier than it looked. "How will we know this child?"

"You will know," Seraphine said. "The stars themselves will tell you."

The Archon stepped forward, troubled. "Lady of Light, the burden you take on…"

"Is mine alone," she finished. "As it was written when first light touched first darkness." She turned, going to the centre of the Circle. "Now, stand back. What follows is not for mortal eyes."

The leaders withdrew, their warriors with them. The barrier thinned, the darkness pressing in hungrily.

Seraphine stood alone, her light swelling until it filled the whole Circle. For a moment, she was not as they had seen her, but as she truly was—a being of pure celestial energy, ancient and immense. Yet even her radiance looked suddenly, terribly finite beside the oncoming void.

Seraphine stood at the Circle's centre, arms raised, calling on powers beyond knowing. The light that was her nature grew and grew, not just a brightness but a truth pushing back against a lie. The runes beneath her feet woke fully now, spiralling outwards, each mark a word in a tongue older than the world. Sensing its doom, the darkness drew into a swirling mass, circling her like a beast before the kill.

“Ae’thar en’lumiel ilúveth.”

"BY THE LIGHT THAT BIRTHED THE FIRST STARS," SHE INTONED, HER VOICE ECHOING LIKE PLANETS TURNING IN THE NIGHT.

Ae’shael en’korrin thar’vel. Ae’noraen’serath un’vael.”

"BY THE FIRE THAT FORGED THE WORLDS BETWEEN. BY THE NAME THAT CANNOT BE SPOKEN BUT ONLY KNOWN." AT EACH WORD, THE RUNES BLAZED UP, THEIR LIGHT BUILDING A LATTICE ABOUT HER, AS IF SHE STOOD AT THE HEART OF SOME INVISIBLE CATHEDRAL.

The darkness tested the lattice, tendrils of nothingness searching for flaws. They hissed and drew back where they touched the light, but always returned, stronger and more cunning. There was a mind behind it—a hunger older than life, wanting to devour not just living things, but the idea of living itself.

Seraphine traced symbols in the air, each motion leaving a trail of light that hardened into a barrier. Her gestures made no sense to the Elves, but there was a precision to them, a calculation beyond their reach. The equations she shaped grew more and more complex, bending light at impossible angles, building a seal that no everyday world could hold.

"Witness," she commanded, though it was hard to say whom she meant. "Witness and remember."

The darkness struck, no longer circling, but battering at her defences. It crashed against the lattice of light, and for a moment, the two forces were balanced, neither gaining nor losing. Then, with intent, Seraphine opened her hands and heart, not to build a higher wall, but to make a way in.

“An’thir en’aeluin, veyl’anor en’draeth.”

"I OFFER MYSELF AS VESSEL AND PRISON," SHE SAID, AND NOW HER VOICE WAS STRAINED.

“Lumiel en’shaeth velith. Aeluin en’draen thalas. Thirien en’voryn kael.”

"LIGHT TO CONTAIN DARKNESS. FORM TO BIND CHAOS. WILL TO SHACKLE HUNGER."

The darkness did not hesitate. It poured in, a torrent of void filling her shining form. Her skin cracked with golden light where it entered, fissures racing over her as if lightning had struck glass. Her radiance leaked out, and more darkness came in.

The Elven leaders watched, horrified and awed. This was no spell, but a reshaping of the world itself: light becoming prison for darkness, a being made of stars taking in that which unmade stars.

"The balance shifts," whispered the Archon, his star-crown flickering wildly.

"The world changes," said the Heartkeeper, clutching her pendant and her staff, both trembling.

"The price is paid," said the Nightlord, his blade drinking in the wild energies that spilt from the Circle.

All around, the Elves braced themselves. Forest Elves rooted their feet to the earth. High Elves made barriers of their own light. Shadow Elves wrapped themselves in cloaks of dusk, but none could look away from what happened at the centre.

Seraphine's form began to break apart, her essence splintering under the strain. The darkness inside her fought its cage, twisting her into something more and less than she had been. Her hands lengthened and shrank at once, her face flickered between peace and pain, and her eyes showed both the birth and death of stars.

“Ilúvarien, nar ilúveth……thalorien.”

"IT CONSUMES," SHE GASPED, BARELY AUDIBLE OVER THE STORM. "BUT IT DOES NOT… UNDERSTAND."

She arched, face to a sky now hidden by the storm of power. When she spoke again, her voice was layered, as if something else spoke through her.

“Ilúmar tel’quessir thalas ilúthien duskéra, en’quorin nar ilúviel.”

"WHEN THREE BECOME ONE BENEATH THE TWILIGHT CROWN," SHE SAID, THE WORDS BURNING THEMSELVES INTO MEMORY, "MY SACRIFICE SHALL NOT BE IN VAIN."

The darkness surged, nearly breaking free, but she held it back. Starlit blood ran from her eyes, her nose, her ears; her essence was leaking away.

"A child of dual heritage shall stand where I fall," she went on, each word costing her more, "and the darkness shall meet its match."

Seraphine brought her ruined hands together in a thunderclap that shook the world. Light and darkness collapsed into each other, folding in until nothing could be seen but a single point. For one endless moment, she stood whole, her face at peace.

Then the flash; not just bright, but so bright it seemed to remake the idea of light itself. Even the oldest High Elves shielded their eyes, their affinity for light no help at all. The Forest Elves fell to their knees, overwhelmed by the raw force. The Shadow Elves hid in darkness, but it did not protect them.

The flash shot out in three waves, each rushing toward one of the Elven kindreds, then stopping, hardening into shimmering walls that pulsed with a heart now gone. Where these met the earth, the land changed: mountains rose, valleys deepened, and the world split into three.

When the light faded, the Elves looked to the Circle's centre, knowing what they would find.

Seraphine was gone.

There was no trace, no dust, not even ash. Only a shimmer in the air, like heat above stone, and a scent that was not a scent but the memory of light. The runes were dark, their work finished.

In her place stood three barriers, each running from the centre like spokes on a wheel, dividing what had been one gathering into three. These were not mere walls, but divisions in the world itself.

To the High Elves is a wall of celestial light, shifting with old and new star-patterns.

To the Forest Elves, a living wall of wood and vine, grown in a heartbeat.

To the Shadow Elves, a veil of twilight, neither transparent nor dark, constantly changing.

These barriers met at the centre, knotted together in a tangle of magic, pulsing with power—the seal Seraphine had promised, lasting far longer than any mortal life.

The Archon reached out to the light-wall, and when he touched it, a spark ran up his arm—not static, but the last breath of Seraphine's sacrifice. He drew back, shaken by knowledge too great to hold.

"It is done," he whispered, and for the first time, he looked old.

"But not ended," said the Heartkeeper from behind her wall of green.

"And the price," finished the Nightlord, muffled by twilight, "was more than we can know."

Between them, where once a being of pure light had stood, there was only division, and the hope of a future none of them would see.

The dawn after Seraphine's sacrifice broke upon a world quite altered from the one that had gone before. Pale light crept over new mountains, their sharp and unfamiliar peaks, and over chasms that split the land where there had been none yesterday. The three elven kindreds now stood each apart, separated by barriers that were as much of spirit as of stone or spell, and the silence between them was heavier than any words could be. After all, there was not much to say when unity had failed, and the price of salvation had been so steep.

The Archon was the first to turn away. His star-crown, once bright as dawn itself, now hung dull and tired upon his brow. "We return to the Celestial Archives," he said, the words travelling across the new divide with less force than before. "There is nothing to be gained by lingering here, where the air is thick with failure and loss."

He looked across the barrier at the Shadow Elves, his gaze cold and hard. "Had your kind not meddled with forbidden magics, perhaps the darkness would not have found such easy purchase in our world."

The Nightlord, for his part, slid his obsidian blade into its sheath with a gesture that was almost a rebuke. His eyes, violet and unblinking, narrowed. "How convenient to lay blame at our feet, Archon. Your pride blinds you, as ever. Was it not your vaunted starlight that failed first? Were your own barriers not the first to break before the void?"

The Heartkeeper gripped her staff so tightly between them that the knuckles showed white. Her face, an old and kind face, was marked more by sorrow than anger. "The cycle begins anew," she murmured, perhaps to herself or the listening trees. "Division, when unity was needed most. Blame, when acceptance would have served better." She turned to her own people, who stood uncertain among the fresh growth that even now pushed up through the soil. "We return to the Elder Grove. The land is wounded, and it must be healed."

So they parted. Three people who had, for a brief moment, stood together were now turning their backs and retreating into solitude, with the first seeds of bitterness already sown.

The High Elves gathered their wounded with a chilly precision, forming into lines and processions as neat as the patterns stitched into their robes. They went eastward toward the distant spires of their shining city, which pierced the horizon like crystal needles. There was no disorder in their leaving, no raised voices or confusion; only the practised movements of those who had learned to process grief through discipline and distance. The scholars were already whispering among themselves, cataloguing the disaster for their records. The mages bent their heads over the remains of the celestial barrier, searching for flaws to mend. The warriors, proud even in defeat, kept to their ancient formations.

Within a few days, they would close themselves behind new enchantments, layering Seraphine's barrier with their own spells of light and exclusion. The archives would record the Shadow Elves' supposed treachery as settled fact, and the tale would grow in the telling, until the truth itself was bent beneath the weight of their certainty.

The Forest Elves left without any particular order, moving as the trees themselves do: each following their own path, yet all paths somehow converging. The ground seemed to yield and deepen beneath their feet, as if the earth remembered them. New growth sprang up in their wake, erasing their footprints. The druids whispered to the oldest trees, capturing the memory of Seraphine's sacrifice in living wood. The healers tended the wounded with herbs and gentle hands, while the guardians watched for any lingering shadow.

They made their way to groves so old that the world seemed to slow and hush around them. The line between matter and spirit was thin as mist in those places. Here, they would turn inward, binding themselves to tradition and memory, letting their ties to the other kindreds wither away like untended vines.

The Shadow Elves vanished into the dusk, as was their custom. Their retreat was not so much a journey as a passing from one state to another. They slipped into the twilight realm that had always been their home, moving with the quiet certainty of those who know the shadows better than the light. Scouts led the way, followed by the wounded, supported by silent warriors whose cloaks shimmered with spells. They left no trace, only the memory of their absence.

In the twilight, geography itself became uncertain. Mountains that looked flat from one side revealed endless caverns from another. Forests grew upside down, their roots dangling in the air. Day and night lost their meaning, replaced by subtle shades of dusk. Here, bitterness would be preserved like a rare fungus, and the old grievances against the High Elves would harden into tradition.

The land itself changed in their wake. Where once there had been gentle transitions, now there were sharp boundaries. Around the High Elves, mountains rose, crystalline and cold, as if pride had taken physical form. The light within their borders became golden and unchanging; rivers ran clear as glass; forests grew in perfect, almost unnatural symmetry.

The Forest Elves' land sank into a deep valley.

1

SHADOWS IN VALEWIND

Prince Elthorn Dawnwhisper awoke with a start, a cry caught between his chest and throat. The dream still clung to him, thick and choking, and for a moment, he could not remember where he was. Night had not quite finished with him; the shadows lingered in the corners, sulking against the walls of living wood that made up his bedchamber. The air was heavy, sticky with the smell of wildflowers and sap, but there was sweat, too, sharp and sour. He lay still a while, breath coming hard, as if he'd been running for his life and only just now had found shelter.

His father's death: always the same, always worse than before. King Lorandel's face was slack and empty, and the voice that used to shake the leaves of Valewind was now gone altogether. The dream replayed it, over and over, each time more vivid, more grotesque. And Elthorn felt himself shrinking each time, as if something had torn up his roots and left him to wither.

He sat up, feet hitting the floor. The wood was warm, yielding gently, and seemed to thrum in time with his racing heart. The walls, too, drew in a little, as if to comfort him. Overhead, the branches that made the dome of his room creaked, and the leaves shivered, though the windows were closed tight. Strips of moonlight broke through the latticed windows, cutting the room into slices of shadow and pale glow. It was all unreal; he wasn't sure if he was awake.

"Roots in darkness, crown in light," he said. His voice was rough, but the words helped. Old words, older than any living Elf. He told them again, slower, until his hands stopped shaking. He pictured the Eldertree: roots deep below, crown high above. That was how it was supposed to be. He opened his eyes and made himself still.

At first glance, the room looked peaceful enough. Everything was shaped by careful hands: shelves grown from the walls, filled with books and relics. Some glimmered with magic, some were plain and worn. The ceiling spiralled up and up, always drawing the eye to the sky. In one corner, a sconce bloomed with blue light. But today, the details were off. The sconce's petals were curled tight, the air was thick, and the wood's pulse was uneven. The whole place seemed to be holding its breath.

He wiped his face, found it cold and damp, and ran his fingers through his hair. For a moment, pale light rings shimmered on his arms, like the marks inside a tree. He pushed the glow away. Even here, he was careful; the prince was never quite alone.

He looked at the mirror above the dressing alcove. The face staring back was his, but not quite. High cheekbones, eyes shifting between green and silver, never settling. A nose too sharp for an Elf, too fine for a human, and a mouth that always looked on the edge of trembling. He bared his teeth, then laughed at himself. Prince of Valewind, frightened by a dream.

He fished out the pendant from under his nightshirt. It was pale gold with a speck of green tourmaline and inside a lock of silver hair—his mother's. He pressed it to his lips and waited for his hands to steady.

There was a soft and measured tap at the door—his attendant, right on time. Elthorn pulled himself together and called for her to come in.

A girl entered, quiet and graceful, her face sharp and clever. She set down his breakfast: tea, berries, and warm bread. He thanked her and waited for her to go before eating. He made himself chew slowly to keep himself anchored and not drift back into the dream.

When he'd finished, he went to dress. The motions were familiar, almost comforting. He chose a tunic of mosswool, soft and grey-green. Over it was a darker robe embroidered at the cuffs and hem with silver thread: constellations and spirals, the languages of High and Forest Elves. He was making a point, as always.

He sat to braid his hair. The sides were done in the Forest style, tight and neat, but he twisted it in the High Elven way at the crown, a spiral that caught the light. He fastened it with a clasp from his mother's family, set with white and green pearls.

Last, the sash. He held it a moment. Silver shot through with shifting patterns, Forest and High together. He tied it quickly, hands sure.

He rechecked the mirror. He looked the part: no sign of sleeplessness, every thread a statement. He pressed his palm to the glass and met his own eyes—green and silver, split right down the middle.

"Roots in darkness, crown in light," he whispered. The words seemed to settle the air.

He touched the locket again, tucked it away, and turned to go.

At the threshold, the walls opened for him, wood curling aside. He stepped into the antechamber, and the light of morning, filtered through green leaves, washed over him. The world was waiting. The council was waiting.

He squared his shoulders and started the long climb to the Grand Chamber, leaving the nightmare behind.

The Grand Council Chamber of Valewind was a curious place, if one had never seen it before. It lay at the very heart of the Eldertree, which, by all accounts, was an ancient trunk so broad that it could have swallowed up any castle built of stone, and still had room for a few more besides. The chamber was shaped like an amphitheatre, the floor spiralling down from the entryway, each tier lined with thrones of living roots. These thrones were not all alike, of course; each was shaped to suit the status or family of its occupant, and some, if you looked closely, betrayed a good deal of eccentricity as well. A dais was at the bottom, in the lowest circle, and the twin thrones of rule stood on it. One was for King Lorandel, who still sat there, and the other for the consort, long since absent, but left empty ever after.

Elthorn paused at the upper archway and took in the scene. The chamber was already filling up: First Archer of the southern border, the Keeper of Dawnlight Archives, merchant lords from the upper canopies, and scholars in robes dyed every colour you could imagine, and a few you couldn't. Their voices tangled in the air, rising and falling, each one was determined to outdo the others, whether by wit or menace.

He started down the spiral, and every step seemed to draw more attention. Some of the council gave him half-bows; some only flicked their eyebrows; others stared openly, hoping to see some sign of the madness people whispered about, or hinting that the young prince would stumble now that the city's peace was less certain. Elthorn met every gaze, even the hard ones from the Old Houses, who were never pleased to see new blood, especially not from the line of the High Elves. It was not their way, and they did not like it.

He sat near the base, in the spot for the royal heir, and waited. Across from him, King Lorandel was already there, looking as still as old bark. His eyes, once famous for their spark, now seemed tired, as if he hadn't slept in a year. The crown he wore was not metal, but living wood, its stems twined so tightly that a single new leaf, just budded, looked as if it pained him to bear it. It was a pleasing sight, in its way, but also a sad one.

Then the doors opened, and everyone turned to look. In came Elder Aelyndra Oakheart, who was said to be so old that she remembered the Sundering itself. She moved slowly, her staff dragging behind her and clicking on the floor with every step, for the wood had been fitted with metal to help her grip. Her robes were dark green, almost black, and shimmered with dew. Stranger still, she seemed to flicker as she walked: one moment solid and present, the next nearly transparent, as if she belonged to more than one world at once.

Aelyndra's arrival silenced the room. She sat, planted her staff before her, and reached the point.

"Valewind's heart sickens. The Elder Grove withers at its core. We all sense it. Let us not waste time with denials."

A murmur went round the chamber—a mixture of agreement and unease.

"The animals flee the Grove's boundary," said the First Archer. "Last night, not even the wood-hawks would go in. The Grove's guardians are restless, howling at the moon like the old wild days."

"The stream near the Oracle's Well has darkened," said the Keeper of Dawnlight, clutching his scrolls. "The taste is changed, and the flowers along the banks are wilting, even in full sun."

A merchant lord, dressed more for show than wisdom, leaned in. "Has anyone considered it's just blight? A bad season, or the drought last year? We'll have panic if we jump at every shadow."

Aelyndra fixed him with a stare cold as winter. "There are seasons, and there are signs. This is no accident. It is a shadowing, a sickness that creeps on more than root and leaf. The old magic feels it."

The air itself seemed to thicken and tasted of storm.

Lorandel spoke, his voice steady. "Has anyone tried to commune with the Grove's sentience? Have the ancient songs failed?"

"All efforts have failed, Your Majesty," said a junior councillor, not meeting his eye. "The Grove resists even our oldest rites. Last night, one of the root-singers returned raving, his mind shattered, as if something in the earth had turned against him."

Elthorn shifted in his seat. "If the Grove itself resists, perhaps the threat is not only natural," he said. "There are magics older than ours, and some may wish us harm from outside."

He got no further. Elder Aelyndra's staff struck the floor, sending a tremor through the chamber. She flickered, then became more solid than ever. She smiled, but there was no warmth in it.

"Your mother's blood clouds your judgment, young prince," she said. The words seemed to take root in every ear. "The High Elves see malice in every shadow, conspiracy in every chill. Some matters are for Forest Elves alone."

The insult was plain, and the council split simultaneously: some siding with the old druid, others with the prince. Elthorn let it hang in the air and did not show anger.

He answered, soft but clear, "If pride blinds us to the enemy, we are already defeated."

A few nodded, most quietly.

King Lorandel raised his hand, not as a threat but as a blessing. "Enough," he said, and the chamber seemed to breathe again. "There is wisdom in both roots and sky. My son sees things from two perspectives, whereas we see things from one. That is strength, not weakness. We will not be divided by old quarrels when the city faces true peril."

He waited, then added: "We need eyes unclouded by tradition. Elthorn, you will investigate these disturbances. Go to the Elder Grove, and report what you find to this council, so all may judge."

Aelyndra looked sour, but said nothing. The council turned as one to Elthorn.

He stood. "I accept, Your Majesty. I will do what is required."

So it was settled. The rest of the session was a blur, minor matters swept aside. Some councillors watched Elthorn with new respect; others, like Aelyndra, watched him as if he were already lost. A few seemed almost relieved, hoping the Grove's secret would swallow him and spare the rest.

The chamber felt empty when the assembly broke up, like after a funeral. Elthorn climbed back up the spiral, every step lighter than before, but every heartbeat aware of the eyes that would follow him.

He paused at the archway and looked back. The king slumped on his throne, the new leaf trembling. Aelyndra hunched over her staff on the far side, lips moving in silent argument with something unseen. For a moment, their eyes met, and in the old druid's gaze was not just contempt, but fear.

Elthorn stepped into the morning, the weight of his mission both a glory and a burden.

* * *

The king's summons was not a shouted order but a quiet word from a page who found Elthorn as he left the council. Elthorn followed down the familiar passages that burrowed into the Eldertree's living heart. Here, away from the grand halls, the walls pressed closer, and the light was softer, filtered through layers of leaf and resin. It was always twilight and always silent.

King Lorandel's private study was nothing like the council chamber. It was small, almost cramped, and the walls seemed to breathe with the king. Maps of the three Elven realms covered every surface, all scribbled over in Lorandel's hand. The desk was cluttered with relics: a treaty arrow, a cracked jewel, and, next to the inkwell, a child's flute, every flaw left untouched.

Lorandel stood at the window, hands behind his back. For a moment, Elthorn thought he had not been noticed. Then the king said, without turning, "You did well, my son. Even the stubbornest root will yield to water if you wait long enough."

"I only did what was needed," Elthorn said, surprised at how small his voice sounded.

"That is why I am proud," said Lorandel, and turned at last. His face, without its public mask, was lined by grief and sleeplessness. He gestured Elthorn to a chair—not grown, but carved, worn smooth by three generations.

Lorandel poured cordial into two cups, his hands shaking just a little. He gave one to Elthorn, and they drank silently for a while.

"You know," said Lorandel, "when your mother and I thought to unite our houses, they said it would bring only sorrow. Fools, they called us. But your mother saw what I did. The future is not built by looking backwards."

He opened a drawer and took out a small wooden box. It was so old that the grain looked more like stone than wood.

"This was carved from the first tree of Valewind," Lorandel said, tracing the lid. "They say its roots touched every corner of the forest. Maybe, in time, they will again."

He set the box down, but did not open it. He studied his son, eyes flicking between the green and silver. "I know this is not the burden you hoped for. No one wants to be remembered only for the trials they survived. But..."

He stopped, as if the rest would not come.

Elthorn reached for the box, then hesitated. "What is it?"

"A gift," said Lorandel. "And a trust. Inside is a vial, drawn from the sap of that first tree. It will let you pass the Grove's outer defences. What lies deeper, I cannot say."

Elthorn opened the box. The vial was small, sealed with wax and wound with silver and copper. The liquid inside glowed, gold at the core and green at the rim—a dawn in miniature. He held it up, watching the colours shift.

"You believe in me?" Elthorn asked quietly.

Lorandel answered at once. "I have never believed in anyone more. Your mother would say the same if she were here."

Elthorn blinked and tried not to retreat into formality. "Thank you, Father. I will not fail you."

The king put a hand on his shoulder, awkward but strong. "You see paths others cannot. Trust that. Even if they do not."

They sat in silence, the words unspoken between them. At last, Elthorn stood, the box in hand.

"Go, before I change my mind and keep you here," said Lorandel, with a laugh that was not quite real.

Elthorn bowed, deeper than he ever had in public, and left.

As the door closed, he glimpsed his father, bent over the maps, tracing lines between realms, always searching for a way that did not end in loss.

* * *

The royal stables lay beneath the eastern canopy, between wild and tame. There were no walls, just the trunks of old trees and a roof of woven branches, so rain and wind fell only where the animals wanted. Each stall matched its occupant: moss for the moon-deer, broad platforms for the ridge-beasts, and, at the far end, an enclave in shadow where Nyx waited.

Elthorn entered quietly. The stable hands, knowing his ways, had left him alone. Even the animals watched, their ears turning to follow him and their eyes bright with suspicion. He paused at the edge of the dark and let his senses stretch out.

At first, Nyx was invisible, her coat so black it swallowed light. Then, with a ripple, she stepped forward, her eyes gold and bright. She was bigger than any cat should be, her shoulders level with Elthorn's chest, and she moved like water. Her upper canines, white as ice, curved over her jaw, but the rest of her was all muscle and silence.

They looked at each other. At once, the bond opened—a rush of sensation and memory. Elthorn felt the world as she did: the cold air, the scent of distant things, the hum of sap in the trees. He held out his hand, and Nyx pressed her forehead to it, formal and fierce.

He let the bond deepen, and in that shared space, images tumbled: his father's tired face, the council's wary stares, the darkness in the Grove. From Nyx, a reply: the smell of burning leaves, the taste of blood, the wrongness that had haunted her dreams. They stood together, neither one nor the other, but something more.

"We leave at dawn for the Elder Grove," Elthorn said, though words were hardly needed.

Nyx's tail flicked, her muscles tense with hunger—not for food, but for action, the chance to hunt whatever threatened them.

Elthorn stroked her flank, grounding himself. For a moment, he let himself rest in her presence. She would never betray him.

But there was fear, too. Elthorn saw the vision in the shared mind: a darkness falling, swallowing even the moonlight. He saw himself falling, Nyx with him, both weightless in the dark. The image shifted: fight, or perish. There was no other way.

Nyx licked his hand, rough and warm. Then she turned and vanished into the shadows.

Elthorn leaned against a pillar, eyes closed, letting her breath calm him. The stables felt peaceful now. Even the moon-deer relaxed.

He stayed there, suspended in the night, until the sky began to pale and the first birds dared to sing.

He straightened, tucking the box into his sash. Nyx appeared again, ready, eyes bright.

Together, they waited for the last of the night to pass.

* * *

Dawn should have come with noise: birds, the wind, the bridges, the leaves singing. But when Elthorn and Nyx left the stables, the world was silent. They were so quiet that even their breathing seemed too loud.

It was not the absence of sound, but a presence—a weight, thick and watchful. Even Nyx hesitated, her fur on end.

Elthorn stepped out. The air was holding its breath. Above, the great trees drooped, their leaves unmoving. In the street below, Elthorn saw it: birds caught mid-flight, frozen as if pinned in glass. Squirrels and others, still on the branches, eyes wide.

He looked up, and the world made no sense.

The sky, usually blue, was the colour of old bruises. In its centre hung a perfect black disk, blocking the sun. It was not an eclipse—it was too complete, too final. Around it, a corona of darkness bled into the sky, casting the city in false twilight.

Nyx growled, low and furious. Elthorn felt it in his bones. Around the city, the sentinel trees shuddered, their crowns bending away from the black sun. The enchantments in their bark flared, then died, like candles in the wind.

Elthorn looked at the streets. Elves stood where they were, staring up, faces blank with fear. Some clung to each other; some knelt and prayed to the old gods. The guards, usually so calm, looked like children, helpless and afraid.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the black sun shrank, as if eating itself. Light crept back, with it motion: a bird breaking free, then another, then the city breathed again.

But the memory lingered. Colours seemed faded, the wind tired, everything just a little off. Nyx shook herself and looked to Elthorn.

He saw himself in her eyes: one silver, one green, both wide with fear and understanding.

The omen was clear.

"Now we have no choice," he said, mostly to himself.

He mounted Nyx. Around them, the elves watched in silence, waiting.

"We ride for the Elder Grove," Elthorn called, his voice ringing. Some part of him wanted to look back, but there was nothing for him in the city until he had faced whatever the black sun foretold.

Nyx sprang forward. The path to the Grove was empty, as if the world had fled. Elthorn kept his eyes on the sky, even as the city vanished behind and the forest closed in. Where the black sun had been, the air still trembled.

He urged Nyx on, faster, the omen burning into his mind. Every stride brought them closer to the Grove—and whatever waited there.

2

THE SEER'S PROPHECY

It began, as these things often do, with an unexpected visitor.

Long before her steps could be heard padding softly over the moss outside Valewind's eastern watch-gate, her presence was sensed—a ripple in the city's roots, a slight unease in the dreams of the sensitive, a hush where birdsong had been expected. The sentries, perched in their delicate towers grown from the living branches, exchanged glances: stories of the Moonwell Seer had reached even the greenest recruit, but none among them had ever thought to see her in person, and certainly not at dawn, and certainly not unannounced. Yet there she was: Ylliria Lunalight, robed in the deep blue of the hour before sunlight, hair like liquid silver, skin so pale she might have been the moon's own orphan.

She did not knock. She did not call. She merely stopped before the archway that separated Wildwood from the city, and stood, hands folded, eyes fixed on a spot well above the heads of the assembled guards. Her eyes: milky, bright, with no iris or pupil, reflecting nothing, but glowing faintly, as if two little moons had been set in her skull. The closer she drew, the more the city's defences seemed to shrink from her. Vines curled away from her feet; the enchanted sigils in the wood dulled as she passed.

"Announce me," she said, in a voice gentle but with the force of a falling star. The guard captain—a burly fellow, scarred and battered by a hundred skirmishes—found himself bowing lower than he had ever bowed for his king.

"Of course, Seer," he stammered, "though his Majesty⁠—"

"I will await him in the Chamber of Ash and Gold," she said, already stepping past, her feet silent on the root-carved path.

Rumour spread behind her. First among the guards, then the apprentices and pageboys, and before long, by the time Ylliria reached the city's first spiral, her arrival was already ahead of her, stirring unrest among the councillors and drawing the wary attention of the city's oldest trees. She ignored the stares, the whispered wardings, the more open distrust from those whose history with the High Elves still stung like a bruise. She walked straight and swift, as if bracing herself against a wind only she could feel, so came at last to the central trunk—the heart of Valewind—and entered the palace.

Inside, the Chamber of Ash and Gold had been prepared, as if for prophecy. Every surface burnished, lichen-polished sconces flickering with cold blue fire, tapestries chosen to recall moments of peace, not war. The throne in the centre, grown in a helix from two twining boughs, sat empty. Ylliria did not wait for permission. She paced around the dais, placed her pale hands on its back, and bowed her head in thought.

She was not left alone for long. Two guards arrived, hands on hilts of weapons they did not wish to draw. Behind them, King Lorandel entered in formal robes, his crown of living branches blooming with white flowers, the scars of age and rule plain on his face. At his side, as always, was Elthorn: eyes sharp with curiosity and dread, shoulders squared, but betraying, in the slight drag of his step, that he too felt the weight of the omen now intruding on his home.

"Ylliria Lunalight," Lorandel intoned, his voice carrying the soft echo of a man used to command, but now tinged with awe he could not quite hide. "The Moonwell has not sent its voice to Valewind in many centuries. We are honoured."

She inclined her head, a small but perfect gesture. "It is not the city that is honoured, but the blood that links us across the realms. My coming is not a courtesy, but an inevitability. The moon's pull brings all tides to reckoning."

Elthorn's eyes darted from Seer to king and back again. Their differences were sharp: Ylliria, a thing of starlight and abstraction; Lorandel, all earth and bone; Elthorn, poised between the two, though he did not care for the balance.

"We know why you are here," Lorandel said, but his voice faltered at the end, as if he had not convinced himself. "You bring a warning. Or perhaps, judgment?"

Ylliria's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "I bring the reflection of what you already know. Your council is mired in old feuds, your sentinels grow brittle, and the heartwood of your Eldertree trembles with shadow. I am here to prepare you—not just for war, but for change."

Elthorn found his voice. "If it is war, you see, speak plainly. The last time our city heeded High Elven prophecy, it nearly broke us."

Ylliria turned her gaze, such as it was, upon him. "Prince of Valewind, you are the crossroads. It is not by chance that your blood is both earth and star. The three realms must rejoin, or else perish one by one. The prophecy is older than the Forest, and not mine to write."

"Three realms," Lorandel echoed. "Even the Third?"

A shadow crossed Ylliria's face. "All that was divided shall be one beneath the twilight crown."

A silence followed, heavy and uncomfortable. Elthorn felt the weight of both their eyes—the living and the luminous—bearing down on him. For a moment, he remembered the black sun rising above Valewind, how it had blotted out the hope of morning. He shuddered, not only from the memory but also from the sudden understanding that Ylliria was not just a messenger but an agent of whatever force now bent their fates toward collision.

"I am no unifier," he said, louder than he meant. "I am barely the prince of one realm, let alone three. If you think the answer lies in me, you are as mistaken as the council that named me heir."

Lorandel bristled, but Ylliria only smiled, not a gentle smile.

"The flaw in every line is its point of greatest tension," she said. "You are the flaw, Elthorn. You are also the key."

She stepped down from the dais, trailing her hand along the throne. The motion revealed what the shadows had hidden: beneath her robe, her skin was marked by runic scars, pale and luminescent, curling up her arm like a second, deeper garment. Some of the glyphs glowed faintly with each pulse, as if keeping time with her heart, or the moon's own rhythm.

"You will come to the Moonwell tonight," she said, and this time it was not a request. "Bring the one who rides with you. There is no time left for doubt."

She turned and left as suddenly as she had come. Though the guards made a show of escorting her, it was plain she needed neither protection nor permission to walk the city's living halls.

In her wake, Lorandel and Elthorn stood alone, the air between them sharp as lightning.

"Father," Elthorn began, but Lorandel cut him off with a look—a mixture of fear, love, and the exhaustion of a lifetime spent balancing on the edge of power.

"You will do as she asks," the king said quietly. "If the prophecy is true, if there is hope, we must chase it."

"And if it's not?" Elthorn pressed.

"Then we die as our ancestors did: stubborn, proud, and unbowed," Lorandel replied.

A tremor ran through the chamber, perhaps a distant wind in the branches, maybe only the tree itself shivering.

Outside, the city resumed its wary rhythm, but the echo of Ylliria's presence lingered in every passage. All day, the sky was wrong, and the sun's ascent dulled, as if a film of oil had been drawn over the world. Rumours spread faster than any runner: that the Moonwell Seer had returned, that the prince was marked for more than rule, and that the black sun was not the last but the first of many omens.

When night came, Elthorn went to the city's northern quarter, where the Moonwell lay in a clearing ringed by sentinel trees. He did not bother with a disguise; he wore a labourer's plain tunic and boots, not royal dress. Nyx shadowed him, silent and sharp-eyed, golden gaze flicking at every movement.

Ylliria was waiting, seated on the rim of the Moonwell. The pool was a perfect circle, its smooth surface mirrored the stars. Lanterns floated above, each with a pale, cold flame; but the well itself shone brightest, as if it had caught the heart of the sky.

"Sit," Ylliria commanded, and Elthorn obeyed, lowering himself to the moss. Nyx settled at his feet, tense and wary.

"There is little ceremony in this," Ylliria said, her voice stripped of grandeur. "Only necessity. The Grove will not last. Already, the darkness eats at its roots."

"How do you know?" Elthorn asked, surprised at his own bitterness.

"Because it is not the first time," Ylliria replied. "This rot is cyclical, as all things are. Once there was unity. Then pride, then division, then decay. Each cycle, the darkness grows bolder. Each cycle, the means of healing grow fewer."

Elthorn looked at the Moonwell, but its surface gave no answer.

"And what must I do?" he asked.

Ylliria smiled, this time with a hint of warmth. "You must remember. Not just the lore of your people, but the memories in your blood. The High Elves called it the Dreaming. The Forest named it the Deeproot. In the Third, it was the Sorrowing. You will know it by its hunger."

She placed her fingers, calm and gentle, on his brow. Nyx rose, hackles up, but Ylliria's other hand soothed her without touch.

"Close your eyes," she whispered.

He did, and the Moonwell's light took him.

* * *

He fell, but did not land.

The light of the Moonwell devoured the world, peeling away moss, night, and even the memory of flesh. For a moment, Elthorn floated, weightless—a prince with no kingdom, no body, reduced to will alone. Then, with a violence that left thought shivering, the vision seized him.