Eryk's fingers trembled as they traced the silver-veined bark of the book's cover. The moment he opened it, the pages shimmered—not with reflected light, but with something deeper. The words didn't just sit on the parchment; they pulsed like they are breathing in time with the Grove itself. Eryk didn't sit yet. His legs refused to bend, locked in place by the weight of what he was about to witness.
Dwindee, the tiny archivist, perched on the edge of the table like a wizened bird, his magnified eyes gleaming with a scholar's hunger.
"Ah, you feel it, don't you?" His raspy voice was barely louder than the rustle of turning leaves. "The Grove's magic."
Eryk swallowed. The first page unfolded before him, not with ink, but with light.
In the time before time, when the world was still a song half-sung, the First Tree awoke.
It did not grow from soil, nor from seed. It rose from the breath of the wind itself, its roots spiraling into the earth like fingers grasping for anchor, its branches stretching toward the heavens not in supplication, but in defiance. The First Tree was not born of the world. It was the world's echo.
And from its bark, silver flowed.
Not metal. Not ore. But something purer—the essence of moonlight given form, liquid starlight hardened into veins. The elves came next, drawn not by sight or sound, but by the hum in their bones. They were wanderers then, scattered and rootless, until the First Tree called them home.
They named it Sil'endriel.
The Heart of the Storm.
And around it, they built their sanctuary.
Eryk's breath hitched. The words weren't just descriptions; they were memories. The page trembled under his fingertips. He felt the wind, raw and untamed, whipping through the branches. He saw the first elves, their faces upturned, their hands pressed to the silver-streaked bark as if pledging fealty to something greater than kings or gods.
"This isn't just history," Eryk murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's something more far beyond my knowledge."
Dwindee chuckled, the sound like dry leaves scraping stone.
"Of course it is. The Grove doesn't record coz it remembers everything." He tapped the page, and the words shifted, rearranging themselves into new verses as if the book itself was listening, responding.
*Flip*
The ogres came when the world was still young.
They did not hate the elves. Hate requires understanding, and the ogres knew only hunger. Their gods were teeth and thunder, their prayers the crack of bone underfoot. They saw the silver veins of the Grove and coveted them—not for beauty, but for power.
The elves did not fight for conquest. They fought for silence. For the right to exist without the ogres' howling storms, their ravenous maws. The First War lasted a century, and when it ended, the Grove was scarred but unbroken.
The ogres retreated, but they did not forget.
Eryk's chest tightened. The book's magic didn't just show him words—it showed him flashes. The towering, hulking shapes of ogres, their skin like cracked stone, their eyes burning with a light that had nothing to do with souls. The elves, outnumbered but never outmatched, their arrows singing through the air like fragments of the wind itself.
"Why?" Eryk's voice was rough, scraping against his throat. "Why do they keep coming back?"
Dwindee's grin was all teeth, sharp and knowing. "Because the Grove is a wound they can't lick."
Eryk frowned. "What does that—"
The archivist waved a gnarled hand, cutting him off. "The ogres don't have magic. Not like us. Their strength is in their flesh, their rage. But the Grove? It's alive and it breathes like the rest of us elves and fairies. And that terrifies them." He leaned in, his breath smelling of old parchment and something like lightning about to strike. "They want to unmake it. To prove nothing beautiful can last."
Eryk's fingers curled against the page. The Null Grimoire stirred in his chest, a dark echo of the same hunger.
Unmake.
Devour.
He forced his hand to relax, exhaling slowly.
"And the other realms? Why don't they help?"
Dwindee's laughter was bitter, like the aftertaste of a poison.
"Oh, they did. Once." His tiny fingers flicked, and the pages turned again, revealing an illustration of elves standing beside humans, dwarves, even the winged Aetherians—all united under a banner of intertwined roots and steel.
*Flip*
The Alliance held for a generation.
But alliances are fragile things, and the ogres were patient. They whispered. They bribed. They planted doubt like seeds in fertile soil. And when the first human king turned his back on the Grove, calling it "elf-magic" and "unnatural," the others followed.
The elves were left alone.
And so they did what they had always done—they endured.
Eryk's jaw clenched. The betrayal wasn't just history; it was a living wound. He could feel the bitterness in the text, the way the Grove's memory clung to the sting of abandonment.
"So the Grove closed itself off," he muttered, more to himself than to Dwindee.
The archivist nodded, his expression grim. "The portals were sealed. The borders guarded. The elves decided if the world wouldn't stand with them, they wouldn't stand with the world." His voice dropped to a whisper, as if afraid the very walls might hear. "And then the ogres came again. And again. And again."
Eryk's fingers dug into the book, his knuckles whitening.
"And now?"
The archivist opened his mouth. But a crash behind them shattered the silence.
Eryk whirled, his heart leaping into his throat, as Sera barreled into the history section like a storm given human form. Her arms were piled high with stolen tomes, her usual scowl replaced by something dangerously close to excitement. Ares fluttered behind her, his claws clutching a handful of ripped pages, his golden eyes alight with mischief.
"Look at this!" Sera slammed a book onto the table with enough force to send Dwindee scrambling backward to avoid being crushed.
Eryk blinked. "Did you… rob the library?"
Sera's grin was feral, all teeth and sharp edges. "Call it borrowing."
Ares dropped his pilfered pages, puffing smoke.
"The shiny ones resisted. I had to persuade them."
Dwindee's tiny face turned purple, his spectacles nearly popping off his nose. "You—you vandals! Those are irreplaceable!"
Sera flipped open her book with the reverence of a thief admiring stolen jewels, ignoring him entirely. "Eryk, look—this one's got a blade that drinks magic. And this one? It never misses. Not even if you throw it blindfolded." Her fingers hovered over the illustrations like a child touching fire for the first time—equal parts fear and fascination.
Eryk stared at her. For the first time since they'd arrived in the Grove, Sera looked… cheerful. Not just surviving, not just snarling at the world, but hungry.
Ares, meanwhile, had snatched another page from the floor and was now chewing on it thoughtfully.
"Tastes like secrets."
Dwindee looked ready to combust. "That's priceless!"
Eryk should have been annoyed. He should have scolded them, helped the archivist, something.
But as he stood there, the history of the Silver Grove still humming under his fingertips, Sera's stolen books spread like a battlefield before her, and Ares gleefully destroying priceless artifacts...
He laughed.
It burst out of him, raw and unexpected, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
Dwindee gaped. "This isn't funny!"
Sera smirked. "It's a little funny."
Ares swallowed the page whole. "Very funny."
And for a single, fleeting moment, the weight of the past—the wars, the betrayals, the ogres lurking at the borders—faded.
There was just this.
The four of them, bathed in the glow of ancient knowledge and fresh chaos.
The Grove's history would wait.
The future could wait.
Right now, there were more important things.
Like making sure Ares didn't eat the rest of the library.