Arthur wiped the sweat that beaded on his forehead despite the morning coolness. Three days. Three days he had been traversing the steep slopes of the Cursed Ridge, that rocky tongue of land that loomed over his village like a sword suspended above their heads. The elders told that these woods were haunted, that the souls of those who had disappeared there years before still wandered among the gnarled trunks. Stories to frighten children, Arthur told himself. Yet even he could not deny the oppressive atmosphere that reigned in these places, that permanent sensation of being watched by invisible eyes.
His provisions were running dangerously low. The hard bread and cheese that Aunt Isabella had packed in his bag would only last him one more day, perhaps two if he rationed himself. But the trail he had been following since dawn was so fresh, so promising, that he could not bring himself to abandon it. The prints in the damp earth were clear, deep, those of an adult doe, large enough to feed his family for an entire week.
Arthur crouched near a mud puddle, studying the tracks with the attention his uncle Gareth had taught him before his death. The hooves had left precise marks, without slips or hesitations. The animal was not fleeing, which meant it was unaware of being hunted. Perfect.
He adjusted the strap of Gareth's bow on his shoulder. The weapon was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, carved from yew wood and reinforced with deer sinew. Isabella had hesitated for a long time before entrusting it to him for this hunt, and Arthur understood why. It was all that remained of the man who had raised him like a son, who had taught him to shoot, to track, to survive in the wild.
-"Don't disappoint me, Gareth", he thought as he resumed his silent progress.
The tracks led him through a maze of moss-covered rocks, then along a stream that murmured between polished stones. Arthur moved with grace acquired over the years, avoiding dead branches that might crack under his steps, skirting gravel areas that would betray his presence. Every muscle in his body was tense, every sense alert.
The wind shifted, carrying to him a familiar smell, that of stagnant water and decomposing leaves. There was a pond over there, hidden behind a grove of hazel trees. The perfect place for a deer to come and drink.
Arthur advanced inch by inch, even holding his breath. Through the intertwined branches, he finally glimpsed his prey. The doe was there, exactly as he had imagined her, majestic, her tawny coat gleaming in the rays of sunlight that pierced the canopy. She was drinking peacefully, her head lowered toward the clear water, unaware of danger.
Arthur's heart raced, but his hands remained perfectly steady. He nocked an arrow with movements of calculated slowness, each gesture fluid and silent. The bowstring tensioned under his calloused fingers. He aimed carefully, mentally compensating for the distance, the slight breeze that made the leaves dance.
The doe suddenly raised her head, ears pricked. Had she sensed something? Arthur held his breath, finger on the string. A moment suspended in time. He could already see the arrow cleaving the air, striking cleanly behind the animal's shoulder. He could already hear Isabella's grateful thanks, see the relief on his cousin Mordred's worry-lined face...
Suddenly an explosion tore the air like a thunderclap!
The blast struck him full force, sending him rolling several meters backward in a crash of broken branches and swirling leaves. His ears were ringing, his vision dancing. When he finally managed to straighten up, dazed and covered with plant debris, the doe had vanished with her entire herd.
- "By all the cursed gods!" he swore, spitting dirt.
His beautiful hunt, three days of patient effort, reduced to nothing in one second. His anger rose like a tide, hot and bitter. Who could possibly...
That's when he saw it.
A body lay against the trunk of a hundred-year-old oak, about twenty paces from him. The stranger's dark clothes were still smoking, as if he had been struck by lightning. Arthur felt his anger instantly transform into worry.
- "Hey!" he cried, heading toward the motionless form. "Are you all right?"
No response. Arthur quickened his pace, his heart tightening with apprehension. The man, for it was clearly a man, despite his slender stature, wore a travel cloak torn by the explosion. His hood was pulled down over his face, showing only a lock of hair so pale blond it appeared silver.
- "Sir?" Arthur insisted, kneeling near the body.
The silence that answered him was that of death. Arthur knew it instinctively, having already seen that terrible repose that seized beings when life left them. But he had to be sure. With hesitant gestures, he delicately lifted the hood.
And recoiled so abruptly he nearly fell backward.
- "An elf?" he murmured, incredulous.
The ears were undeniably elvish, fine, delicately pointed, of a perfection that did not belong to the world of men. The face, even frozen by death, retained that ethereal beauty spoken of in legends, features fine as if chiseled from marble, skin of milky paleness, lips that seemed to have been carved by a divine artisan.
Arthur couldn't believe it. Elves! These creatures from his childhood tales, these mythical beings that bards evoked in their songs... They really existed? And what was one of them doing here, in this cursed forest, so far from everything?
It took several minutes for the young man to overcome his stupefaction and approach again. This time, he examined the body more carefully. The elf was undeniably dead, no breath lifted his chest, no pulse beat in his graceful neck. But he bore no visible wounds. How had he died? And above all, what had caused that explosion?
Arthur joined his hands and bowed his head, murmuring a prayer to Aethon, the protective god of travelers:
- "Aethon the Wise, guide this noble soul to the eternal plains. May it find peace in your kingdom of light, far from the torments of this world. May it..."
A golden gleam caught his attention, interrupting his prayer. Something was shining in the leather pouch the elf wore across his shoulder, something that caught and reflected sunlight with supernatural intensity.
Arthur hesitated. Searching through a dead man's belongings, even that of a stranger, repelled him. But that gleam... It attracted him almost irresistibly, as if it were calling to him.
With respectful gestures, he delicately opened the pouch. Inside, nestled in black silk cloth, rested the most beautiful stone he had ever seen. It was perfectly oval, the size of a goose egg, and its golden surface seemed to pulse with a life of its own. Darker veins ran beneath its polished surface, forming complex patterns that changed according to the viewing angle.
Arthur lifted it carefully. It was surprisingly warm, as if it had been exposed to the sun for hours. A shiver ran through him when it touched his bare skin, not from cold, but something deeper, more troubling. As if the stone... recognized him.
' "Don't be stupid", he chided himself internally. It's just a stone, even if it is remarkably beautiful.
He turned it between his hands, admiring its changing reflections. A stone like this was surely worth a fortune. The merchants who visited their village each year would certainly be interested in such a jewel. Enough to buy the medicines Isabella needed for her persistent cough, enough to help Mordred buy his soldier's equipment...
Arthur carefully slipped the stone into his own bag, not without a final glance toward the dead elf. He would have liked to give him a dignified burial, but he had neither the tools nor the necessary time. And besides, who would believe his story? A dead elf in the Cursed Ridge? They would take him for mad.
He retrieved his arrow that had fallen near a bush, his bow still miraculously intact despite the explosion. The bitterness of his failure rose in his throat. He was returning empty-handed after three days of hunting, with only a mysterious stone found on an elvish corpse as his prize. Isabella would make no reproach to him, she never did, but Arthur could see that she deprived herself of food for him and Mordred. Since his cousin had been forcibly enlisted in the imperial army, times were even harder.
- "Forgive me, Aunt Isabella", he thought as he moved away from the cursed clearing. "I'll do better next time. I promise you."