Her name was Aelinor Valyra.

  A name that floated like silk on ancient winds. A name that smelled of spring flowers, yet carried the weight of ages. Many said she was young. But only fools try to measure elves by the time of men.

  Aelinor entered Lohr'tis the dawn following the decree. She rode a lean horse with calm steps, one that neither neighed nor dirtied its hooves on the sacred sand. She needed no pomp, no guards. The wind announced her. The scent of flowers instead of blood. And the golden light of her arrival, even in the shadows of Friedhor’s palace.

  Long, dark brown hair, bound in a braid that seemed handcrafted by the gods. Brown robes embroidered with cream and gold, adorned with flowers as subtle as they were bold—flowers that would never bloom in Friedhor’s land, yet were there, as if sprouting from her. Her staff felt like an extension of her soul: an ancient branch, shaped by time, decorated with ribbons, crystals, and dead petals that refused to fall.

  But what drew the eye most wasn’t her forest-green eyes after a rain, nor her tranquil beauty—it was the book.

  A colossal grimoire strapped to her back with a leather belt and golden chains, its cover etched with black arabesques and an eight-stone mandala at the center, like the eyes of an enchanted creature. Each stone seemed to pulse with its own breath. Ribbons, twigs, feathers, pendants, and nameless trinkets danced along its sides, as if they were mementos from a million places. A walking museum of forgotten magic.

  And now, she stood before the King.

  The main hall had been cleared by Balthier’s own order. The elf’s presence unsettled his generals. They said flowers murmured in her wake. That her eyes never blinked when facing lies. That her grimoire whispered with a child’s voice.

  She bowed only slightly. As one who understands rituals, but fears them not.

  “Your Majesty,” she said, her voice singing even in silence. “I’ve come to answer your kingdom’s call. I bring centuries of study. Tales from when men walked beside spirits. And magics that prefer not to be named.”

  Balthier smiled. A smile of polished iron. Warm on the surface. Cold as the blade.

  “Lady Valyra. Or should I call you… mage of the enchanted forest?”

  “You may call me as you wish, Your Majesty,” she replied, her gaze steady. “So long as it’s with honesty.”

  The silence in the hall thickened like dark honey.

  “Honest, then,” he said, stepping down from the throne. Heavy, majestic steps. His crimson cloak dragging like living blood. “The truth is, I need a mage. An ally. A sharp mind that sees the world as it is… not as it wishes to be.”

  “And the world is…?”

  “Fragile,” he said, closing to less than a meter from her. “And full of fools who believe in flowers.”

  Aelinor didn’t flinch.

  “I believe in thorns too, Your Majesty. And I know where they grow.”

  Balthier laughed. A laugh like a man who’d spotted something rare: a spark. A flicker amid the desert.

  “Sit, Lady Valyra. Let’s talk. This palace holds many secrets. And I like to test those who dare enter my home with a smile.”

  She didn’t sit. Instead, she walked to a hall window and placed her hand on the warm stone frame. She felt the desert’s vibration. The city’s dryness. And something… far deeper.

  “There’s pain in these walls,” she said, emotionless. “And something trapped beneath the throne. Something that… weeps.”

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  The king froze.

  For a moment, the hall fell silent.

  “You speak too much,” he said, his smile gone.

  “I only say what the stone tells me,” she replied softly. “And it misses much.”

  A new silence. Now like a cord about to snap.

  “You’re hired,” the king said, his sigh caught between laughter and anger. “I want you in my laboratories tomorrow. Let’s see if your flowers dance with fire.”

  Aelinor bowed again. Deeper this time. But as she rose, her green eyes seemed darker. As if they saw… someone. Deep within.

  Siegfrid…

  But she didn’t speak his name. Not yet.

  She left the hall with the lightness of a dream refusing to end. And the king, alone once more, gazed at his necklace—which trembled again.

  “Do you feel it, don’t you?” he murmured to the pendant. “She’s tied to this too. Another piece on the board… another lie to feed.”

  And deep below, amid stone and dust, a tear slid through an ancient crack.

  …

  Several days had passed since the elf mage’s arrival at Lohr'tis’s golden palace. Aelinor adapted to her new role as the king’s arcane advisor—a position as ambiguous as it was shaped by Balthier’s whims. In the mornings, she studied astral maps and ancient magical records—many corrupted or incomplete, as if time, or someone, had erased crucial memories.

  The royal library was a labyrinth of secrets. Even with her keen sight, Aelinor felt that part of the kingdom’s knowledge was locked in ivory drawers, guarded by runes and invisible binds. Still, bit by bit, she pieced together fragments, connecting threads, and began to grasp the magical web sustaining the capital—and with it, Balthier’s throne.

  In the afternoons, the king summoned her. Sometimes to discuss omens, stellar alignments, or magical events in distant lands. Other times, merely to have her there. Seated nearby. To lend credence to his power before nobles and ambassadors. She saw through his mask: the charmer, the ironist, the diplomat.

  And slowly, she began to discern what lay behind those cerulean eyes—a well of thwarted desires and unnamed darknesses. Yet she tread carefully. He’d never touched her without invitation, but his gaze was always that of one who already possessed what he coveted.

  But that day… the palace’s atmosphere felt different. Aelinor had been excused from her magical duties that morning. No requests, no summons. The city, seen from her high windows, seemed restless yet silent.

  In the palace’s central courtyard, the stone stands were packed. Nobility sat under purple silk canopies, shielded from the sun, while soldiers and commoners crowded like shadows at the edges.

  At the center of the stone stage, a row of prisoners was displayed under the king’s impassive gaze.

  Men and women—peasants, soldiers, scribes, even an elderly noble—all shackled, exhausted, some wounded, all silent. Some had eyes full of fury. Others, of resignation. And some, fixed on the king, as if still pleading for justice.

  Balthier rose from his outdoor throne—a black seat of iron and mother-of-pearl set for public events.

  “The kingdom,” he said, his enchanting voice amplified by spells, “is not forged merely with gold or glory. But with obedience. Loyalty. Order.”

  He paced slowly before the prisoners, hands behind his back, like a tutor among unruly children.

  “These traitors didn’t just try to steal from us. They stole the right to peace. They planted doubt in men’s hearts. They tried to ferment division… and that, my dear ones, is the first blade of a revolt.”

  A woman among the prisoners shouted:

  “We wanted bread! Clean water! Dignity!”

  The king turned slowly toward her. A twisted smile curved his lips.

  “And for that, they sowed weeds in the fertile field of the people. A pity… The kind of thing a king must never tolerate.”

  He raised a hand, and a signal sufficed. The soldiers advanced. The axe fell.

  The first head dropped.

  Aelinor didn’t watch. She didn’t need to. The stones screamed beneath her feet, as if each blade’s strike bled into the earth. The palace walls quivered in her soul. The chains. The blood. The loss. All etched into her magical memory, like invisible scars.

  More bodies fell. The king didn’t avert his eyes. Some tears fell from the stands. Others from faces clutching the hands of those about to fall. But not from the king.

  Later, in the hall, he found Aelinor.

  “I hope you rested, my forest flower,” he said softly. “Today was a hard day. But necessary. Parasites… must be removed before they infest the tree.”

  Aelinor didn’t reply at once. Her gaze settled on the king’s necklace, which seemed to glow faintly.

  She forced a smile, delicate but devoid of warmth.

  “Trees bleed too when the right branches are cut, Your Majesty.”

  He merely watched her. As one who understands… and ignores.

  The chains beneath the throne were silent.

  But not for long.

  ?