Exile was not a sentence.
It was a rebirth.
Far beyond the Larethian palace, past the silver rivers and enchanted woodlands, was a hidden settlement known only in whispers: Blackroot Hollow, where those discarded by elven society made their home.
The Outcasts.
Failed mages. Scarred warriors. Half-bloods. Rebels. Exiles.
And now… a prince among them.
When Aelric arrived—his royal insignias stripped, wearing only black leathers and a hooded cloak—they scoffed at first.
> "Another spoiled noble sent to slum with the wretches?"
> "He won't last the week."
But Aelric didn't come to survive.
He came to sharpen.
In the Hollow, he trained with:
Vael the Bonecarver, a one-armed berserker who taught him how to fight with broken weapons and improvised tools.
Selene of the Ash-Eyes, a former assassin who mastered shadowstep and silent kills.
Orrin Thornfist, a giant of a man who laughed at elegance and taught the brutal truths of combat endurance.
And Kara, a mute half-elf girl who wielded soulweaving thread, blending magic and movement in impossible ways.
Aelric practiced under the moon and bled beneath the sun. He fought wild beasts and Outcast champions in brutal sparring matches that left him bruised and wiser.
Every day, he invoked the Chrono Severance—rewinding, correcting, mastering techniques in hours that would take normal warriors years.
But he didn't just become stronger.
He earned respect.
Orrin clapped him on the back after one match. "You've got the eyes of a killer… but the heart of a king. Dangerous mix."
Selene offered him her old cloak of whispering silk. "You're no noble. You're one of us now."
Even the mute Kara, usually cold and distant, gave him a small charm woven from her soul-thread. For protection.
> "You're more alive than any elf I've met," Vael said, "because you've tasted death."
And so, in exile, Aelric found something he never had in the palace.
A brotherhood. A battlefield. A forge.