The forest was alive.
Not in the way most would describe—a place teeming with rustling leaves, chirping birds, and the quiet scurry of woodland creatures. No, this was different. The trees whispered. Not to the wind, but to each other. To him.
Elarion sat by a shallow stream, the clear water catching the light that trickled through the branches above. His reflection stared back—a boy with emerald eyes, the shade of deep forest moss, and hair like pale sunlight. He dipped his fingers into the current, watching ripples erase the image.
He didn't know where he was. Not truly. The trees felt familiar in ways he couldn't explain, and the name "Elarion Vaelthorn" echoed in his head like a song he'd half-forgotten. It was his. That much he was sure of. But everything else... shadows. Shapes he couldn't catch.
He remembered flashes. Running barefoot through muddy alleys, laughter that didn't feel distant yet had no face attached. A warmth. Then… screams. Ash. Fire. Eyes that glowed like voids—and pain, so sharp it stole the air from his lungs.
He shook his head. That wasn't now.
Now was the forest. Now was silence.
A low creaking groan shifted his attention. One of the great trees—bark blackened and roots gnarled—bent as if in thought. A breeze passed, though the leaves above barely stirred. Elarion stood, instincts tugging at his feet. He should move.
He didn't know where, but something inside him—an itch in his bones—pulled him forward.
The forest floor softened as he walked. Moss swallowed his steps, and ancient ferns brushed against his fingers. Here, sunlight barely touched the ground, yet Elarion's path felt lit. Not by the sun—but by memory.
He stopped before a wall of thick vines, their twisted stems covering a broken stone arch. Carvings lined its edges, faint and worn, but his fingers traced them like they were his own thoughts. A symbol. A star without a name, etched deep at the center.
His breath caught.
A whisper—not from behind, but within.
"You are not lost, little star… only waiting to rise."
He stepped through.
Beyond the arch lay a clearing unlike the rest of the forest. The grass shimmered faintly, silver in the shadows. At the center stood a pedestal, covered in roots. As Elarion approached, the roots retreated, as though recognizing an old friend.
Resting atop the stone was a pendant. A tiny shard of crystal, warm gold in color and cracked down the middle. As his fingers brushed it, a pulse of light surged up his arm. Images flashed—brief, broken—a hand reaching for him, a voice crying his name, a city of towers glowing in moonlight.
And then nothing.
His knees buckled.
He clutched the pendant, heart hammering, breath shallow.
He didn't understand what any of it meant. But for the first time since waking, he felt something stir beneath the surface of his confusion.
A name, a forest, a relic of forgotten power.
The world had changed while he slept.
But it hadn't forgotten him.