The light had changed again.
It wasn't warmer. Or brighter.
Just… heavier.
A pressure beneath the ribs. The kind of weight that told you someone else was watching. Someone powerful. Someone old.
Eldrin turned his head just enough to see the shadows move.
Not a soldier.
Not one of his people.
The man who stepped into the ruined courtyard didn't need to be introduced.
He wore no crest. No sigil.
But the wind shifted as he walked.
And the trees bent ever so slightly in his direction — like even the forest remembered who he was.
Vaelion Silverleaf.
The High King of Sylvarion.
Elf. Monarch. Cold as the steel that lined his ceremonial bracers.
Eldrin hadn't seen him in over a decade.
And certainly not like this, descending alone, quiet, the faint pulse of high-level wind mana rippling in his wake with each step. No guards. No banner. Just the wind.
'Why is he here?'
Eldrin didn't speak.
Couldn't, really.
