The road narrowed.
The trees thickened.
And the compass pulled.
We followed its silent guidance beneath a sky that dimmed too early, the clouds woven like veils above. The path Mira spoke of had no signs, no markings—only the faintest remnants of cobbled stone, half-swallowed by moss.
The winged wolf walked beside me, his movements quiet, cautious. He sniffed the air now and then, ears twitching at sounds I couldn't hear.
By midday, the forest had fully claimed the path.
Ancient trees loomed above, their silver-veined bark twisting in ways no mortal hand had ever carved. Their roots formed natural bridges and hollows. The leaves above shimmered not green—but hues of blue, violet, and white.
The deeper we moved, the more it felt like we were no longer in the same world.
No birds.
No wind.
Only the sound of breath, footfall, and distant streams murmuring like forgotten voices.
Then the compass shifted.
Its needle, which had been steady in the northern direction, pulled suddenly left—toward a cluster of stone arches veiled by vines and glowing spores.
My hand instinctively moved to my locket.
The wolf let out a low whine—not of fear, but of recognition.
"This is it," I whispered.
We approached the arches.
And as we crossed beneath them, the world changed again.
The air thickened with the scent of wildflowers and old magic. Wisps of floating light drifted like fireflies, pulsing with soft, rhythmic glows—wards.
Everything felt watched.
Not hostile. But cautious.
Judging.
Then I saw it: etched into the roots of a nearby tree, barely visible beneath centuries of moss—
A rune.
Not just any.
One identical to those on the compass. Still faintly glowing.
"An elven forest…" I murmured, brushing my fingers against it. "And she's passed through here."
I turned to the wolf.
He gave a single nod—just enough to tell me he understood.
The Sage's trail was not a rumor.
She had come this way.
And now, so had I.
As I ventured closer, I saw it clearly—an ancient barrier, a veil of woven light stretched between colossal trees at the forest's edge. It pulsed gently with the breath of magic, as if the forest itself drew it in like air. Arcane runes shimmered faintly along its surface—Old Elven, a script untouched by mortal hands for centuries.
I reached out but didn't touch it.
Not yet.
The air around it tasted metallic. Protective spells. Wards.
I knew exactly what this meant.
This was the edge of the Elven Domain.
To cross this threshold was to become a trespasser.
An intruder.
A threat.
Especially someone like me.
The elves and vampires have not shared peace for over a thousand years.
Their history with my kind is not just strained—it is scarred.
It began in the Age of Reclamation—when the world, newly reforged after the collapse of the Titan Empires, was raw and unstable. The gods had gone silent. Great races clashed over territory, relics, and dominance. But no figure rose with such cruelty… as Helizika the Red Moon Tyrant.
A high vampire born from the eldest bloodlines, Helizika believed in vampiric supremacy—declaring war not just on mortals, but on every race with divine ancestry.
The elves, descended from the celestial spirit-trees and moon-born starlight, were his prime target.
They say it began with the burning of Aelthélen, the First Grove. Helizika fed its heartwood to his dragonkin steeds, breaking a sacred pact.
After that came the Sundering of Elineir, where he and his Crimson Court massacred over twelve thousand elven guardians—many of them songbinders and spiritweavers.
He turned the moons red with blood.
Elven children were captured and drained to empower blood rituals.
Artifacts of knowledge, beauty, and memory—destroyed in cruel mockery.
Even the Roots of Elaron, sacred bridges between the material and ethereal realms, were torn down by Helizika's followers.
The elves call that time:
"Laer-Silven Tal'dorei"
The Time When Trees Wept.
It was centuries before they could stand again.
And it took the death of Helizika to begin the healing.
The one who slew him was my distant ancestor: Kiganim of the Silent Crescent.
A vampire not aligned with Helizika's ideology, but hated all the same for his blood.
He led a splinter rebellion against Helizika, joining forces with mortal sorcerers, lost gods, and—reluctantly—the remnants of the elven high circles.
In the infamous Blood Valley Massacre, Kiganim ended Helizika's life using a weapon gifted by the last Silverroot Seer—a blade made from moonsteel and bound to oathfire.
But even Kiganim's sacrifice did not redeem us.
The elves never forgot what they lost.
And they never forgave those who bore the Crimson Lineage.
I am a descendant of that line.
Not Helizika's, but Kiganim's.
Yet to the elves, I may as well be the same.
A vampire is still a child of that war.
Of that darkness.
Even if I carry no hatred in my heart, the weight of my blood speaks before I do.
So I stood before the barrier.
And I understood.
I understood the spears they might raise.
The arrows they might loose.
The songs they might sing to seal my fate.
They would not care that I came in peace.
They would only see the reflection of Helizika in my face.
And yet…
The compass in my hand pulsed faintly—its needle pointing forward.
And I knew.
The Great Sage had passed through this forest.
She may have left a scar… or a secret.
And if I wished to find her, I had to step into a place where I would not be welcome.
I drew in a breath and stepped forward.
The moment the toe of my boot crossed the barrier's edge, the magic screamed.
It didn't explode, nor strike me down—but the very air around me shifted. Like a pulse echoing through roots and stone, a call sent to the heart of the forest.
The ward recognized what I was.
And it hated me.
A sharp sound followed—
The unmistakable snap of bowstrings.
In the blink of an eye, I was surrounded.
From above the trees, behind moss-draped rocks, beneath cloaked hollows in the bark—
Arrows.
At least two dozen, all drawn and aimed for my heart, throat, and spine.
The winged wolf snarled, baring its fangs, wings unfurling half in defense, half in panic.
I raised a hand.
"Hold," I whispered. Not to them.
To him.
To myself.
To the memory of my ancestors.
Then a voice came.
Clear. Cold.
Each word carved with the precision of an arrowhead.
"Hold your ground, vampire. One wrong twitch, and we return your bones to the cursed soil that birthed them."
The speaker emerged between two trees ahead.
Tall. Armored. Graceful as shadow.
Hair like woven starlight. Armor of moonlit bark and etched iron. A longbow slung behind his back, but his hand rested on a curved ceremonial blade. His cloak bore the mark of the Virandari, the Silver Crescent Legion—sworn protectors of the inner elven sanctum.
A General.
Not just a warrior.
A judge.
He studied me with disdain—not rage, not panic.
Just the sheer, cutting stillness of someone whose people had lost too much to trust easily.
"You wear the scent of Helizika's blood," he said.
My breath caught.
He knew.
Of course he knew.
"You are not the first vampire foolish enough to cross this border. Most died long before they reached this point."
His gaze drifted to the wolf beside me.
"That beast does not make you righteous. Nor does its fear excuse your trespass."
I took a slow breath, then spoke clearly.
"I did not come here to raise arms. I came seeking the one you call the Sage."
That made several archers murmur—bows wavered slightly.
But the General's expression did not change.
"The Great Sage owes you nothing. Least of all answers."
"I am aware."
"Then why tempt death, daughter of the Crimson Line?"
I looked him in the eye.
"I seek truth. Of what destroyed my kingdom. Of what holds this land in silent fear. I believe the Sage may know something… and if she is not here, then I must follow where her path once led."
A long silence.
Wind stirred the leaves. Somewhere in the distance, a spirit bird gave a single echoing cry.
Then the General spoke once more.
"You stand at the edge of a sacred realm—of the last forest untouched by war. Speak carefully, vampire. One lie, and your blood will stain roots that remember everything."
"I am not," I said softly.
The words hung in the air like dying breath.
The archers tensed.
Their arrows drew taut, ready to pierce through heart and marrow.
"I am a vampire," I continued, voice clear despite the pressure surrounding me. "But one who has lost her kingdom—her people—in a siege not long ago."
I took a step forward…
Then knelt.
Right hand pressed against the moss-covered earth, head bowed.
"I did not come to raise arms against you. I seek only the Great Sage—answers, aid… perhaps even hope."
For a moment, there was no sound but the whisper of leaves.
Then the General spoke again, voice edged with skepticism.
"What kingdom claims your blood?"
I raised my head, but remained kneeling.
"Vokhsina," I answered. "You may know it by the older name… Nivellan."
A low murmur moved through the hidden archers.
The General narrowed his eyes.
"Nivellan… the city now lost in flame and ash?"
I nodded. "Yes. I am the last."
He paused.
Then spoke again, colder.
"We elves do not deny refuge to those fleeing war. But you… are a vampire. And your kin have worn many faces over time—conquerors, deceivers, monsters. It is difficult to judge your truth through the smoke of your kingdom's ruin."
Then—
Soft footsteps.
Another voice, older. Wiser.
A figure emerged from the trees behind him.
Elder Makunishita.
Hair like withered silver roots. Eyes that glowed with pale teal light—seeing far beyond flesh. His robes shimmered with nature's binding threads, and he walked with the slow grace of someone who had watched the rise and fall of empires.
"Nivellan?" he repeated, voice low. "So… it is true. The whispers of ruin carried by the wind..."
I stood, slowly. "Yes, Elder. It fell. To something ancient. Something beyond fire and steel."
He examined me with unreadable eyes.
"Then I ask only this: what bloodline do you descend from?"
I hesitated.
Then answered.
"Crimson Elder."
Another silence.
This time heavier.
The archers no longer looked ready to fire—but they did not lower their bows either.
The Elder turned to the General.
"Have her meet the Queen, Duke."
The General—Duke, apparently—glanced toward me, still grim but no longer hostile.
"Elder… is that wise?"
"It will be fine," Elder Makunishita said. "The youngling bears no thirst for war in her eyes."
Duke turned back to me and gave a sharp gesture.
"Stand. Do not stray from our path. Do not touch the trees. And speak only when spoken to."
I obeyed.
The wolf at my side rose with me, still tense, but understanding.
Together, we followed them deeper into the forest.
The barrier shimmered again behind me—closing.
But I had passed through.
Not as a conqueror.
Not as a monster.
But as a refugee...
And a seeker.