The bracelet clasped with no snap or click — only a soft hum, like a root rejoining soil. The vines curled naturally around Lira's wrist, fitting her as if they had been shaped for her hand alone. A warmth bloomed beneath her skin, subtle at first, then growing like rising sap. The shimmer faded from silver to a muted green, glowing with each beat of her heart.
Lira looked up. The old woman still stood close, her fingers briefly lingering near Lira's wrist, eyes filled with something unspoken — joy, sorrow, fulfillment.
"It responds to you," she murmured, voice like falling leaves. "Even after so long… you are still part of it."
Renkai had lowered his hands, though he hadn't moved from his position. His gaze remained wary, following every twitch of the old woman's shoulders. Thalanir, on the other hand, was watching the bracelet. His brows were drawn, his voice soft. "That is not ordinary craftsmanship… that is bonded weave. Living vine and spell-thread. It answers only to bloodlines. Or spirits."
The old woman turned her eyes to him, blinking slowly. "She is both."
Lira swallowed. "What is this bracelet, really?"
The woman's eyes glinted with memory. "It is called Lunavir. Forged when starlight touched root, back in the first dawning. It was worn by the Verdant One — the guardian of life's cradle. And you… child of root and sky… are her return."
Silence stretched.
Lira's mouth felt dry. "I don't remember being that."
"You don't need to remember," the woman said, turning away. "The land does. The fog does. The drake carried you because it knew. The roots still feel your echo."
She began to walk slowly toward the stone behind the pedestal, one gnarled hand trailing the surface. "All this… was buried in silence so the world could forget. But memory always finds its way back through those who listen."
Lira looked down at the bracelet again, then at her surroundings — at the ruins pulsing faintly with green life, at the crumbled stones that still held music in their shapes. A breeze passed through the chamber, though no door was open. The fog no longer pressed in but moved softly between arches, like a gentle tide.
Thalanir spoke then, hesitant. "You said our species comes from here. From this place?"
The woman nodded slowly. "Here the First Seed was sung. Your kind, mine, even those who no longer resemble their beginnings. Elven, spirit, guardian, witch. Once, we were not so divided."
She turned to Lira one final time. "You are not meant to rule. You are meant to remember. To awaken the rest. The bracelet will guide you when the time comes. Until then… follow where the fog clears."
Her voice grew thinner with each word, her figure beginning to flicker faintly.
Renkai's eyes narrowed. "What are you?"
The old woman gave a soft smile. "A watcher. A remnant. A root that waited to bloom just once more." Her final words were nearly a whisper. "I am done now."
And like the morning mist touched by sunlight, she faded. Her robes dissolved into the fog, her shadow the last thing to remain before even that, too, was gone.
Silence fell.
The only sound was the faint rustling of the fog and the steady thrum of life through the bracelet on Lira's wrist.
She stepped back, breath uneven. "I think she was… part of this place."
"Or it was part of her," Thalanir said, stepping beside her.
Renkai finally moved closer, his eyes still scanning the shadows. "Either way, we're not alone in this forest. We never were."
The drake let out a low, soft sound and began to turn. The fog at the far end of the chamber pulled aside once more, revealing another narrow archway lined with runes. The path led downward — deeper into the ruins, into the dark belly of whatever lay below.
Lira looked once more at the bracelet. The vines shimmered gently, the light steady now — no longer pulsing in confusion, but guiding.
"I think it's showing the way," she said.
And so, without another word, they followed.
Renkai and Thalanir joined her, their footsteps quiet against the stone floor. For a moment, the three stood shoulder to shoulder, staring into the shadowed remains of the forgotten city.
Then they stepped beyond the threshold.
Inside, the fog grew thinner, clinging low to the ground like a ghost reluctant to let go. What remained of the ruins was vast—a fallen world swallowed by time. Cracked towers leaned into the sky, their spires snapped like broken fingers. Courtyards were overtaken by twisted trees, roots splitting the tiles. But the heart of the ruins pulsed with something older than decay.
They walked in silence beneath towering archways and shattered stained-glass windows, light filtering in like colored mist. Vines crawled along every surface, some bearing pale blossoms that glowed faintly in the gloom.
Then the walls began to speak.
Not with sound—but with image.
Murals appeared along the broken stone—some faded, some eerily intact. Painted with earth pigments, charcoal, and time itself, they told stories Lira could not look away from.
A tall woman stood on one wall, her hair a stream of stars, arms outstretched to beasts of every kind. Beside her, dragons wrapped in ivy, stags with glowing horns, and wolves with eyes like embers moved through silver forests. The next mural showed elven figures, not unlike Thalanir, dancing beneath moons and suns while strange creatures rested peacefully at their feet.
"They lived together," Lira whispered.
"In harmony," Thalanir said, stepping forward. His gaze locked on a particular fresco showing children with pointed ears feeding a serpent coiled around a tree. "This is... this is more than a ruin. It's a record of before. The very beginning."
He sounded breathless. Humbled.
Renkai, less taken by beauty, circled the chamber warily. "And yet it's gone. This peace, this unity. Something broke it. Or ended it."
They walked deeper, their boots crunching softly on leaf-litter and forgotten offerings. Moss had overtaken stone benches. Broken pottery and bones were half-buried beneath the vines.
Then the path narrowed, leading them toward a wide hall where the air grew still, untouched even by wind.
A faint vibration stirred beneath their feet.
The roots on the floor creaked and began to retreat, curling away from the stone like they had completed their purpose. At the base of the tiles, a sliver of stone trembled and split—revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness.
"This wasn't here before."
"It was hidden," Lira murmured. Her voice was distant, like she spoke from some place deeper than thought. "Waiting."
Thalanir stared at the opening, his usually steady features unreadable. "If this truly is the beginning… then what lies below may be older than even memory."
Without waiting, Lira moved first. The bracelet glowed faintly now, casting a greenish light that shimmered like mist against the stone walls. Renkai and Thalanir followed close, silent but alert.
The stairs wound downward in a slow, deliberate spiral. The further they descended, the cooler the air became. The scent of damp moss gave way to something older—dust and stone, iron and root. The silence here was heavier, thick as fog, but it wasn't dead. It was expectant.
Finally, they reached the bottom.
The corridor opened into a hall untouched by time. Unlike the crumbled chambers above, this place remained intact. Stone columns, carved with ancient runes, supported a high vaulted ceiling. Strange flowering vines crept along the corners, faintly luminous in the gloom. And on the walls—more murals, but these were… different.
The figures were taller, finer. Not just elves, but beings with horns like twisted branches and skin like starlight. They moved beside creatures no one had seen in generations—griffins, feathered serpents, feline beasts with six legs and glowing eyes. Some images showed war, others rituals under a shattered sky. The final mural—at the far end of the hall—was cracked down the center but still readable.
It showed a child wrapped in vines being handed over to one of the starlit beings.
Lira stood before it, heart beating hard. "That's… me."
Renkai's voice was low. "It might be who you were."
"It might be who she's becoming," Thalanir added, his voice no longer filled with doubt.
A low hum rose from beneath their feet again, and one of the nearby walls trembled. With a soft grinding noise, a door of stone shifted inward, revealing another staircase—this one grander, leading down again into golden light.
Renkai narrowed his eyes. "How far does this go?"
Lira answered without looking back. "Far enough to remember what the world has forgotten."
She stepped forward again, drawn deeper.
The glow from her bracelet grew stronger.
Down the next flight of stairs, the walls changed. Smooth now, etched with symbols that pulsed as they passed. The air here was different—crisper, humming with subtle energy. The stairs ended at another door, but this one didn't open automatically.
It waited.
Lira raised her arm—and the bracelet responded. The vines shimmered and released a single drop of light, which fell into a slot in the door like a drop of dew.
With a slow, deep groan, the stone door opened.
Inside was a chamber unlike anything they had seen.
It was circular, domed, and warm. Light poured in from an unknown source above, catching on crystalline roots that hung like chandeliers. In the center stood a pool of silver liquid, still and mirror-smooth. Around it, stone seats were arranged in a ring—like a forgotten council chamber.
The pool rippled as Lira entered.
She stepped toward it slowly, her reflection warping as she neared. But it wasn't her reflection that stared back—it was a woman with glowing eyes, hair like vines, and a crown of antlers.
The same woman from the murals.
Renkai and Thalanir held back, watching in reverent silence.
Lira dropped to one knee, her fingers trembling as they hovered above the water.
And then, from deep within the chamber, a voice whispered—not aloud, but in the quiet chamber of her mind.
"Welcome back, daughter of the grove. There is still much to remember."