Thayrion closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath. The forest was quiet, but the tension in the air pressed like a weight upon his chest. Slowly, he stood and turned to the elven ranger leader, a tall and calm figure with silver-threaded braids and eyes like the forest after rain.
"Kaelen," Thayrion said. "We need to talk."
Kaelen nodded with silent understanding, and the group followed Thayrion to his wooden home nestled beside the waterfall. Inside, the cozy glow of firelight warmed the small space. The aroma of tea leaves and fresh bread filled the air as Thayrion served his guests a humble but heartfelt offering — hot tea, garden-fresh salad, and sourdough bread lathered in honey butter.
They sat around the low table, but no one spoke. The air was heavy with unspoken questions.
Thayrion finally broke the silence. His voice was soft, but it carried.
“You all heard the voice, didn’t you?”
One by one, the rangers nodded.
“It wasn’t just a voice,” whispered a younger elf, Lirael. “It felt like... like something was waking.”
Kaelen looked sharply toward Thayrion. “The blood in your veins still remembers something the rest of us have forgotten.”
Thayrion rose without a word and stepped to his bed. He knelt, reached underneath, and pulled out a small chest carved with druidic runes. Gently, almost reverently, he placed it on the table and opened it.
Inside, nestled in old cloth, was a folded piece of paper — yellowed with time. He unfolded it with care. “My father’s handwriting,” he murmured.
The rangers leaned closer as Thayrion read aloud. The letter spoke of a great burden — a legacy tied to a long-forgotten kingdom of blood elves, destroyed in the war against the demon realm. It told of an incomplete armor set — boots and gauntlets forged by blood elf smiths and druid craftsmen — edged in ancient power, but cursed. His parents had died slowly, painfully, their bodies burning into green flames after their life force had been drained by the armor’s curse.
“They were trying to find the runes…” Thayrion said, his voice low.
Kaelen's gaze darkened. “The Rune of Phoenix Tears... and the Rune of the Lake Deer.”
“They’re the key to purging the curse,” Thayrion nodded. “They must be placed here—” he pointed to the sockets in each gauntlet, “—to make the armor whole.”
The left gauntlet, when worn, could form a bow that summoned wind-shaped arrows—air bullets sharp and fast. The right gauntlet formed a blade so keen it could split a dwarf’s warhammer. The boots made the wearer as light as a breeze, silent and swift.
The elven rangers stared in awe.
“Your parents were protectors,” murmured Thayrion, almost to himself. “This is why they settled in Elharya. Why they hid this place beneath peace.”
Another ranger, Ferin, leaned forward. “But the armor... it’s reacting again now. Why?”
Before anyone could answer, the floor trembled beneath them. The walls creaked. The teacups rattled.
“Earthquake?” Lirael whispered.
“No,” Kaelen said grimly. “Something’s awakening.”
A shadow passed by the windows. A thick black mist — miasma — began to curl up from the cave beneath the house.
“Protective ward, now!” shouted Kaelen.
The rangers stood in unison, forming a circle as they chanted an ancient elven barrier spell. A glowing sphere of light shimmered around them just as the miasma hissed against it like acid against stone.
Thayrion didn’t wait. He rushed to the floor and began tracing a Druidic circle with white chalk, muttering incantations that made vines grow rapidly through the wood, sprouting blossoms that began to absorb the miasma like a sponge drinking poison.
Kaelen wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. “That wasn’t natural. It came from beneath.”
Thayrion nodded. “Then we must go beneath.”
He moved to the hatch in the floor — the secret entrance to the cave where he bathed and fished in peace. But tonight, it was no longer peaceful.
They descended, one by one, the miasma thinning as they went deeper. The cave grew darker and colder, until suddenly, the path ended before a stone gate that none of them had ever seen before.
Etched on its surface were the faded insignias of a forgotten house — a sigil of blood, flame, and wings.
Thayrion pulled out the note again. His father’s final line echoed in his mind:
“When the door appears, the kingdom calls you home.”
Will continue later, chapter 3 will be upload later in near future..
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