Night cloaked the Silver Vale in a soft shroud of mist, and the forests that once sang under moonlight now stood silent, holding their breath.
Lyra and Auren moved cautiously through the woods, the faint hum of celestial runes pulsing from the edges of their armor. Each step crunched against frost-bitten earth, each breath fogged with the weight of what lay ahead.
"It's too quiet," Lyra whispered."That's because they're watching," Auren replied.
He could feel it—eyes in the dark, ancient and waiting. The Elves of Nalae'thir were not known for hospitality, especially toward those who carried the fire of the gods.
From the treeline, a figure emerged—tall, graceful, wrapped in silver armor that shimmered like moonlight on water. His gaze was piercing, his tone sharp.
"Auren of the Hollow Sun," he said. "You walk on sacred ground. Speak your purpose."
"The world burns," Auren answered. "And the veil bleeds. I seek audience with Queen Sirael."
The elf tilted his head. "Few mortals earn her sight. Fewer survive it."
Lyra's lips curved slightly. "Good thing he's not mortal."
The path through the elven citadel was breathtaking—a labyrinth of glowing flora, woven bridges, and ancient trees whose roots hummed with magic older than mankind. But beneath that beauty lay tension; soldiers watched from the shadows, their bows drawn in silent readiness.
At the heart of it all sat Queen Sirael, draped in flowing white robes laced with starlight. Her crown was not of metal, but of living vines and moonlight itself. Her presence silenced the chamber.
"The Hollow Knight," she said, voice echoing with power. "The one who carries karmic fire. Why should I not burn you where you stand?"
Auren met her gaze, unflinching. "Because the fire I bear is not the gods'. It's mine. And it burns for balance."
The hall stirred. Whispers rose, uncertain and afraid.
Sirael's eyes narrowed, studying the golden flare in Auren's chestplate—the seal of the Karmic Knight, once cursed, now reborn.
"Balance," she repeated, almost to herself. "You speak of what the gods abandoned."
"Then let me restore it."
Silence followed. The Queen stood, her gaze softening—but not warming.
"The Vale will not march for you, Knight. Not yet. But I will give you a guide—someone who remembers what you have forgotten."
A shadow stepped forward from behind her throne—a figure cloaked in gray, hood drawn low.
When it spoke, its voice was a whisper of storms past.
"You still carry her mark, don't you?"
Auren's eyes widened.He knew that voice.
"Kael," he breathed. "You… survived?"
The hooded elf smiled faintly. "Not quite."
And from beneath his cloak, faint black fire flickered—a remnant of the Abyss.
"In every light lies a shadow that remembers its source—and waits for its return."