From high above the firmament where the winds sang ancient melodies, Anaryil could be beheld in all her glory.
A tree that was not merely alive—it was an entire world. Her branches rose like mountains, interlacing through the clouds like arms reaching toward the heavens. It was said she had been planted from the dying heart of a star, and that within her pulsed the very essence of elven time.
Anaryil was more than a dwelling—she was soul, cradle, and sanctuary of the elves.
Her colossal trunk supported thousands of levels and natural platforms, where homes, temples, and gardens balanced as if the tree herself had dreamed them into existence. Her branches stretched across hundreds of kilometers, winding over forests, rivers, and hills, housing inner and outer cities from the crown to the deep roots—where the lower elven castes lived in harmony, though always beneath the silent weight of natural hierarchy.
But on that day... everything was different.
Three translucent barriers surrounded the nation-tree. Like magical veils, almost imperceptible, rippling with the wind. Their subtle glow was a clear warning: no one but elves could enter.
What was once a bustling place with visitors from other races—traders, scholars, explorers—was now silent and solemn.
All outsiders had been politely invited to leave, for a ritual too ancient to be understood by foreigners was about to begin.
Upon the roots, the trunk, the branches, and the canopy, elves from every caste stood outside their homes, all dressed in radiant white, their eyes turned skyward, their hearts silenced in reverence.
It was a moment that many might live to see only once in their long lifespans.
The Ritual of Purification and Fertility.
A phenomenon with no set date, no way to predict or control—it was Anaryil herself who decided when the time had come. The last had occurred over ninety years ago. Many present had not yet been born the last time. Others could no longer remember.
But now, the sacred had begun anew.
In utter silence, the air began to glow. The highest canopy of the tree shimmered with golden light, as if the sun itself had chosen to rest there.
From the heart of Anaryil, a deep vibration echoed across the world. Leaves began to dance in harmony, and then, slowly, the sacred pollen began to fall.
This was no ordinary pollen—it was living gold, shimmering flakes drifting on wind currents like lost stars falling from the heavens. Each particle carried blessings of renewal, healing, purification... and the hope of fertility.
In the shadows, the Queen's Sentinels stood guard, armed with magical weapons, alert to any disturbance. Their faces were hidden, but their eyes burned with fierce loyalty. They would defend the elven sovereignty with their lives, if necessary.
Meanwhile, in every home, elves placed their hands over their hearts, bowed their heads, and closed their eyes. Those seeking children, those seeking healing, those seeking forgiveness. All of them. In silence and communion with the mother-tree.
The sacred tree embraced them in a prayer without words.
And the world, for a brief moment... fell silent.
As the golden pollen began to spread to every corner of Anaryil, a silent and singular procession moved along the main trail of the colossal nation-tree.
There were no musicians. No priests chanting sacred hymns. There was only one woman.
The sovereign of the elves.
Lissamel Quesset, queen of the immortal race, walked with graceful steps, as if her feet floated above the ground woven by Anaryil's millennial roots. Her long silver hair billowed in the wind, reflecting the golden particles like liquid strands of moonlight.
Her skin was pale, slightly flushed by the ritual's warmth; her eyes, fiery amber, held the secrets of ages. On her left arm, glowing blue arcane tattoos—etched since birth—began to shine in response to the call of the mother-tree.
Behind her, a floating platform followed in silence and serenity. Made of living ebony, enchanted with levitation magic, it carried a small square box filled with silver sand. At the center of the sand, a silver branch—two meters tall, slender, and curved like a lance—burned with golden flames that crackled without burning. The fire danced on the wind with wild beauty, casting a mystical light, as if time itself had slowed to bear witness.
With each step toward the sacred center—the natural altar of the small Golden Tree of Fertility—the pollen around her thickened, reacting to her royal blood. And Lissamel's silver hair began to change, gradually taking on a vivid, radiant orange hue, as if the fire of life had begun to blossom within her.
Across all of Anaryil, the response was immediate.
Elves of every caste, standing outside their homes, began to breathe more heavily. Not from lack of air, but from the sudden surge in vital energy. Faces flushed, eyes half-closed, mouths parted in involuntary sighs. Lips bitten, hands gripping their own arms or the waists of their partners. The pollen was not only purification—it was living arousal.
But no one dared move.
Not until the queen completed the ritual.
Lissamel reached the small golden tree, growing peacefully in the center of the great natural altar. Her hair was now shimmering orange, and her aura rose like a tide of ancestral power, flooding thousands of kilometers in all directions—a magical wave of dense energy that didn't harm, but made every elf bow slightly in instinctive reverence.
She was the pinnacle of her race.
The queen said nothing.
She simply made a soft gesture with her hand, and the platform advanced. The burning branch was lifted into the air, floating before the little golden tree, as if offered like a cosmic gift.
And then... the golden flames began to be absorbed by the tree, in a graceful, ordered flow—rivers of liquid gold weaving through the air. A silent, divine spectacle.
Within seconds, a golden flower emerged.
Radiant. Perfect.
Then, at its center, a small fruit, the size of a pearl, began to grow—pulsing with light.
And then, it all vanished.
The flower. The fruit. The branch. The flames.
A cloud of golden pollen exploded into the air like stardust.
A silent flash enveloped the elven nation. Magic took hold of the world.
That day, every elf on the verge of a breakthrough shattered their limits.
That day, the libido of the elven race soared to heights forgotten by the ages. And as soon as the ritual ended, doors were closed, windows veiled with floral drapes, and the city plunged into collective ecstasy. Sounds of obscene pleasure echoed for hours—days. The divine lust of the elves was a sacred dance, not profane, blessed by Anaryil herself.
On that day—Lissamel Quesset ascended.
Her body radiated power.
Her eyes turned to gold.
Her hair, now eternally orange, was the visible mark that she had become one of the supreme powers of Atlas.
When the city gates closed and the elves retreated to their homes to celebrate the blessing of fertility, a second silent movement began.
As if they were part of the mother-tree herself, shadows slipped along the living fibers of the city.
They were the Guardians of Purification.
A battalion of elves—Anaryil's hidden elite—clad in form-fitting black armor, forged from a material unknown to the outside world. It shimmered faintly under the glow of the golden pollen, then vanished into darkness like living mist. Every step was a whisper. Every movement, a breath of death.
Leading the squad was Thalorien. Ancient. Incomprehensible.
An elf with skin ashen as the remains of a burned forest, and golden eyes that reflected no emotion—only judgment.
It was said he was the oldest living elf in existence.
And now, he walked.
Unlike the others, he did not move swiftly. The world itself seemed to bend to clear the way before his presence.
During the Fertility Ritual, the Elven Nation was at its peak... and simultaneously, at its most vulnerable. An entire city locked in ecstasy, doors sealed, hearts laid bare. But the world never stops. And threats never sleep.
Thalorien raised his voice in a brief, commanding speech—his rough tone energized the battalion with dignity and resolve.
"Spies exist.
Infiltrators endure.
And no matter how virtuous the people, there are always those who sell their soul for whispers in the dark.
That is why the Ritual of Purification exists.
That is why blood must be spilled."
Their spirits ignited with purpose—to protect their kind. Their hands tightened around their blades, marking the beginning of the Purification Ritual.
The golden pollen of Anaryil carried a deliberate side effect:
It awakened the 'Spirit Eyes'.
It was not a technique.
It could not be trained.
It was a gift.
A curse.
Only a rare few elves were born with them, chosen directly by the conscious roots of Anaryil.
When awakened, those eyes revealed the soul of all living things. And they only awakened at times like this.
And thus, the world was laid bare.
Elven souls: They shimmered in green and blue—forest and sky.
Prana-bound souls like demons, orcs, and beastkin: Blazing fireflies in red, orange, or fevered gold.
Dwarven souls: Grey and brown, like living stone.
Human souls: White... stained with shadows.
And then, it began.
Fertility celebrated the continuity of life.
Purification, the eradication of deception.
That day, both coexisted.
One of the elves with Spirit Eyes—his gaze flooded with radiant light—suddenly turned toward a nearby house.
A crimson glow. A traitor. Before the soul could even react, a blade pierced the wall and separated the head from the body. It dropped to the floor. Blood flowed down the steps of the home.
In the lower galleries, a misshapen grey soul slithered beneath the foundations. It was a dwarven infiltrator, sneaking through with ancient maps of the roots. Thalorien merely pointed. One of his soldiers leapt like the wind. The entire house was obliterated—not by the structure, but by the decision to harbor an enemy.
Deep in the roots, hidden within a small natural shrine, a human cloaked in furs prayed in silence, believing himself invisible. His eyes closed for the last time when a beam of light pierced his skull. Blood soaked into the living roots of Anaryil.
And saddest of all—a perfect-looking elf, kind of speech, beloved by his family, respected by friends. But to the eyes of the Purification squad... no blue shimmer. No green life. His soul was dark, putrid, silenced. Corrupted.
And so, as tradition demanded...
Thalorien executed him personally.
No anger. No hatred.
Only respect for the ritual.
That day of glory, thousands of moans of pleasure echoed through the layers of Anaryil.
And behind them, hidden in shadow, another sound danced: the soft drip of blood upon sacred roots.
The whole world longed to understand how the Fertility Ritual worked. But never, in any age, had anyone discovered it.
And that secret was kept safe—by the cold steel of the Purification Ritual.