Luther stared.
Stared didn't quite cover it.
His eyes dragged over the figure in front of him as if his mind refused to accept what it was seeing. Pointed ears. Long blonde hair catching the light like dew on leaves. A lean frame wrapped in torn travel leathers dusted with monster ash.
An elf.
An elf girl.
And she was holding the spot where Eldric had stood only moments ago.
Silence fell, heavy and wrong.
The kind where the forest itself seemed to hold its breath, leaves frozen mid-rustle, dust refusing to settle because even gravity didn't want to get involved.
Luther stared at the elf kneeling before him.
She stayed bowed, fist to her chest, posture flawless—too formal, too reverent, too old.
"My lord Yieli," she repeated, voice steady. "Son of Asmethan."
Something in the air shifted.
Not visibly. Not magically loud. But Luther felt it—like a pressure behind his eyes, like the world had checked a name against a list and thought oh no.
The demonic sword did not speak.
