CHAPTER 494: DARK ELVES (1)

At first, it was only the soft flutter of a leaf. Then ten, then hundreds, until the air filled with faint whispers, as though the woods themselves exhaled.

Nysha froze. "They’re here."

The first shadow appeared between two trees, thin as mist, its shape barely distinguishable from the darkness that birthed it. Then another. And another. Within seconds, the glade was surrounded.

Dozens of figures stepped from the blackwood, elves, but not like those of Lorienya. Their skin shimmered like polished hematite, their hair silver or white or tinged with faint, metallic color. Armor of living shadow clung to their bodies, flowing and shifting with each breath.

Their weapons, curved blades of translucent mana-steel, caught the dim light and split it into veins of violet and azure.

The one in front stepped forward. Tall, slender, with eyes of amethyst fire and the bearing of someone long accustomed to command. Her hair, midnight-blue streaked with pale luminescence, was braided into intricate loops that hung past her shoulders. She moved with the stillness of deep water.

"Outlanders," she said. Her voice was melodic, layered with something sharp beneath its beauty. "You cross the border of Tirnaeth without sanction. Give me one reason I should not silence your breath and return your bones to the roots."

Lindarion met her gaze without flinching. "Because we did not come to desecrate your land. We came seeking the path south."

The dark elf tilted her head slightly, studying him. "South?" she repeated, her tone curious but cautious. "To the ruined plains, or the serpent’s grave?"

"Neither," Lindarion replied. "To what remains of the old gate. The one buried beneath the Vale of Fathen."

A murmur passed through the gathered elves. The woman’s expression didn’t change, but her aura shifted, interest, faint but unmistakable.

"The Vale has been forbidden since the First Eclipse," she said quietly. "Only the Matriarch knows its true depth."

"Then we will speak to her," Lindarion said.

A few of the surrounding shadows moved at that, subtle, but defensive. The lead elf raised a hand, and they stilled. Her gaze, luminous and piercing, held Lindarion’s a long while.

"You carry light," she said finally. "And shadow, both. Your mana sings of contradictions. What are you, wanderer?"

"Lindarion of Lorienya."

That name struck like an arrow. The air shifted. Even the trees seemed to lean closer. The woman blinked once, slowly, before speaking again, her tone measured, but edged with recognition.

"Lorienya lives still, then. I had heard whispers of its fall."

"Not yet," he answered.

The faintest flicker of amusement crossed her face. "Spoken like one who fights tides." She turned her head slightly, gesturing to the treeline. "You will come with me. The Matriarch will wish to hear of this herself."

Nysha took a step closer, her hand near her blade. "We’re just to follow you into shadow, are we?"

"If you do not," the dark elf said calmly, "you will not leave this place. The roots of Tirnaeth do not forget intruders."

Ashwing grumbled under his breath, "Charming hospitality as always. Remind me never to vacation here."

The elf’s gaze slid toward him, sharp as a drawn blade. "Dragons once hunted our kind for sport. You should be grateful we learned restraint."

Ashwing’s wings flared. "You want to test that restraint?"

Lindarion’s voice cut through the tension, calm, but commanding. "Enough." His golden eyes caught the faint blue light from the soil. "We’ll go. I came here for answers, not war."

The woman inclined her head slightly, as though satisfied. "Then walk carefully, prince of Lorienya. Tirnaeth remembers the old bloodlines."

They moved deeper into the twilight woods. The path shifted as they walked, trees rearranging themselves subtly until the forest opened into a clearing of silver pools and ancient stone bridges. Above them, the sky dissolved into an endless canopy of bioluminescent vines, painting the world in soft indigo light.

And in the center of it all, rising like a spire of frozen night, stood the heart of Tirnaeth.

Black crystal towers woven through with runes of white fire, and at their apex, a symbol burned faintly through the mist: an open eye surrounded by thorns and roots.

Ashwing hovered near Lindarion’s shoulder. "Tell me that doesn’t look like trouble."

"It looks like truth," Lindarion murmured. "And truth never comes gentle."

Their escort slowed before the gates, turning to face them. "You will speak only when spoken to," she said. "The Matriarch is ancient beyond reckoning. Her patience for surface-born arrogance is... limited."

Nysha’s crimson eyes narrowed. "So is mine."

The elf smiled faintly, almost amused. "Then perhaps you will understand each other."

The gates of Tirnaeth opened silently, light spilling outward like liquid starlight.

And from within, a voice echoed, soft, regal, but heavy with age and power.

"Bring the prince of Eldorath forward. The roots have whispered of his coming."

Lindarion stepped through. The air shifted around him, ancient, sentient, watching.

And somewhere deep within the city of shadows, something vast and half-forgotten stirred awake.

The gates of Tirnaeth closed behind them with the sound of breathing stone. The light within was unlike any other, neither moonlight nor firelight, but something organic, alive. The walls shimmered faintly, their veins pulsing with the same glow as the trees outside. Every breath tasted of ancient mana, rich and metallic, like iron soaked in starlight.

Lindarion’s boots met smooth obsidian tiles engraved with runes that shifted as he stepped. His golden eyes scanned them briefly, each rune represented memory, not word. The city itself was alive with recollection. Every stone remembered every step.

Ashwing floated beside him, voice low. "This place makes my scales itch. Everything here feels like it’s watching us."

"That’s because it is," Nysha murmured. "The dark elves weave their souls into their architecture. Their homes don’t just hold them, they know them."

The hall opened ahead into a great chamber of light and shadow. At its heart grew a single tree of black crystal, its branches arching upward like frozen smoke. Beneath it, upon a throne carved from its roots, sat the Matriarch of Tirnaeth.

She was ancient. Not in the brittle sense of age, but in the quiet weight of existence. Her hair flowed like molten silver over skin the color of nightglass.