Part I: The Vision.
There is no beginning.
Only falling.
Only soundless motion through a darkness too heavy to be called night.
You do not breathe. You do not think. You drift. There is no ground, no sky, only the weightless spiral of nothing.
And then… color.
First faint. Then brilliant.
You see fire… or is it light? It burns blue, across an unseen horizon. Then white. It stretches, bleeds into gold. Then black. Thick endless black.
Then it shatters. Everything collapses into a howl, not quite human, not quite beast, and from its center, something is calling.
A sound chases you: not a scream, not a whisper; something in between. A name, maybe, lost in the wind.
You reach toward it.
You see a tower… crumbling. A throne overrun by vines. A shadow with wings.
A chain snapping.
A hand, your hand, burning.
A voice echoes, deep as mountains and older than time.
And that voice, ancient and aching, speaks from somewhere beneath it all:
"Three roses. One fell. The chain is broken. The cycle begins anew."
The words ripple through like a prophecy… or warning.
Then silence.
And in that silence…
You awaken.
Part II: The Grove.
The world you awaken into feels dreamlike, but the ache in your body is real.
Your back is pressed against something soft, damp moss ang tangled roots. Your skin is warm, but not from sunlight. The air is thick with the scent of rain, flowers, and old bark. You open your eyes slowly, and the sky above you, is a deep, shimmering indigo, scattered with stars despite the time feeling… wrong.
Not night.
Not quite day.
Something in between.
A strange stillness cradles the forest around you. The landscape unfurls like a forgotten dream. Trees stretch impossibly tall, their leaves glistening with light that pulses faintly, as though the canopy breathes. The trunks bear ancient symbols, not carved, but grown, spiraling in gentle patterns. Beneath the foliage, vines weave between stones, some cracked, others half-swallowed by earth. A stream murmurs somewhere nearby; it's music soft and soothing. This place would have been beautiful, were it not for the way the wind trembles, as though afraid to speak.
You sit up slowly.
And then the pain blooms. It's not physical, not entirely. It hums behind your ribs, in the space just below your heart, in your shoulders, but it's dull, distant. Your limbs obey slowly, as if you haven't moved in years. You're clothed in soft foreign fabric, linen perhaps, but laced with threads of silver you don't recognize. It smells of pine and something faintly… magical.
Who am I?
You search your mind.
A name.
A face.
A place.
But all you find are impressions, emotions without form: grief, resolve, fear… and a single word.
Zaudëlock.
You don't know what it means, but it clings to you like your own shadow.
You stand.
Birdsong hums in the distance, except it's not quite birdsong. The notes are richer, layered. As if the forest itself is composing music through unseen mouths. Between the trees, the specks of light drift lazily, not like fireflies, but like thoughts. Thoughts that escaped the mind of something ancient.
You walk.
You don't know where you're going, but your feet find path. Moss gives way to stone. Roots bend to clear your steps.
The forest knows you. Or remembers something like you.
Then, a sound. A rustle.
A whisper echoed in the trees. Not in words but feeling. You are not alone.
You pause, turning towards the source.
She stands there.
Not hidden. Not waiting. Simply there, as if she's always been.
Then footsteps. Light. Barely touching the earth.
From the mist she emerged, tall, slender, ageless. Her skin shimmers faintly beneath the starlight, not with glitter, but with glow. Her silver hair kissed by moonlight, drapes over one shoulder in waves, clasped by a circlet of woven crystal leaves. She wore robes that seemed stitched from the sky itself, etched with glowing lines that moved like rivers beneath her skin.
Her ears are long and elegant, unmistakably elven.
But it's her eyes that still you.
Pale silver, flecked with stars, or perhaps tiny galaxies. In them you see not just the present, but echoes. War. Peace. Firelight. Laughter. You feel as though she sees every version of you; the child you were, the warrior you might become, and the broken figure hidden in your bones.
"Ah," she said softly, voice wrapped in riddles. "So, the ember still burns,"
She smiles, faintly.
"You woke later than I thought."
This time, her voice is soft, melodic. It carries the scent of a distant rain and wild thyme.
She steps closer, not with caution, but grace, like she's walked this path a thousand times.
You want to speak; to ask her where you are, who you are, who she is, but your voice cracks in your throat. Your lips move. No sound comes.
"Do you remember?" she asks.
You shake your head. You don't.
She doesn't seem surprised.
"The world has changed while you slept," she says, stepping closer. "You… have changed."
You don't move, but she kneels before you, one hand brushing the moss beside your foot. From that touch, a slender vine coils upward, not threatening, but curious, blooming into a white flower that glows gently.
"The Glade remembers," she murmurs. "Even if you do not"
You look around. For the first time, you realize this is no ordinary forest. This is the Emerald Glade, or something near it. A sacred place. The last untouched sanctuary of the Elven Realm. You know this. Not from memory, but from… inheritance?
You turn back to her.
"What is this place?" you managed to ask.
She tilts her head, amused.
"This? This is where the silence begins to break."
You want to ask what she means. But the words flee, replaced by a weight in your chest that you cannot explain; a strange grief for something not yet lost.
She rise to her feet with the grace of falling petals.
"Come," she says, and though it's not a command, your feet obey.
She walks ahead through the trees, and they bend slightly, as if bowing.
Not to her.
To you.
As you move, the grove begins to change. Light dances more freely. The trees part wider. A stream appears, its water impossibly clear, more mirror than river. You glance down and catch your reflection: your face is unfamiliar, yet undeniably yours.
You're older than you thought. Or perhaps… shaped by something of old.
The elf watches you study yourself.
"The Mirror Stream only shows what the world sees," she says gently. "It cannot lie, but it often confuses"
"I don't understand any of this," you admit. "I don't even know who I am."
She considers your words, then walks to the edge of the stream and trails her fingers through the water.
"You are not meant to remember everything. Not yet. Not all at once. Your mind would collapse beneath the weight."
You frown, "So, I've lived before?"
She meets your eyes again, and this time her smile fades.
"No, not lived."
She pauses, as though weighing every word.
"But you… have existed before. Long enough for legends to forget the truth. Long enough for the balance to break."
You don't know how to respond.
A breeze moves through the glade, stirring leaves and petals into the air. They twist into a spiral before falling again; and in that spiral, you see images.
Not visions like before. Not dreams. But memories belonging to someone else.
Flashes.
A city built on cliffs, burning.
A beast, massive and horned, dragging chains behind it.
A sword of light, buried deep beneath stone, humming with silent rage.
You step back, breath hitching.
"What was that?"
"Truth," she replies, "trying to find its way back into the world."