In the moment the three made their way deeper into the secret village of Valen'Dar, Luenor felt the shift in atmosphere like a knife to his skin.
The villagers filled the paths in silent rows — elves of every age, bundled in woven leather, fur-lined tunics, and fantastic mana-thread cloaks. Some were peering through doorways with narrowed eyes, pulling children closer, while others were whispering quietly to one another, their faces taking on an expression of curiosity, fear, and thinly-veiled hostility.
None looked happy to see them.
Luenor gulped and looked at Hera. Even she looked small under the villagers' watchful faces, her previous strength diminished just a little.
"Weird," Arwin muttered through clenched teeth. "This used to just be a storeroom… not an active community."
The slow, winding path eventually brought them to what was undoubtedly the largest structure in the middle — a massive stone chamber, half under repair with wooden beams and woven vines. Arwin recognized it instantly. It was only a long time ago, it was used for a storage hall for weapons and other supplies during the frontier wars. Now, it stood as the heart of the tribe.
The elves halted them before the heavy wooden doors.
Luenor heard low conversation break out behind him. The guards—Faren and the stern female—had stepped aside, bowing low as a figure emerged from the shadows.
An old elf, cloaked in deep green robes, leaning on a twisted wooden branch, approached the door with slow but measured steps. His skin was pale as frost, his hair white as snow, yet his golden eyes burned with startling clarity. The younger elves bowed deeply, reverently. Even the warriors stiffened to attention.
Luenor couldn't help but notice their postures—the awe, the quiet reverence, the fear of disappointing this man.
"Who is that…?" he breathed.
The old elf halted a few steps forward, observing the three with a knowing smile.
"And what do we see here?" he said loudly while switching to a tone that evoked an uncomfortable warmth in Luenor's spine—the way the old man looked at Luenor made Luenor feel as if he could be seen through.
Without thinking, Luenor opened his mouth. "I—"
Before he could even finish the sound, Hera dive-bombed in front of him, slapped her hand over his mouth, and silenced him. The look she gave him meant he wouldn't want to speak a word again.
The old elf grinned to himself and leaned a little heavier on his staff.
"Good instincts, child," he said very softly to Hera. "The boy would have answered before he considered the risk. You… you are much harder to entrap."
He turned back around and gestured for the great door to open; it began to creak open as he made his hand gesture.
"Come. We will talk inside. It is most inappropriate to do so out here. I am Kirellion, the former chief of the Valen'Dar."
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The slamming doors opened wider, and they staggered forward into the very sacred center of Valen'Dar.
What lay ahead exceeded their wildest imaginings.
The stone room had transformed from a dusty old storage room into a temple-like hive of life. Towering roots had burgeoned through the cinderblock walls and piped ceilings, twisting into natural pillars and arches whereby the forest itself had revealed the ruin. Soft green light poured from crystal lanterns floating in air, serving to blanket the entire area in ambient light.
The smells of earth and living wood hung pregnant. Vines and carved wooden platforms twisted upward, where great walkways loomed above and silent elven sentinels bore life from their vantage points. Valen'Dar wasn't a structure that was built—that was almost something terrible. No, what sat before them had grown into being, living extensions of Frostwood.
In the dead center of the chamber sat a raised dais, attached to a throne made of roots, both thick and gnarled, but all formed with natural grace. The throne itself was alive; Luenor could almost hear it breathe. Its bark of many hues flexed like skin, as faint veins of mana curled beneath it.
Sitting in the seat of roots, however, was Thalanar, the Chief of Valen'Dar.
The chief was younger than Kirellion, yet his presence was twice as heavy. His silver hair flowed down past his shoulders, bound with thin braids and beads of bone and stone. His robes shimmered faintly with thread-woven enchantments, marking him as both leader and mage of the tribe.
Kirellion, walking ahead with his staff, stopped near the base of the platform and bowed deeply.
"Elder's Grace upon you, Thalanar," the old elf said evenly.
The chief did not rise, but leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm, his emerald gaze sweeping over the three humans standing before him, bound and tired, their pale faces washed over by the cold.
A long silence passed, the deep silence of the hall bearing down on them.
"Well," Thalanar finally spoke, his voice rich, but with a blade's edge. "So… Kirellion has returned from exile, gifts in hand." A half-smile, just a glimpse of amusement. "Gifts of…?"
The elves lining the hall laughed to themselves in dark amusement.
Kirellion only smiled and gently tapped his staff. "Gifts, perhaps. Or guests."
He turned back to Luenor, Hera, and Arwin.
"Tell us, children," Kirellion said, "Who walks amongst the roots of Valen'Dar this night?"
Luenor opened his mouth to respond, but Hera, sensing that there was something very wrong, quickly pressed her hand over his mouth before he could utter a single word.
Kirellion laughed softly, leaning on his staff as if he was enjoying what he saw. His hard eyes glinted with amusement.
"A wise girl!" he said. "Very few can resist the call of words when fear is howling at their heels."
Thalanar leaned back on his throne, watching with interest. He waved his hand slightly.
"Unbind them," he ordered.
The guards hesitated, but obeyed, stepping forward to remove the ropes from their wrists.
Luenor rubbed his sore wrists, glancing toward Hera with gratitude. She said nothing, keeping her gaze locked on Kirellion. The old elf gestured toward the stairway leading up to the platform.
"Come," Kirellion said softly. "We shall speak… properly."