Thus ended their blossoming years—woven with joy, shadowed with weariness, yet sealed with promises whispered beneath willow branches.
Neither of them knew then how fragile such promises could become.
But the forest knew. The stars knew. And perhaps, in the silence between their kisses, even their hearts knew—though they could not yet bear to speak it.
Spring had arrived in Sylthariel, painting the village in shades of emerald and gold. The river's current danced over stones, carrying sunlight in sparkling ribbons. The air was alive with scents of blooming herbs and wildflowers, and the sound of birdsong threaded through every lane and grove.
Thalanir walked along the edge of the northern glade, hands tucked into his cloak, the morning sunlight glinting off the runes he had traced the day before. His mind wandered, as it often did, to the willow grove and the girl he had loved since childhood. Liora.
