The first light of dawn had kissed the treetops of the Iltherion region, touching the Elf village called Aralassel. A village perched atop the trees, unknown to anyone. The Elves lived in a world apart from the rest of the world. This village was a sanctuary of forgotten grace on the earth. Homes built upon branches, connected by vines; children who spoke in the language of flowers; and women who summoned growth with the trembling of leaves on dim nights.
In the very heart of this village, within a house balanced delicately on slender branches, Sylvariel was waking up. The sunlight flickered through the windows, casting broken rays across Sylvariel's face. The sun had only just risen, so she did not even feel the warmth striking her skin. Then, footsteps. Approaching her. The door opened slowly and gently. It was her mother.
"My daughter," she said, her voice soft yet curious. "Someone has come to see you today. They've heard you have become an adult... Go and bathe, so they may see you at your best."
Sylvariel had only just learned this news. But hearing it filled her with joy. She smiled at her mother—a smile fresher than the first song of the morning birds. Her white hair drank in the golden sunlight, shimmering and glowing. Even as the tips brushed the wet grass outside, they lost none of their beauty, transforming into a magical blend of sunlit gold and white. With her yellow eyes, she gazed as if searching the sky, then smiled at her mother with a slight nod.
"Very well, mother," she said, chuckling softly, "Let's see who this brave heart might be."
Her mother smiled back. "It's a surprise," she said.
Barefoot, Sylvariel leapt from tree to tree, wearing no clothes, for among Elves, nakedness was synonymous with nature. She ran tirelessly, heading toward the small, slightly muddy pool where every Elf bathed on special days. It was their purest water source.
Reaching the pool's edge, she closed her eyes and lay back onto the water's surface. The cold water embraced every curve of her body, and with curiosity and excitement blossoming in her heart, she drifted into sleep...
The sun had passed the heart of the sky.
When she opened her eyes, the sun placed a golden crown upon the tips of her hair. Sylvariel rubbed her eyes, a sleepy smile on her lips.
"It's late... I wonder if that person is still waiting?" she murmured. Rising from the water, droplets sparkled down her bare body under the sunlight as her bare feet touched the grass. She walked toward her birthplace... toward Aralassel.
But something... something was wrong. No one had come to wake her. No one had even arrived. That was very wrong. Why had no one come to see her? Sylvariel couldn't be the only one at the pool. Someone always came—at least three people each day. But today, no one had come.
She started running toward Aralassel. But as she neared, she noticed smoke rising. Worse still, it came from right where Aralassel stood. The scent of burning filled the air, and ashes settled on her hair. Sylvariel stopped. Her legs rooted to the ground. A shiver began under her chest.
"No..." she whispered hoarsely. "No... this smell... these..."
The joy in her steps was replaced by fear. The forest was silent. No birds sang. The wind seemed to try to hide something. When she reached the source of the smoke, peeking through the leaves, her pupils shrank.
She crouched, pressed against a tree trunk, watching through the branches.
"No... please..."
The scene before her tore her soul apart with a silent scream.
Men. Muscular, armored, loud, and bloodied men. They had bound Elf women and were forcing themselves upon them. The men were tied up, forced to watch. Some were crying, some shut their eyes, and others screamed in rage. The women... her friends... her cousins...
Sylvariel heard a voice.
One of them laughed:
"The commander said... 'Let them be afraid. They should know their power is useless.'"
Another shrugged:
"If they can't do magic, they're just ordinary. They're only pretty. That's all."
Sylvariel's feet did not move. Every part of her wanted to run, shout, help. But she was nothing—a mere F-rank, untrained, knowing no magic. She just... watched.
She saw everyone killed. The entire village was slaughtered. When the last person was killed, she heard it.
"Commander Darel Venmire planned this very well. If we wipe out the strongest village first, the rest will be easy..."
That name hammered into Sylvariel's mind.
"Darel Venmire."
After everyone left, Sylvariel approached her village slowly, her legs trembling as she descended from the branches... tears freely flowing.
The wide clearing was covered in ash. The ground where children played... the place where the one she loved promised to bring her a ring...
Sylvariel fell to her knees. She found a small, burnt rag and wrapped it around herself. Her body shook. The pain crushing her chest burned far more than the charred cloth ever could. At that moment... in the midst of the ashes, she was utterly alone.
And that loneliness spoke to her.
She buried her hands in the ashes. Grasped them. Raised them toward the sky, not screaming but whispering.
"I am... Sylvariel."
"Daughter of Aralassel, born from the heart of nature."
"Today, you have taken everything from me. And today... I swear."
"With my own hands, I will kill Darel Venmire."
"From the ashes, I will raise an Elf city."
"A city no race will dare to threaten."
"A city grown with nature, free and proud."
"And I... Sylvariel... will be the first stone of it."