Vanima, the crown jewel of the elven realm of Alariel, stood as a majestic testament to the enduring grace and power of the elven people. Home to millions of elves from countless clans and lineages, this grand capital of Alariel served as the heart of elven culture within the Heartless Republic.
Nestled amid towering, ancient trees and cradled by cascading waterfalls, Vanima radiated an ethereal beauty. Its sprawling, multi-tiered architecture seamlessly blended into the surrounding forest, with towering stone structures adorned with intricate, leaf-like carvings and shimmering runes. Bridges of pure, living wood arched gracefully over crystal-clear streams, while towering spires reached skyward, their tips crowned with enchanted lights that glowed softly even in the daylight.
This was the seat of the oldest royal family among the elves, a lineage that stretched back to the dawn of recorded history. Here, within the heart of Vanima, the High Queen of Alariel held her court, ruling over her people with a wisdom honed over centuries. Her palace, a towering, spiraling citadel carved from living trees and enchanted stone, stood at the city's center — a symbol of elven unity and the enduring strength of their culture.
As Crimson wandered through the sprawling streets of Vanima, a wave of nostalgia washed over him. The gentle rustle of leaves overhead, the soft glow of enchanted lanterns hanging from ancient tree branches, and the melodic hum of elven voices all brought back memories of a time long past.
He recalled the early days of the Heartless Guild, when the world was still fractured by conflict and oppression. Back then, the elves of Alariel had been hunted by the Holy Remia Empire, their beauty and long lives making them prime targets for slavery and exploitation. Entire elven clans had been captured, their people shackled and marched off to distant lands as little more than trophies for the Empire's corrupt nobility.
Crimson's mind drifted to a particular memory — the day he had led a daring raid into one of the Empire's heavily fortified slave caravans. It had been a bloody battle, the air thick with the clash of steel and the cries of the liberated. In the heart of that chaos, he had found her — the eldest daughter of the High Queen, bound in enchanted chains and surrounded by imperial knights.
Even now, he could still picture her fierce, defiant eyes, burning with unbroken will despite her captivity. The moment their gazes met, he had felt a surge of righteous fury, and with a single swing of his blade, he had shattered her bonds, cutting down her captors in a whirlwind of crimson light.
That rescue had not only saved a princess but had also cemented the alliance between the Heartless Guild and the elven people, leading to the eventual liberation of Alariel and its transformation into one of the most powerful provinces within the Heartless Republic.
Crimson's steps slowed as he crossed a bridge woven from living branches, the gentle sound of water flowing beneath it grounding him in the present. He couldn't help but feel a sense of pride at what the elves had become — a people who had risen from the ashes of their enslavement to become one of the most formidable forces in the Republic.
"I made the right choice," he murmured to himself, his gloved hand brushing against the Heartless insignia on his cloak. "We made the right choice."
As Crimson continued to stroll through the lively streets of Vanima, his thoughts lingered on the past — on the day he saved Princess Elaria Moonveil.
He could still remember that fateful encounter as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. The Heartless Guild had received reports of a high-profile slave transport moving through the dense forests near the borders of Alariel. At that time, they had no idea who was among the captives, but Crimson had led the mission without hesitation, determined to strike a blow against the tyranny of the Holy Remia Empire.
After days of tracking and careful planning, the guild members launched their attack at dawn, catching the imperial soldiers off guard. Crimson had cut through the enemy ranks with relentless precision, his blade a blur of deadly arcs. The caravan guards fell one after another, unable to withstand his unyielding fury.
It was then, amidst the chaos of battle that he saw her — Princess Elaria Moonveil, shackled and bound within an enchanted iron cage. Despite her grim situation, Elaria's sapphire blue eyes held a fierce, unyielding spirit, and the ethereal glow that surrounded her made her presence almost surreal, like a figure from a dream.
Her silver-white hair, cascading like liquid moonlight over her shoulders, seemed to shimmer even in the dim morning light. Clad in a tattered, dirt-stained gown that had once been resplendent, she still carried an air of undeniable grace. Her delicate hands were bruised from struggling against her bonds, yet her posture remained regal and unbroken.
In that instant, Crimson felt a surge of anger unlike anything he had known before — not just for the suffering she endured, but for the audacity of the empire to try and break someone so pure and proud. Without a second thought, he cleaved through the iron bars with a single powerful strike, shattering the enchanted chains with his Crimson Edge.
Elaria looked up at him, surprise and relief flickering in her starlit eyes. Crimson extended a hand to her, his voice calm despite the raging battle around them.
"Can you stand?" he had asked, his tone both gentle and commanding.
Elaria hesitated only for a moment before placing her slender hand in his. As he helped her to her feet, he noticed the faint tremble in her fingers, yet her gaze remained unwavering.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice melodic despite the weariness in it. "You saved me."
Crimson merely nodded, not wasting time on reassurances. He shielded her from the remaining soldiers with his own body, cutting down any who dared approach. Once the battle subsided and the last of the imperial forces had either fled or fallen, he turned to find Elaria still standing beside him, her composure never faltering despite the ordeal.
The memory faded, and Crimson found himself back in the present, walking through Vanima's bustling markets. He couldn't help but smile faintly as he remembered how Elaria had insisted on thanking him personally after they returned to Alariel. The High Queen herself had bestowed upon the Heartless Guild the title of Liberators of Alariel, marking the beginning of the elves' integration into the Heartless Republic.
Now, whenever Crimson visited Vanima, he couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia. Seeing the elves thriving, free from the cruel hands of the Holy Remia Empire, filled him with pride.
He paused at a small fountain in the city square, where children played and vendors called out their wares. The gentle flow of water and the laughter around him seemed worlds apart from the memory of that brutal battle.
Looking around, he couldn't help but wonder how Elaria was doing now. As the eldest daughter of the High Queen and a symbol of elven grace, she bore many responsibilities. He hadn't seen her since the early days of the Republic's formation, but he often heard tales of her wisdom and kindness, as well as her efforts to maintain harmony among the different elven clans.
Crimson took a deep breath, pushing aside the memories for now. Though he cherished the past, his mission was still ahead — the western border. Yet, a part of him couldn't deny that revisiting the city had stirred something within him, a sense of purpose rekindled by the sight of the elves living in peace.
He gave the fountain one last glance before turning down the main road. The western path awaited him, but the city of Vanima had once again reminded him of why he continued to fight — to protect the freedom they had won, no matter the cost.
As Crimson continued to wander through the winding streets of Vanima, his steps slowed as he passed the grand path that led to the royal palace. The towering silver spires of the palace gleamed in the sunlight, their intricate, vine-like designs a testament to the ancient craftsmanship of the High Elves.
He knew he had the right to enter the palace, to walk its gleaming halls and perhaps even visit Princess Elaria. After all, he had saved her life all those years ago, and their bond had only deepened in the years that followed.
Back then, after the rescue, they had spent countless memories together, exploring the forests of Alariel, discussing the future of their realms, and sharing quiet moments beneath the moonlit canopies. He could still recall the sound of her melodic laughter, the way her sapphire eyes sparkled when she teased him about his stoic nature, and the gentle, graceful way she moved as if dancing with the wind itself.
He had never been dense when it came to matters of the heart. He knew Elaria's feelings for him — her subtle glances, the way her voice softened when speaking to him, the gentle touches that lingered a moment longer than necessary. It had been clear to him even then, but he had hesitated.
At the time, he had been afraid, hesitant to risk his heart despite knowing that, on the surface, they were considered NPCs. He and his guildmates had long realized that the beings of this world were not mere lines of code or scripted responses. They had their own thoughts, emotions, and dreams — real, living beings with souls. Yet, the fear of forming a deep bond in a world that once felt like a game had held him back.
But now, everything was different. This world was no longer just a game. It had become real, its people living, breathing beings with their own hopes, fears, and dreams. The line between the digital and the real had blurred, leaving him standing at a crossroads.
Yet, even with this realization, he hesitated. It had only been a few days for him since he last saw her, but for Elaria, fifty long years had passed. Decades filled with countless changes, trials, and perhaps even new relationships.
Crimson clenched his fists, feeling a strange mix of longing and uncertainty. He had faced countless enemies without flinching, had conquered dungeons filled with horrors beyond imagination, but the thought of facing Elaria now, after so much time had passed, left him uncharacteristically uncertain.
"I'm not ready," he whispered to himself, his voice low amidst the bustling sounds of the elven capital. "Not yet."
He turned his gaze away from the palace, his cloak billowing slightly in the wind as he resumed his journey. The road to the western border was long, and he needed to focus on the task ahead. But even as he left the palace behind, the image of Elaria's sapphire eyes remained etched in his mind, a bittersweet reminder of the bond they once shared.
Maybe after he finished investigating the situation at the western border, he would find the courage to visit the princess. For now, he pushed those thoughts aside, reminding himself of his immediate goals.
Glancing around at the bustling streets of Vanima, he decided it was a good time to unload some of the monster parts and equipment he had gathered on his journey. He knew the city would have a branch of the National Agency of Adventurers, much larger and better stocked than the one in Windsong. With the sheer number of adventurers passing through this realm, it would be a prime location for trading his spoils.
He adjusted his cloak, letting it settle comfortably over his shoulders as he began moving through the busy streets, the Heartless insignia subtly glinting on his back.
As Crimson made his way through the winding, sunlit streets of Vanima, his footsteps echoing softly against the polished stone pathways, a figure in the distance caught sight of him.
The woman wore a sleek, form-fitting uniform, the dark green and silver hues of her attire marking her as a high-ranking officer in the Alariel provincial military. The intricate, leaf-like patterns etched into her armor plates reflected the artistry of the elven craftsmen, each curve and line a testament to the ancient traditions of her people. Her long, ash-blonde hair was tied into a tight, elegant braid that reached the small of her back, and her sharp, emerald eyes fixed on Crimson with a mixture of curiosity and surprise.
She paused mid-stride, her soldiers marching in neat formation behind her, but her attention was clearly locked on the lone, imposing figure moving through the crowd. The Heartless insignia on his cloak, though partially obscured by the flowing fabric, was unmistakable to those who had served through the darkest days of the Liberation Wars.
Her lips parted slightly, as if about to speak, but she held back, watching him intently as he passed through the bustling marketplace.
The officer's eyes sharpened as she caught a glimpse of the dark, flowing cloak bearing the unmistakable Heartless insignia. She recognized the design immediately, a mark of the guild that had liberated her people from the clutches of the Holy Remia Empire.
More than that, she recognized the battle gear he wore. The distinct crimson cross of the armor, the aura of suppressed power that seemed to ripple around him, and the faint, crimson glow from his weapon. These were not just signs of a powerful warrior but a symbol of one of the six High Elders of the Heartless Guild.
Her heart skipped a beat as a long-buried memory surfaced. She remembered the stories her sister, Princess Elaria, had whispered to her in the quiet hours of the night — tales of a fearless warrior who had saved her from the clutches of her captors, a towering figure in dark armor who had cut down their enemies without hesitation.
One of the soldiers behind her, a tall elf with a silver-plated breastplate adorned with the green and silver crest of Alariel, stepped forward, noticing her sudden pause.
"Lady Arwen, is something the matter?" he asked, his tone cautious but curious.
Arwen's eyes lingered on Crimson as he moved through the bustling streets, his presence naturally parting the crowd around him. She clenched her fists, a slight, knowing smile touching her lips.
"It's nothing," she replied, her voice steady but carrying a hint of warmth. "Just an old friend."
The soldier glanced at her, momentarily puzzled by her uncharacteristic expression, but he wisely chose not to press further.
As Crimson disappeared around the bustling marketplace, Arwen allowed herself a brief, wistful sigh. He's back... after all this time. She knew what this meant for her sister. Fifty years had passed, but for someone like Elaria, the memory of those days had never truly faded.
Turning back to her soldiers, Arwen straightened her back, the long, silver cloak draped over her shoulders flowing like a gentle stream.
"Form up," Arwen ordered, her tone snapping back to its usual commanding strength. "We will return to the palace."
Without waiting for a response, she turned sharply on her heel, her long, silver cloak sweeping behind her as she strode forward. Her soldiers quickly fell into step, their disciplined movements forming a tight, protective formation around their commander.
Arwen's mind raced as they marched through the bustling streets of Vanima, her heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and urgency. She had to inform Elaria immediately. The sight of Crimson — the very warrior her sister had longed for, dreamed of, and whispered about in the quiet corners of the palace — was not a matter to be delayed.
The crowds parted instinctively as Arwen and her contingent moved through the city, their polished armor reflecting the bright morning sun. She maintained a strict, brisk pace, her expression firm and unyielding, but her thoughts remained fixed on the armored figure she had just seen.
Crimson has returned... after fifty long years.
As they approached the grand gates of the Moonveil Palace, Arwen's steps quickened even further, her heart caught between excitement for her sister and a nagging sense of foreboding. So much had changed over the decades, but she knew one thing for certain — this news would change everything.
As Arwen and her squad approached the grand, vine-covered gates of Moonveil Palace, the elven guards stationed at the entrance immediately straightened, their long, silver spears glinting in the sunlight. They bowed deeply as the princess approached, their eyes filled with respect and a hint of curiosity at her hurried steps.
Arwen came to a halt before the nearest guard, a tall, broad-shouldered elf with a braided golden beard and sharp, green eyes. He raised his head, his expression turning serious as he noted the urgency in Arwen's normally composed face.
"Where is my sister?" Arwen demanded, her tone brisk but respectful. "Where is the eldest princess?"
The guard, recognizing the weight in her voice, straightened even further. "Her Highness is in the western courtyard, Your Highness," he replied quickly, his voice steady despite the sudden tension. "She has been there since dawn, tending to the moonblossoms and overseeing the preparations for the upcoming Lunar Blossom Festival."
Arwen felt a slight twinge at the mention of the festival. It was one of Elaria's favorite times of the year, a celebration of life, light, and the eternal bond between the elven people and their sacred forests. For Elaria, it had always held special meaning, a reminder of the day Crimson had saved her from the dark clutches of the Holy Remia Empire.
Arwen nodded sharply. "Thank you," she said, already moving past the guards. "Remain focus and vigilant, there might be an unexpected guests in the city.
The guards exchanged puzzled glances but merely bowed as she swept past them, her silver cloak billowing behind her like a banner of the ancient elven bloodline. Arwen's heart raced as she made her way through the polished marble halls of the palace, her mind replaying the image of the armored figure she had seen on the city streets.
Crimson. After fifty long years...
She quickened her pace, her boots ringing against the cool stone floors as she navigated the familiar corridors toward the western courtyard, the whispers of passing palace staff barely registering in her mind. There was no time for delays, no time for hesitation. Elaria had to know.
Arwen stepped into the western courtyard, her breath catching for a moment as the scene unfolded before her. The air was filled with the soft, melodic hum of wind chimes, their gentle tones blending with the rustle of the courtyard's ancient, towering trees. Moonblossoms, their petals shimmering like captured starlight, swayed in the gentle morning breeze, casting soft, dappled light across the polished marble pathways. The faint scent of their blossoms lingered in the air, a blend of fresh rain and wild forest, reminding her of her childhood.
At the center of it all, beneath the wide, graceful branches of the sacred Moonveil Tree, stood Elaria. The eldest princess of Alariel moved with an ethereal grace, her long, silver-white hair flowing like liquid moonlight as she carefully tended to a cluster of newly budded flowers. Her sapphire blue eyes, as radiant as the clearest mountain lakes, focused intently on the delicate petals, her slender fingers adjusting each one with a care that spoke of both love and duty.
Arwen paused at the edge of the courtyard, her heart tightening at the sight of her sister. For a moment, the younger princess hesitated, watching Elaria in the soft morning light. There was a timeless beauty in her every movement, a serene elegance that seemed to belong to another world. Yet, despite her outward calm, Arwen knew her sister's heart carried a weight that no crown or title could lighten.
Fifty years... Arwen thought, her chest tightening as memories of those early days after the Liberation War flooded her mind. The tears Elaria had shed, the whispered prayers beneath the moonlit sky, the long, silent walks through the palace gardens where she would pause, staring into the distance as if expecting someone to return...
He's back, Arwen thought, her fingers clenching around the hilt of her ceremonial blade. The one you waited for, sister. The one you never stopped believing in.
Taking a deep breath, Arwen stepped forward, her armored boots clicking softly against the cool marble. Elaria's pointed ears twitched slightly at the sound, and she slowly straightened, her fingers pausing over a delicate white bloom. She turned, her luminous blue eyes settling on her younger sister, a gentle, curious smile forming on her lips.
"Arwen," Elaria said, her voice like a whisper of the wind through the ancient trees. "You return early from your patrol. Is something the matter?"
Arwen's throat tightened, the words she had rehearsed in her mind suddenly feeling inadequate. She stepped closer, her heart pounding, and reached out to gently take her sister's hand, the faint warmth of Elaria's skin a stark contrast to the cool morning air.
"Sister," Arwen said, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to keep it steady. "I... I have news. Something that I believe you should know."
Elaria's brows knitted slightly, concern flickering across her perfect features as she took a small step closer, her other hand gently resting on Arwen's armored forearm.
"What is it, Arwen?" she asked, her sapphire eyes searching her sister's face, catching the slight quiver in her younger sibling's usually steady gaze.
For a moment, Arwen felt like the small, frightened girl she had been so many years ago, hiding behind her elder sister's flowing robes as their world changed around them. But now, as a commander of the Alariel forces, she had to be strong — not just for herself, but for Elaria.
"He's here," Arwen whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. "Crimson. I saw him... just now, in the city."
The world seemed to pause. The gentle rustle of the Moonveil Tree's leaves grew distant, the chimes falling silent in the breeze as Elaria's eyes widened, the soft, silvery glow around her flaring for a heartbeat before settling into a faint, trembling shimmer.
Arwen felt Elaria's fingers tighten around her hand, the pressure almost desperate, and for a moment, she glimpsed the depth of her sister's feelings — the years of waiting, the whispered hopes, the silent, lonely nights spent staring at the moonlit horizon.
"Crimson?" Elaria's voice wavered, a mix of disbelief, hope, and fear. Her usually steady, serene tone now carried a hint of raw, unguarded emotion, her lips parting as if struggling to form the words. "He's... he's here? In Vanima? Where? Where did you see him, Arwen? Where is he?"
Arwen felt her own eyes sting with tears as she watched her sister's reaction, the raw, unguarded joy radiating from Elaria like the first rays of dawn after a long, cold night.
"He was heading toward the NAA branch," Arwen replied quickly, her own heart swelling with emotion at her sister's response. "I saw him in the market square, making his way there."
Without another word, Elaria released her sister's hands, her long, flowing gown sweeping around her as she turned, her every movement infused with a newfound urgency.
"Thank you, Arwen," she said, her voice breathless, almost trembling as she took a step toward the courtyard exit. "I must go to him. I... I cannot let this chance slip away."
Arwen watched as her sister practically flew down the marble pathway, her silver-white hair streaming behind her like a comet's tail, the soft, silvery glow around her brightening with each hurried step.
For a moment, the younger princess simply stood there, her chest tight, her heart pounding as the echoes of Elaria's footsteps faded into the distance. Then, with a small, relieved smile, Arwen turned and followed, her own heart lighter than it had been in decades.
Fifty years, she thought, her lips curving into a gentle, hopeful smile. Perhaps the wait is finally over.