In the Elven Lands, a strange duality hung in the air — a tension laced with an eerie calm. Some were lost in thought, consumed by worry over Princess Eryl's fate, tormented by the thought of losing her. Others remained silent, their expressions unreadable, offering no reaction at all. That very silence, though seemingly harmless, sparked minor disagreements — none of which were serious enough to warrant the intervention of the king or his royal guards.
Meanwhile, in another part of the realm, near a place known as the Garden of Living Blossoms, four male elves had gathered quietly beneath the flowering trees. One of them, his silver hair tied neatly behind him, played a finely crafted wooden flute, its edges engraved with ancient patterns that spoke of life and nature. Soft, melodious notes flowed from the instrument, slipping gently into the souls of the listeners, cleansing them of burden and sorrow.
The other three sat on flat stones arranged so precisely it was as though nature herself had placed them there. One of them — a tall elf with long, golden hair shimmering beneath the sunlight — twirled a small knife between his fingers with a smile.
"Libo~ You truly have a gift with the flute," he said warmly. "These melodies... they're incredible. It's hard to put into words how calming they are."
Libo smiled shyly, scratching the back of his head.
"Thank you, Ravar. I've spent a lot of time practicing... Music has always been a passion of mine. I'm just glad it's not gone to waste."
Libo and Ravar shared similar features — both were cousins. While elven traits often seemed indistinguishable to outsiders, those who knew them well could recognize the subtle differences in their appearances. To a stranger, though, telling them apart might have been nearly impossible.
The other two elves sat silently, carefully polishing their sword blades. Their manner was composed and mature — every movement precise, every glance calm. Yet the way they listened to Libo's playing revealed a quiet appreciation for beauty, a depth beneath their disciplined exteriors.
Libo finally broke the silence.
"Archer... You seem quieter than usual today," he said hesitantly, as if trying to lift the veil of stillness around them.
The elf named Archer raised his head slightly, revealing a small scar on his right cheek. With a faint smile, he replied,
"Have I ever struck you as particularly talkative, Libo?"
Libo chuckled and quickly responded,
"No, I mean... you used to speak at least a little. But today... you're quieter than ever. Same goes for you, Arldir. Lately, your silence feels... heavier."
At that, both Ravar and Archer turned their gaze to Arldir — the fourth elf, whose presence carried a rare, serene aura. He sat quietly, his simple white shirt standing in contrast to the usually elegant elven attire, paired with a traditional pair of trousers. Despite the humility of his appearance, his features were strikingly handsome, as if painted into an intricate, fantastical portrait.
He held his long, slender blade in both hands, gently polishing it with a soft, pinkish cloth plucked from the surrounding flowers. He didn't look up when they turned to him, nor did he show any outward reaction. Just a faint smile lingered on his lips — as if nothing in the world could trouble him.
"Um... Arldir? Are you listening?" Libo asked, his tone clearer now, though still respectful.
Only then did Arldir raise his gaze, meeting Libo's eyes. His voice, when he spoke, was calm and refined, carrying a tone of genuine kindness.
"Apologies... I was focused on my blade. What were you saying again?"
Libo hesitated briefly, then gathered his thoughts.
"Actually, I was wondering about your silence. You usually talk... sometimes even sing when I play. But today you seem quieter than ever."
Arldir considered Libo's words silently, a deep tranquility still etched into his face. Then, after a few moments, he answered — his voice touched by a subtle melancholy.
"Was it really that obvious?"
A soft chuckle escaped him before he continued,
"The news I heard about Princess Eryl... It shook me more than I expected."
Ravar, his curiosity piqued, leaned forward slightly.
"But... you don't look sad, Arldir."
Arldir, still composed, lifted the floral cloth he'd been using and stared at the edge of his blade. His voice was firm, yet warm — the voice of someone who knew the weight of duty: "I'm one of the kingdom's foremost warriors. My role demands restraint. To show weakness — to allow grief to surface — it wouldn't suit someone being considered to lead the Guardians. I must be the shield that defends this land. That's the burden, Libo... the responsibility. I must remain strong when others falter. Because if I ever allow myself to bow, even once... I might grow used to it. And someone like me — that's not a luxury I can afford."
That was the nature of Arldir, son of Sofrik Tamriol, the eldest heir of the esteemed Tamriol family — one of the three great houses that ruled the Elven territories from behind the scenes, sworn protectors of the kingdom for centuries.
The Tamriol family held the second-highest position in terms of influence. Known as the Shield of the Kingdom, they were the silent guardians of all things sacred.
Alongside them stood the Orbil family — renowned for their profound healing legacy. Masters of potions, herbs, and restorative magic, they had produced great minds such as the famed sage Lobo Orbil, often called Lobo, son of Arbis.
The third family was none other than Azparel — the ruling bloodline, led by King Toras, sovereign and supreme ruler of the Eastern Elves. Both Tamriol and Orbil had long pledged unwavering loyalty to the crown of Azparel, forming a rare and enduring alliance — a harmony of sword, intellect, and healing.
Within this intricate tapestry of allegiances and unspoken power, Arldir stood as the firstborn heir to the Tamriol name, destined to succeed his father, Sofrik, who had served the Azparel crown faithfully for over seventy years.
Arldir was not only respected by the noble elite — he was admired by the common folk as well. He had gathered countless admirers, and more importantly, he had earned the trust of King Toras himself, who saw him as the second-most vital figure in matters of security and defense, after Sofrik.
"So, Arldir..." Ravar spoke up, his gaze carrying a mix of curiosity and concern. "What's your take on what happened to Princess Eryl? Do you think the King was... too lenient with that man — what was his name again? Darken? I forget exactly."
Arldir didn't respond right away. Instead, he slowly raised his sword toward the sky, the blade catching rays of sunlight as they filtered through the leaves above. Then he said, his tone steady and firm: "Of course I was shocked. What happened to Princess Eryl... she didn't deserve that, not under any circumstance. I was angry — deeply angry — when I heard. But I also believe King Toras never acts without reason. And if I'm ever called upon to bring the true culprit to justice, I'll be the first to act."
Though his words were solemn, his voice retained its characteristic warmth — a quality that made his presence command both respect and empathy. His sincerity was evident, as was the depth of his loyalty. There was a nobility in Arldir that could not be taught — a natural integrity worthy of Sofrik's name.
At that moment, Libo could no longer contain himself. He blurted out, like an innocent child: "You're truly amazing, Arldir! Even after Princess Eryl rejected your marriage proposal, you still speak of her with such respect — as if nothing happened!"
The words fell heavy — not on Arldir, but on Ravar and Archer, whose eyes widened slightly, as if Libo had crossed a line he hadn't realized was there. They exchanged quick, tense glances before turning toward Arldir, anxious to see how he would respond.
But Arldir, as if untouched by the comment, merely smiled — a calm, unshaken smile. No anger, no discomfort. Just an air of peace rarely seen.
After a brief silence, Libo hesitated, then asked softly,
"Um... did I say something wrong?"
Archer, visibly uneasy, stepped in with a quiet attempt to mend the situation: "L-Libo, that topic is... a bit delicate. You might want to be more careful how you bring it up—"
But he fell silent when Arldir gently raised a hand, a small gesture that diffused the tension instantly.
Then, still smiling, Arldir said: "I understand. Rejection is painful — no denying that. But it's no excuse for bitterness or resentment. That moment... wasn't the end of my path."
He rose from the stone with a grace that made no sound, taking a few quiet steps forward before continuing — not as a commander, but as someone offering sincere wisdom:
"Hatred is like firewood — the more you add, the higher the flames. And those flames consume us from within, until nothing remains but ash. I don't hate Eryl. In truth... I still love her. And I believe there's still time. I still have a chance to prove to her that I'm someone worthy of a place in her heart."
His words, simple as they were, carried a profound weight — one that deeply moved Libo, whose wide eyes now brimmed with admiration and an unspoken pride in the man before him.
But before Libo could utter a word in reply, a female voice sliced through the moment like a blade, breaking the stillness with its sharp clarity: "Arldir, what are you doing here?"
Libo turned immediately — as did Ravar and Archer.
There, beneath the swaying shadows of the trees, stood an elven woman of striking presence. Her graceful form, composed demeanor, and captivating beauty rivaled that of Princess Eryl herself.
It was Aria, Arldir's older sister — the daughter of Sofrik Tamriol. A woman whose stature and poise left no doubt: she was every bit the equal of a princess.
"It's good to see you here, sister. Is there something you need from me?" Arldir spoke with a warm, fraternal tone as he stepped toward Aria, who approached with poised, confident strides.
Libo stared at her with open admiration, visibly captivated by her presence. She was the kind of beauty that needed no words to draw attention — her mere presence was enough to turn heads, even in a kingdom brimming with graceful women.
He thought to himself: She's truly stunning... No wonder Arldir is exceptional — he has a sister like her.
Archer, in contrast, seemed unfazed by her appearance. Married for many years, the sight of Aria brought a quiet smile to his lips as he remembered his wife.
Lady Aria is attractive, yes... but she doesn't hold a candle to my wife.
It wasn't mere loyalty — it was a deep, unwavering truth born of love.
Ravar, however, was visibly nervous — especially as he noticed Aria walking in his direction. Internally, he scrambled: Lady Aria! Oh gods… I must not say anything foolish... I need to look confident... Damn it, I'm a mess!
His unease showed clearly on his face.
Yet Aria paid no mind to anyone but her brother. Her gaze was fixed firmly on him. Arldir met her approach with his usual calm. As always, Aria stood tall — willowy and elegant, her golden hair cascading freely over her shoulders, a trait common among the Eastern Elves. She met her younger brother eye to eye, and he met her with his signature composed smile.
"Wipe that foolish grin off your face, Arldir," she said with a voice that was soft but firm — like a flame beneath a sheet of ice. "We're in a delicate situation, and here you are smiling like an idiot."
Arldir eased his smile and replied in a tone that suited his nature: "My apologies, sister… You know I've grown used to smiling, even in the harshest of moments."
Aria sighed in clear frustration before saying curtly, "That doesn't matter now. We've received an urgent summons from the royal court. The King requires our presence. There's a mission."
She gestured politely but authoritatively toward Arldir's companions and added,
"You as well… all of you are to come."
The group nodded without hesitation, acknowledging her authority with respect.
Arldir simply responded with composure,
"So… it's time to hunt down the one who brought this darkness upon our dear princess, isn't it?"
Aria didn't reply right away. Her eyes narrowed for a heartbeat, as if something in his words struck a nerve. Then she spoke quietly,
"You'll learn the details at the court. For now… move."
Arldir and his companions left the Garden of Living Blossoms, following Aria as she led the way with firm, graceful steps. Each of them bore a different expression — anxiety, excitement, confusion — all except Arldir, who remained, as ever, calm… and unreadable, like a sealed tome.
At the same time, near the Great Tree that housed the royal residence, the Queen sat beside a simple yet elegant bed carved with elven precision.
Upon it lay Princess Eryl, wrapped in a light silk blanket. Her face was pale, her breath faint — as though she were waging a quiet war with death itself.
The Queen leaned over, gently taking her daughter's hand. Her voice trembled with emotion.
"My dearest Eryl... I can't believe something like this has happened to you."
Tears shimmered in her eyes, but she held herself together. She whispered,
"That boy... he said he'd bring the blood of Kazler to heal you. So please... hold on. So many are waiting for you… so many are worried. Even your father…"
The Queen drew a sharp breath, choking down a sob with all the strength she could summon.
"Your father can barely stand. To him… you're not just a daughter. You are a part of his soul. So please, Eryl… come back to us. Return with your health restored, and bring his heart some peace."
Silence fell over the room once more. The only sounds were Eryl's shallow breaths and her mother's voice — a thread of light piercing the heavy quiet.
Then, just as the air grew still with grief and waiting, the door creaked open.
King Toras entered — his presence commanding, his steps deliberate. Beside him walked Princess Eve. His eyes, though steady, were dimmed — as if a great weight pressed upon his soul.
"Erlsya…" he spoke in a low but firm voice, "Tell me about Eryl's condition."
The Queen wiped her tears, standing tall despite her pain.
"Sage Lobo said her state is grave... but not the worst it could be. She's stable, but she needs the cure — and fast."
The King stepped slowly toward his daughter's bedside. His voice was unwavering: "How much time does she have, according to Lobo?"
The Queen hesitated, avoiding his gaze.
"He said… she's fighting the poison with all her strength. Her will is powerful. But he estimates she has one day left... before..." She stopped. The rest of the sentence never left her lips — choked by grief too heavy to speak aloud.
The room fell still once again. Even the air seemed to hold its breath, time suspended around the bed of a princess locked in a silent battle between life and death.
This was Princess Eryl's room — meticulously arranged, reflecting her calm and orderly soul.
It was elegant without excess: a simple, beautiful bed, beside which stood a small table holding an open book and an oil lamp extinguished days ago.
In one corner, a finely crafted wooden bookshelf overflowed with volumes on healing, natural magic, and old tales.
At the center of the room lay a circular green rug — the color of life, echoing the vitality Eryl once carried in her heart… before the poison drained it away.
By the bedside, a hand-carved wooden window stood closed, its silver-threaded curtains drawn.
Every element of the room revealed that Eryl was not merely a princess — but a gentle spirit, a seeker of peace and wisdom.
The King approached the window and gently parted the curtains with a steady hand, letting in the pale daylight. Light spilled into a room cloaked in gloom — not only the physical kind, but the kind that had crept into his chest and burdened his heart. A grief not shown on his face, but loud in his silence.
He spoke without turning: "Darken will return with the blood of the Wolf King before sundown. If not, he'll likely arrive by midnight."
The Queen stepped forward, her voice tense with concern and barely-contained emotion: "And how can you be so sure?"
She paused, then continued — her voice changing, doubt creeping in: "I trust you — your wisdom, your judgment — but that boy... I know he insisted on retrieving the blood himself. But… don't you think you're putting too much faith in him? He doesn't even possess a single aura."
King Toras replied calmly, his voice quiet but resolute:
"Perhaps what you say is true."
Then he turned toward her, and in his eyes gleamed something not seen before.
"But he is not like the others. He cannot be judged by appearances."
He returned his gaze to the window.
"Darken… is like an uncut diamond. What he needs is refinement. Trust — that is the pressure that will bring out his brilliance."
He took a deep breath, as if shedding a layer of sorrow, and continued: "He set out not long ago — headed for the Valley of the Dire Wolves, accompanied by Adinis, Laro, and Commander Toril. If they're running at full pace, they should arrive soon."
He paused for a moment, his voice shifting: "And as for me… there's something I must do. Not just as a king… but as a father."
He stepped closer to his wife and spoke in a low, steady voice, though the fire underneath was unmistakable:
"The one who did this to Eryl… is no outsider. He's one of our own. Someone from within."
The Queen's eyes widened in shock. Her expression froze — then flared into rage. "Who?! Who dared harm my daughter?! Tell me, Toras!"
She stepped toward him in fury, eyes burning with tears and anger.
Toras met her fire with steady calm. He raised his hand gently to her cheek, a quieting touch filled with certainty.
"Do not worry," he said. "The hunt has already begun."
His voice left no room for doubt. His eyes held unshakable resolve. He was not only a king — he was a husband, a father, and now… a man seeking justice.