The seasons shifted softly, and with them, so did Siraoshi.
Time in the elven village passed like water over stone—slow, gentle, shaping everything without ever seeming to rush. The years of infancy began to melt into early childhood. Siraoshi, now toddling and curious, spent his days wandering under the watchful gaze of elders and kin. His speech was still sparse, more song than language, but his thoughts had grown complex, layered—far beyond what he could yet express aloud.
Though he was no longer startled by the beauty of this world, it had not dulled. If anything, he now saw more. The shimmer in the air when the wind passed through the leaves. The way the five moons lit paths on the forest floor like silent guardians. And always, always, the gentle thrum of the gem on his forehead—a companion, a quiet witness to his thoughts and feelings.
Then one morning, something changed.
He sat alone in the play-nook just beyond his family's home, a half-circle of mossy logs and polished stones arranged for children. Wooden animal figures lay scattered before him—deer, falcons, wolves—each hand-carved, each with a name passed down by his caretakers.
One of them, a silver-colored owl, lay just out of reach near a tree root.
Siraoshi stretched his fingers toward it, pouting, frustration bubbling in his chest.
"I just want it," he whispered, not expecting an answer.
The gem on his forehead warmed.
A shimmer ran through the air like heat off stone. The owl toy trembled slightly, lifted an inch from the ground—and drifted toward him.
His breath caught.
The owl landed softly in his hand.
He blinked, stunned, staring at the toy as though it had betrayed some secret. His heart pounded, not with fear, but with wonder. He looked around. No one had seen.
It wasn't a fluke. It couldn't be. He had pulled it. Like calling something with his mind—like reaching with invisible fingers.
Excitement surged. He placed the owl back where it had been and furrowed his brow, reaching again—not with his hand this time, but with intent. Come here, he willed silently. Come back to me.
Nothing.
He tried again. Focused. Gritted his teeth.
Still nothing.
His brow furrowed deeper. The gem on his forehead remained cool and still, no shimmer, no warmth.
Siraoshi slumped back, disappointed. His first taste of magic had vanished like a dream upon waking. And yet… he knew it had happened. He felt it had been real. The way the gem had responded to something deeper than emotion—something deliberate.
And that thought sparked something deeper:Maybe it wasn't a trick.Maybe it was a beginning.
Though he could not summon the toy again, the feeling of magic had left a mark—like a door cracked open in the quiet of his mind.
Days passed. Then weeks.
And as spring's breath warmed the forest, something new began to stir within Siraoshi.
It began subtly. When he walked beneath the trees, he would sometimes feel a tingling in his fingers or a soft pressure behind his ears—like someone calling his name without sound. When he sat alone near the creek, he would hear what seemed like humming beneath the water, not from the current, but from the stones resting at the bottom.
He told no one at first. It felt like a secret, one he wasn't sure he was supposed to have.
One late afternoon, while he sat with his back to an ancient oak—one of the great, wide-bellied ones with roots like sleeping serpents—he closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift.
The gem on his forehead tingled faintly.
And then…
A voice.
It was not in words. Not exactly. More like the essence of thought carried by wind.
"You are listening. That is good."
His eyes shot open, and he looked around. No one.
The tree remained still, but he felt the presence within it—old, kind, slow like growing things. The bark seemed warmer under his palm now. He reached out again, not with hands but with awareness.
The wind rustled the leaves above him, and suddenly he could hear them—not just the rustling, but the voice within it. Like laughter. Like song.
It was the same with the stones by the stream later that day. If he sat quietly enough, they murmured to one another—ancient, low voices, remembering the weight of rain and the warmth of the sun. Even the grass had a sigh to it, and when he ran barefoot through the fields, they greeted him.
He was not imagining it. He knew.
One evening, under the light of the five moons, Siraoshi watched a group of elder elves gather by a moonstone circle beyond the glade. They stood in a ring, eyes closed, arms gently lifted, and as he watched, he saw it—wisps of light rising from the ground, from the trees, from the very air.
He could hear the spirits whispering around them, responding to the elves' calls. Some came like flickers of wind, others like glowing embers or swirling leaves. The elders spoke to them, shaped their movement with voice and hand.
Spirits of nature.
Siraoshi's eyes were wide with awe.
So it's not just me, he thought. The older elves—they could hear them too. They could see them… and even command them.
He placed a hand over the gem on his forehead, now warm again with quiet resonance.
"Maybe one day… I can do that too."
The wind stirred in answer, like a promise yet to be spoken aloud.
Siraoshi's fascination with magic only grew.
The whispers of the spirits were always around him now—like a quiet song just beneath the world's surface. It was comforting, familiar. Like he belonged. But he wanted more than to simply listen.
He wanted to act.
In moments of solitude, his thoughts would drift back—not to this world, but to the one he'd left behind. His old life, vague now, like a dream slipping through his fingers. But some memories remained vivid—especially the ones filled with wonder.
Anime. Games. Fantasy stories where elves called trees to rise, made flowers bloom with a breath, vines slither at their command.
"Elven magic is tied to nature," he murmured to himself, kneeling in a small sun-dappled clearing. "So maybe I can learn to do the same..."
He reached out to a wildflower—a pale pink blossom curled tight and resting under a clump of tall grass. Gently, he pressed his small fingers to its delicate petals.
He focused. Pictured it blooming. Willed it to.
The gem on his forehead pulsed faintly.
And then… the flower unfurled.
A slow, graceful unfolding. Petals spread wide, blushing into a rich pink as if the flower had taken a deep breath and smiled.
Siraoshi's mouth opened in awe. His tiny breath hitched. He had done it! Magic—real, living magic.
Or so he thought.
A gentle laugh drifted in behind him. Not cruel, but soft—amused.
He froze.
Turning clumsily, still not quite used to walking properly, he looked up.
Standing there, half in shadow, was a figure unlike any elf he'd seen before.
She had long, dark blue hair, sleek and untamed, spilling down her back. Sharp ears peaked through the strands, more pronounced than most elves he'd met. Her skin was pale white, and her face—delicate, yet unreadable—wore a small, knowing smile.
But her eyes…
Sharp, piercing blue—like cold fire. They seemed to look through him.
She wore no robes like the village elders, but rather dark, form-fitting clothes, woven for silence and speed. Leather straps wrapped her waist and thighs, holding multiple small daggers—each one sheathed within easy reach. A sleek bow rested against her back, along with a quiver of dark-feathered arrows.
And on her forehead—like him—a gem, though hers shimmered with a darker hue, deeper and older than his.
She looked like a rogue adventurer, someone born in the wild and tempered by danger.
Deadly… and beautiful.
Siraoshi stared, wide-eyed, heart pounding.
He wanted to ask who she was. How she made the flower bloom. What kind of magic did she used? But his mouth could form no words—not yet. He was still just a baby, barely understanding the flowing, musical language of this world. His lips moved, but all that came out was a confused little sound.
"...Uhh..."
The elf tilted her head slightly, a smile lingering.
She took a step forward and knelt beside the flower. Her gaze flicked from it to him, then back.
Her fingers, gloved in soft black leather, reached out and gently touched the bloom. The petals glowed faintly at her contact, as if in recognition.
She had done it, not him.
He blinked, confused—then frustrated.
Her expression softened, and she gave a slight nod as if to say, "It's alright." Her eyes seemed to understand everything he couldn't say.
For a long moment, they sat there in silence—him staring, her watching.
Then, without a word, she rose and turned. As she walked away, Siraoshi saw how she moved—silent, like a shadow sliding between trees. Every part of her—her weapons, her stride, her poise—spoke of skill, power, and experience. Yet there was something almost gentle in the way she left.
The flower remained, glowing faintly.
Siraoshi looked down at it again. The magic hadn't been his… not yet.
But she'd seen him try.
And she hadn't laughed or scolded. She had simply smiled.
Maybe… that meant something.
For the next few days, Vaelira became a regular presence in the household. Siraoshi noticed how easily she moved through the shadows of their home, as if she were more comfortable blending into dark corners than sitting in sunlight. She would leave early in the morning and return by dusk, her boots dusty and the edge of her cloak frayed with wear. Yet she always had time for him—her little cousin, who still couldn't speak, but watched everything with wide, intelligent eyes.
He heard more from her conversations with his mother. Snippets about a mission—something ancient, a relic or a place that needed protection. She spoke in hushed tones, as if the walls themselves might listen.
"It's not just a ruin, it's a warded place—untouched by time. I was sent there by the Silver Moons Guild to monitor its surroundings. Something's stirring. Something old," she'd whispered, thinking Siraoshi too young to understand.
She didn't know he understood more than he could speak.
But during her downtime, she made a terrible babysitter.
The Bedtime Stories
One night, while his mother was preparing dinner, Vaelira volunteered to put Siraoshi to sleep.
"It's just a baby. How hard can it be?" she shrugged.
She perched beside his cradle and leaned in with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"Alright, little cousin," she whispered dramatically, "let me tell you about the time I was trapped inside a collapsing dwarven tomb with a cursed gemstone and a bloodthirsty banshee."
Siraoshi blinked.
Vaelira launched into her tale with the flair of a seasoned bard—describing blood-curdling screams, skeletons that reassembled themselves, a dagger that could drink magic, and how she had to outrun a collapsing stone bridge while wounded.
By the time she got to the part where she jumped on a basilisk's back to escape, Siraoshi's eyes were the size of moons, and he was definitely not going to sleep.
His mother walked in, took one look at his pale, stunned face, and glared.
"Vaelira."
"…Too soon?" she grinned sheepishly.
The Dagger Incident
The next afternoon, she decided Siraoshi needed to experience "tools of the trade."
"Start 'em young," she muttered, kneeling beside him in the grass outside the house.
She pulled one of her daggers—beautifully forged, silver-edged with an obsidian hilt—and handed it hilt-first to the baby.
Siraoshi grabbed it immediately, enchanted by its gleam. It was heavy. Too heavy. It wobbled dangerously in his chubby hands.
"What in the name of the stars are you doing!?" his mother shrieked from the doorway.
Siraoshi dropped the dagger in fright. Vaelira nearly choked.
"I—I was supervising!"
"You gave a blade to a baby!"
"He held it well!"
She spent the next hour scrubbing pans with a spell-repelling cloth as punishment while his mother muttered ancient Elvish curses under her breath.
The Feeding Fiasco
Another day, she tried feeding him mashed berries. She held the spoon like she was about to stab a goblin. Half the berries went into his nose.
"Why is this so hard? I've bandaged trolls more easily than this," she growled.
Siraoshi, delighted by the mess, squashed a berry on her face.
Her mother came back into the room.
Another punishment.
The Bow Lesson
Eventually, Vaelira decided: "If I'm going to be punished anyway, might as well make it worth it."
She crafted a tiny wooden bow for Siraoshi. It wasn't dangerous—at least not to anyone except squirrels. He loved it instantly.
"See? Look at that grip. Natural talent," she said proudly as she helped him draw the string back. He accidentally shot a twig arrow straight into a potted herb.
His mother returned.
She didn't even say anything.
She just pointed to the broom.
Vaelira groaned and picked it up, grumbling all the way to the back room.
Yet, Despite Everything...
In spite of her chaos, there was something undeniably warm in the way she looked at Siraoshi. As if, deep down, she saw a bit of herself in him. A quiet watcher. A soul waiting to wake up.
And Siraoshi, though young, knew he liked her.
Her stories opened a world beyond trees and moonlight—a world of secrets, ruins, blades, and whispered danger. Her presence sparked a sense of possibility in him. That one day, he too might face the wild unknown—not alone, but prepared.
Sometimes, when she thought no one was looking, she'd gently rock him in her arms after a long day. Her rogue edge softened, just a little.
"Don't grow up too fast," she'd whisper to his sleeping form.
"…But when you do… I'll be waiting to show you the way."
It began with the chime of the village bells — soft at first, like the ringing of wind through hollow stones, then louder, urgent, echoing across the trees. All elves were being summoned. Even in his young state, Siraoshi could sense something different in the air.
His mother had been stirring soup in the wooden cauldron when she froze. Her pointed ears twitched, and she whispered something beneath her breath that Siraoshi didn't recognize. Then, quickly, she set the ladle down and scooped him into her arms. Without a word, they joined the growing stream of elves heading toward the Heartwood Tree, the massive, ancient tree that stood at the center of the village like a living monument.
The Heartwood Tree towered over everything. Its bark was silver with age, its leaves glowed faintly with stored moonlight, and the roots were said to run deeper than any well. Siraoshi had only ever seen it from a distance. This close, it felt like standing beneath a god.
The elves stood in silence beneath its sprawling branches. Siraoshi, in his mother's arms, looked around at the crowd — warriors with their spears, mages in robes of green and silver, hunters with feathered cloaks. Even the children were here, all quiet, all still.
Then, from the base of the tree, the Elder High Elf stepped forward. He was ancient, even by elven standards — his white hair cascading like a waterfall of snow, his gem pulsing a pale violet on his forehead. His voice was quiet, but it carried like thunder through the leaves.
"The wards have weakened."
A ripple passed through the crowd like wind through grass.
"The seal that was meant to last until the end of ages has begun to crack. The signs are clear—shadows in the north, corrupted creatures stirring, and... the dreamless sleep has been broken."
Siraoshi didn't understand the words, not truly, but the tone made his skin prickle. He looked up at his mother. Her face was pale. Afraid.
"The heart of the forest is no longer safe," the elder continued. "We must begin preparations. We will seal our homes. We will call on the old alliances. And we must protect... the children."
That's when his mother tightened her grip on him.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she held him closer, almost as if afraid he'd vanish if she let go. Around them, other parents did the same. Whispers of "Is it the Black Hollow?" "Have the Unseen returned?" and "This early? No—it's too soon!" circled through the crowd like a creeping fog.
But no answers came. Just fear.
The Lockdown
When they returned home, everything felt different.
Siraoshi's mother closed the door, something she had never done during the day. She latched the windows, muttering words that shimmered with soft magic, layering protective wards around their home.
Siraoshi sat quietly on the floor, confused.
The air felt heavy. His toys were untouched in the corner, but he didn't reach for them. His mother moved quickly, checking the pantry, counting herbs, laying salt lines across the threshold.
Outside, the rest of the village mirrored her actions. He could hear it—the click of latches, the thump of shutters being shut, the whisper of barriers being raised. The once open, flowing life of the elven village had suddenly become a fortress.
He crawled to the window and peeked out between the cracks. The Heartwood Tree still stood tall and proud in the distance... but even it now felt solemn, as though it too were mourning something unseen.
A Child's Fear
Siraoshi didn't understand what was happening.
But he felt it.
Something in the wind had changed. The spirits that once whispered gently to him were now quiet. The hum of magic in the air had a sharper edge. Even the moonlight that poured in through the shutters seemed colder.
He looked up at his mother. She smiled gently down at him, trying to hide the tremble in her hands.
"It's alright, my little light," she whispered, brushing hair from his face. "You're safe."
But her voice cracked just slightly, and even at one year old, Siraoshi knew she was lying.
And though he couldn't speak the words, a single thought pressed quietly at the back of his mind:
"What is coming?"