The owl ruffled its feathers nonchalantly, as though it had no interest in the gravity of the moment. But Bastian knew better. This "ordinary" owl, preening atop the treetop, was the key to the enigma, the one who had whispered the truth about the "Earth Vein Theory," a long-forgotten work by the Sage. A theory that, if real, held the secret to the elves' unending magic* their terrifying, infinite power.
That the answers had been waiting for him, hidden away in a dusty corner of an old village library, seemed laughable. This kind of knowledge, the kind that could tip the scales in the ongoing war, should've been unreachable to someone like him. But it hadn't been. It had been sitting there, almost as if someone had left it there for her, waiting to be found.
"More like someone planted it for me to pick up," Bastian muttered under his breath, narrowing his eyes at the owl.
The owl's head swiveled around, its innocent expression almost comical as it blinked at him. It opened its wide, orange-yellow eyes as if to say, Who, me? Just a harmless little owl, aren't I?
Bastian felt a surge of frustration. he knew this creature was playing games with her, but he had no choice but to play along. he needed answers, and like it or not, the owl held them.
"Why did you want me to find this out?" he demanded, his voice rising in anger. "Why go through all this trouble to guide me to the truth? I'm nobody."
The owl cocked its head, unruffled by his outburst. "Does it matter?" it asked, its voice casual, almost dismissive.
Bastian felt the weight of those words settle over his like a shroud. Did it matter? The question cut deeper than he expected. He wanted to shout, to scream that it did matter, his entire life had been defined by being a nobody, someone overlooked and discarded. But now, for the first time, he was holding something valuable, something that could change everything. The truth he had uncovered, the knowledge of the elves' infinite magic, was more valuable than anything he had ever possessed. And it terrified him.
All across the land, races were at war with the elves, their magic proving nearly impossible to defeat. The battles were endless, the losses unbearable. If what he had learned was true, then the world was on the brink of ruin unless this secret could be unraveled.
The owl's gaze flickered with a knowing glint. "The elves will not stop. They will consume every last drop of energy, leave nothing behind."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence, cold and final. Bastian had already suspected as much, but hearing it spoken aloud made the truth feel so much worse. The village; his village, was gone. He didn't need to see it to know. He had felt it the moment the elves had arrived, like a shadow crawling over his skin. The village, its people, his home; all of it had been swallowed by the darkness.
"Why me?" He whispered, his voice hoarse and strained. "Why did you choose me for this?"
The owl remained silent for a long moment, then spoke softly, "Does it really matter?"
Bastian's chest tightened. No, it didn't matter. Not anymore. What mattered was what he would do with the knowledge he now held. A war was raging, and if there was any chance to end the suffering, he had to take it. He couldn't afford to question why he had been chosen.
The world was changing, and like it or not, Bastian was at the center of it.
In certain regions, the elves have enslaved entire populations. In some places, they go so far as to call these captives "servants," as if that could soften the harsh truth. But for those who dare to disobey, the price is always the same, slaughter.
The cruelty of the elves sent shockwaves through all the races, breaking their spirits. Those who longed to survive were left with no choice but to cling to life, no matter how unbearable their fate became.
Across the elven ranks, one could see towering giants with grey collars dragging heavy loads like beasts of burden. Dwarven blacksmiths, their faces etched with exhaustion, endlessly toiled away, maintaining the elven war machines. Massive dragon-drawn carriages groaned under the weight of supplies, while the most pitiful sight of all, an army of cannon fodder, marched at the frontlines: the old, the weak, the sick, and the disabled of all races. These forced laborers didn't strengthen the elven army much, but their presence was a devastating blow to the morale of those who still resisted.
The Snowy Owl, perched high above, spoke with biting sarcasm, its sharp voice cutting through the air. "Would you really keep this information to yourself? Not pass it on to someone like the Bram The Great, just because you're worried about the source?" The owl's mocking tone was impossible to miss. It already knew the answer, it knew exactly what choice Bastian would make. Who would refuse a lifeline when drowning in a sea of despair?
There was a peculiar sharpness to the way the owl said "Bram The Great," a title revered by all races, much like the term "Sage." But the owl seemed to spit the words out with disdain, making Bastian hesitate for a moment.
He thought it over, but the reality was painfully clear. The situation was desperate. He had no other choice. He would have to pass the information on to the tribal leaders, even if it meant taking a risk.
The Snowy Owl continued, almost smug now. "So, does it really matter why I came here or how I know these things? What's important is whose side I'm on. I've already shown my position through my actions, haven't I? Why do you still doubt me?" The owl's eyes glinted in the fading light. "You can call me Mr. Kind Owl, the one who hopes the elves meet a bitter end."
In this world at war, Bastian knew there were only two sides, either you were with the elves or against them. And this strange, talking owl, by revealing such crucial secrets, had clearly aligned itself with the resistance.
Could there be a hidden agenda? Perhaps. But with the world crumbling around him, what was left to lose? Defeat was already looming. Why hesitate?
Bastian's voice was calm, though his heart still raced. "You're right. All those details don't matter. What matters is what you've done and what you plan to do next. Why me? Why come to me?"
The Snowy Owl gave a low, cryptic laugh. "Oh, you'll find out. Very soon."
With that, it flapped its wings, rising into the sky, its white feathers blending with the clouds until it became a mere speck in the distance.
Bastian watched the owl disappear, feeling a heavy sigh escape his lips. He knew he had no choice. As weak and vulnerable as he was, he couldn't afford to reject the help that had been offered, no matter how suspicious it seemed.
When he turned around, he found himself face to face with wide-eyed children, their expressions a mix of wonder and fear. They stared at him, then glanced at each other uneasily. Finally, one of them spoke up, hesitantly.
"Brother Bastian, your fever hasn't gone down yet. Maybe we should rest for a few more days?" the young boy said, concern lacing his voice.
Bastian blinked, confused by the sudden change in tone. What were they talking about?
One of the older children whispered loudly, "Even if snowy owls are rare around here... talking to them?"
"Shh, stop talking like that," another interrupted nervously. "Brother Bastian's just under too much stress. He needs to rest, that's all."
Bastian overheard their not-so-quiet conversation, and a cold realization washed over him. The children thought he had imagined the entire encounter. In their eyes, he was delirious, speaking to a bird as if it were a person. He clenched his fists, knowing he was already walking a fine line between reality and madness, but he couldn't afford to falter now. He needed to stay focused, no matter what anyone else believed.
"They can't hear the snowy owl's language... Of course not. How could a snowy owl speak?" Bastian murmured to himself, realization dawning slowly in his mind. "The only one who can is..."
In that moment, it all clicked into place for Bastian. The reason he had been chosen, why the owl had sought him out, it all made sense now, though the realization left him unsettled. To everyone else, the owl was just a bird, perched silently on the treetop. They couldn't hear its voice. Only he could.
"Same kind?" Bastian whispered, his mind racing. The connection wasn't through words, not in the way normal people understood communication. It wasn't about sound at all. This was something deeper, soul-to-soul, the way clairvoyants spoke to one another.
The thought struck him: what if this snowy owl wasn't just a creature gifted with intelligence? What if it was a clairvoyant too, able to communicate in ways no ordinary animal could? Perhaps it had sought him out for this very reason. Could it be that, without Bastian's gift, the owl wouldn't have been able to speak to anyone at all?
The uncertainty gnawed at him, but there was no time to dwell on it now. Pushing aside his doubts and the rising unease, Bastian turned his attention to the road ahead. His journey wasn't over yet, and the war had plunged every corner of the land into chaos.
The refugees around him were all heading in the same direction: toward the strongholds of the major tribes, where safety or something close to it, awaited. He knew it wouldn't be hard to find a group heading for the Giant Valley, a place where his people might still stand a chance.
But the road was long, and as Bastian traveled alongside the fleeing masses, he felt the weight of countless eyes on him. His elven features, sharp and unmistakable, drew suspicion. The glares, hostile and mistrustful, pierced through him like daggers. They didn't trust him, how could they? In a world where elves were the enemy, he looked too much like them.
Desperate to avoid trouble, Bastian made a decision. He allowed the dragon blood within him to rise to the surface, revealing the traces of his draconic lineage.
To his relief, this time it went better than before. Maybe his body was growing more accustomed to the effects of the dragon vein, or maybe he was simply prepared for the transformation. Either way, the release of his dragon blood was controlled. The change was less extreme than his previous attempt, when half his body had grotesquely shifted, leaving him a monstrous figure split between two forms.