The colors were back. That was the first thing I noticed.
The trees were green again, not crimson. The grass — green, not blue. Sylphy — pale, not that red-and-green mosaic burned into my memory. Even her hair was back to normal. Everything had returned. Almost.
My head still buzzed like a drum. A dull pull behind my temple, like I'd slept on a crooked pillow. Or like someone accidentally slipped you frog poison. But hey — who keeps track of little details like that?
"Try to keep up," Sylphy said without turning.
She walked just ahead of me, her steps light — like a cat who doesn't care whether you're following or not. The grass rustled on either side, the air carried the scent of soil and something sharp — bark maybe, or the lingering trail of her amulet.
"I am keeping up," I muttered, quickening my pace. "Not everyone's brain is wired to survive a spontaneous tour through acid-vision hell."
Sylphy snorted, but didn't stop.
"You just need more practice."
"Sure. Should've started with half a frog. As a warm-up."
"Hehe..."
We veered off the main road toward a house. I didn't realize it at first — the steps just grew softer. The ground firmed beneath our feet, tree-shadow turned to scattered sun, and ahead, the wooden curve of a roof came into view.
I knew he lived here. Paul had told me. I'd seen it in passing. But that's not the same as walking up to it — as a guest. As... someone invited.
A little strange.
From the outside it looked plain. The roof trimmed neat. The door wide, but low. Beside it — a post wrapped in bunches of dried herbs. An amulet, or just storage — didn't matter. The smell clung to it, sharp and earthy.
"Come on in," Sylphy said without slowing down. And pushed the door open.
I stepped inside.
Stopped at the threshold, automatically wiping my soles on the mat.
Sylphy had already darted ahead. Somewhere past the divider came the clatter of dishes, a muffled voice, soft and steady. A woman's.
"Mama, we're back."
"Oh, Sylphy," answered a calm voice. Footsteps — light, unhurried.
Sylphy waved a hand and disappeared into the back, toward the kitchen. I stayed where I was.
Because she was coming to meet us.
A beastfolk.
Short, but not frail. Fox-like ears, long and arched. Eyes — wide, amber, and her smile — real, not polite. Hands dusted with flour, apron tied at the hip, and on her wrist — a bracelet with a plain fang, like a trophy.
She looked at me, and I froze for a second.
"So you're Rudy," she said, like we already knew each other. "Come on in, don't be shy. It's about to smell amazing — hope you don't mind meat?"
I nodded and stepped fully inside. The place was just like the outside — simple, but not poor. Plates on the shelf, herbs drying on twine. The smell of bread. And soon — something frying.
Sylphy was already rummaging in some woven box. Then, apparently finding what she wanted, she turned with a triumphant grin.
In her hands — a cloth-wrapped bundle.
"Here."
Lia — I remembered the name — took the bundle, untied the ribbon. Inside: a small wooden disc, oiled, cleanly carved. Fine lines, and in the center — a symbol painted with already-drying red.
"You made it yourself?"
"Well… with help," Sylphy glanced at me, then quickly looked away. "Mostly did."
"You can tell," Lia nodded. "Good work. The old ones from the clan would've approved. Even if you're not their cup of tea."
"They're not anyone's cup of tea," Sylphy muttered.
"Exactly," Lia smirked. She turned to me. "And you helped?"
"If handing her the heart counts as helping... then yeah?" I shrugged.
"Then I guess that makes you one of the trusted," she winked. Then she set the amulet aside and wiped her hands on her apron. "You know what, stay for a bit. I was just about to start on some meat — forest recipe, one they use for festivals. Want a taste?"
"Definitely."
She nodded, turned to Sylphy:
"Help me with the prep? There's a lot of sinew in that cut. I'll be at it till nightfall without you."
"Okay," Sylphy replied. And within seconds she'd vanished behind the curtain, taking the smell of bread and spice with her.
And I was left alone.
With a stranger's house. Stranger's walls. And that kind of quiet where every sound lands heavy.
Silence.
From the kitchen came the sound of knives, Sylphy muttering to herself. Beyond the wall — a board creaked, leaves rustled. Everything calm. Too calm.
I stood near the table, watching specks of dust twist in a beam of sunlight coming through the shutters. Made me want to yawn.
And then — a voice.
Right by my ear.
"Hello, Rudeus."
I jolted, full-body flinch. Turned — and nearly smacked into a chest.
Rowls.
Silent, as always. Where the hell had he come from? These were wooden walls, not stone...
He looked down at me, calm. Bare-chested, broad-shouldered, skin lined with scars like a map of something dangerous. Hair pulled back. Tattoos across his chest and arms, stretching downward like someone once tried to record his existence before it vanished.
He gave the faintest smirk — like he knew I'd just nearly handed my soul to the Creator.
"Don't worry. I'm harmless — mostly."
"You just sneak up like you're trying to give people heart failure," I muttered, taking a step back.
"Habit," he said with a shrug.
He walked past, pulled an apple from a basket, bit down. His jaw clicked like he was chewing wood.
"You haven't been here before."
"First time," I nodded. "Didn't know it was so... quiet."
"Lia doesn't like noise."
He sat down on the bench, laid an arm across the backrest, stretched out slightly.
The scars along his side trailed up under the ribs — deep ones, the kind you survive by accident.
"You like your meat bloody or well-done?"
"Uh... well-done?"
"Mhm. Like everyone."
I sat on the edge of the bench, watching him from the corner of my eye. His movements were easy, unhurried — but every one of them felt... ready. Like even biting an apple, he was prepared for a fight to break out any second.
He spoke calmly, but his eyes stayed on you like he was checking for lies in your posture.
My gaze slid over his shoulders. His chest. The scars — deep, old, fused with the skin.
But it was the tattoos that caught my eye.
Not just markings. Structure. Symbols worked into the body. Curves, waves, lines — like magical script, only rougher. Deeper. Not ink. Something burned in. Ancient.
He noticed my stare.
And smiled. Not warmly. Not openly. Dry.
"Tell me," he asked, leaning back on the bench, "have you heard of us?"
I opened my mouth — then hesitated.
How do you say yes, when everything you've heard is about severed heads, stranger-hunting, and clans that boil their enemies alive? When the books say people like him are: don't go near, don't trust, if you see one — run?
I let out a breath. Said the only thing that wasn't a lie:
"I've… heard things."
Rowls nodded. Slowly. Like he already understood.
And took another bite of the apple.
"Everything you've heard about us..."
What had I heard? That elves butcher villages? That they live in forests like beasts and burn everything that gets close? That they worship strange spirits, and if you cross a line — they'll skin you and sing about it after?
Rumors.
Just rumors. Lies. Horrible stories told to kids and cowards afraid of anything unfamiliar. If I thought about it — they were probably decent people. Weird, maybe... but that's the point, right?
In my old world, elves were always the same: long ears, long speeches, lived in forests, kept to themselves. Noble. Wise. Full of ancient knowledge and magical artifacts. A bit arrogant, sure — but deadly in battle, and honorable. Books, games, movies — always the same.
So when I hear here: "elves are savages," "they kill outsiders," "they have rituals"— it doesn't sound real. They can't be that different. It's just... misunderstanding. Culture clash.
Forest weirdos. Not villains.
I'd nearly convinced myself it was all exaggeration. But—
"...it's all true," said Rowls.
Calm. Without weight or menace. Like setting a bowl on the table.
And something in me tightened. Turned cold.
Like a blade had passed through my chest and was already gone.
He looked straight at me. Not angrily. Not cruelly.
But the way he looked — it hit harder than any story.
"There was a time we had a country," he said, leaning forward slightly. "So long ago even we've started to forget."
His voice was quiet. Like a man who hasn't spoken in a long time — and isn't sure he should start again.
"Mountains buried in ice. Forests with trunks thicker than towers. We didn't hide. We were the light."
He paused. Slowly ran a finger along the table's edge.
"Have you ever heard of our country, Rudeus?"
I flinched slightly.
"Well… the Great Forest. That's where elves live… isn't it?"
"No. That's not a country," he said. "Those are clans. They live — yes. They fight. They survive. But a country… had something else."
He looked up. Not harshly — evenly.
"A name. Laws. Stories everyone knew. Borders that didn't need guards — because people knew: this is ours. A script, a language, songs that echoed in every home..."
He went silent again. His chest rose slightly — an inhale.
"Our language was erased," he said. "Our gods — forgotten. And the country... destroyed. Down to the last stone. Even its name is gone now."
He smiled slightly. Almost wry.
I swallowed.
"Nothing left. Just us. Brothers. Sisters. One after another — no flag, no songs, no memory."
His fingers on the table stilled.
"And we had a choice. Only two."
He fell silent. Eyes drifting sideways, like he saw something in the wall.
"Accept the humans' terms," he said, not raising his head. "Forget who we were. Forget our gods' names. Forget how our fathers spoke."
His tone was flat. Calm. Which only made it worse.
"Those who accepted stayed. They live in the cities. No marks. No right to a name. Herded into quarters like cattle. They're forbidden from wearing tattoos. Forbidden to speak our tongue. Forbidden to call themselves elves if they want bread."
He looked out the window.
"The ones who didn't accept... went into the forests. Deeper. Past where roads end and even the sun doesn't touch the ground. They became the clans. The Great Forest. The wild lands."
He paused, as if checking I was still listening.
"That's where most of us are now. The ones who remember. Who know: You want to stay who you are — don't ask for someone else's permission."
There was no pride in his voice. No anger.
Only weariness.
Like he'd said this many times before — and always gotten silence in return.
"The locals fear me. And my family," he said evenly. Not bitter, not complaining. "I understand. I'd probably avoid someone like me, too."
He turned to me. For the first time, fully.
His gaze was steady. Not heavy. Not sharp.
"Thank you, Rudeus. For being her friend."
I didn't get a chance to answer.
The door opened softly, without a creak. Lia entered, carrying a tray. She smelled of roasted meat, sharp herbs, and the deep heat of a hearth. Her face wore a gentle smile.
"Food," she said. "Hope you like spicy, Rudy. Today's dish is from our tribe..."
She set the tray down, covered the plate with a cloth like she was shielding it — though the smell had already filled the room.
She sat beside us, giving me a sidelong glance.
"What's this atmosphere?" she looked between me and Rowls. "Is my husband bothering you?"
I straightened a little.
"No, no, nothing like that," I said quickly. "We were just… talking."
"Hmm." She nodded — not like she believed me, more like she filed the answer away. "Well, if he's too much, just say so. He's good at being a shadow, but sometimes he overdoes it."
Rowls snorted without looking up.
"I didn't say anything."
"Exactly," Lia smirked. "Without me, no one would've taken you seriously for years now..."
He shrugged.
"I'm fine like this."
"You're fine when you're talking to swords," she muttered. "Normal kids get scared."
Lia pulled the cloth off — the smell hit like a wave: thick, oily, smoky, and sharp enough to sting the nose.
"Alright. Try it. Don't hold back. Just warning you — it's spicier than it looks. Tribal recipe. Our old mentor gave us this one — before she passed. Burned her tongue on it, too. That's how you know it's good."
"And if I die?"
"Then it wasn't your destiny," Lia laughed, and slid the plate toward me.
I glanced at her, then at Rowls. He was silent again, looking off to the side like nothing had happened.
The door creaked. Sylphy returned.
Her hair a little messy, sweat on her brow, carrying a wooden bowl. She set it down beside me, sat across the table, wiped her hands on her hem, and looked at me.
"There's more. If you're not scared," she said.
"I've already signed a deal with fate," I muttered, reaching for the spoon.
"If you start rambling after eating, don't worry. It's not poison," Sylphy said, pulling the bowl toward herself. "It's just… well, no one tested how it works on humans."
I looked at her.
"What?"
"You won't feel it. It's just hard to talk in the morning. The words won't come out... I tried!"
"Is that a joke?"
"Not sure? No one laughed back then."
I froze, spoon halfway to my mouth. My heart skipped. My stomach dropped — like someone had pulled the air right out of me.
"Wait. This isn't gonna be like... last time, right?" I slowly set the spoon back down. "You know, with the frog—"
Sylphy shrugged. Calmly. No trace of apology.
"Shouldn't be."
"'Shouldn't be' isn't 'no.'"
"Sylphy," Lia said — calm, but firm. Without even turning around.
"I'm joking," Sylphy muttered. Then looked at me with that same let's see kind of stare. "You're basically one of us already. We don't poison our own. Mostly."
Lia smirked, still not looking up.
"If you don't die — the forest's taken you in."
I wasn't sure if they were joking or not. They spoke so casually, so lightly — and that only made it worse. Like life and death was just another way to check if you belonged. And I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answer.