Wandering in the Sylvaenar
The visions resumed, as if the World-Tree were turning the pages of a book soaked in memories and tears.
Young Lioran had left the Varleth home, but he wasn't truly free: he was alone in a world that had taken everything from him. The Sylvaenar opened before him, both majestic and terrifying. The ancient trunks formed endless columns, and the sky seemed to disappear under their canopy.
For days, he wandered, without food or a sense of direction. His bare feet bled on the roots, his stomach cried out in hunger. Several times, he thought death would catch up with him. But the echo of Selindra's kiss and the warmth of her promise still burned within him.
"I will come back for you."
The forest, initially hostile, gradually became an ally. He learned to drink the clear water from streams, to recognize edible berries, and to make rudimentary traps to catch small animals. On cold nights, he slept curled up against the trunks, his gaze turned toward the rare clearings where stars twinkled.
Little by little, his body changed. His muscles hardened, his movements grew steadier. He learned to listen for the slightest rustle, to walk silently, to observe the signs nature left in its wake. Selindra's memories accompanied him: she was the one who, as a child, had shown him which plants were edible and which could heal wounds.
He spent hours talking to himself, as if addressing her:
"Today I managed to catch a fish..."
"I fought with a fox; it bit me, but I got it."
"You'd be proud of me, Selindra."
Two years passed this way, marked by survival and solitude. Lioran had become a young man with a hardened face, but his gaze retained a glimmer of hope: he had not forgotten his promise.
The Elder's Encounter
One morning, as he was tracking a deer near a wide stream, a silhouette appeared in the mist. It wasn't an animal, but an aged elf, dressed in a long cape of moss and holding a carved staff.
Lioran froze, his makeshift bow drawn. The Elder raised his hand, calming him.
"Easy, young wolf."
Their gazes met. The old elf's eyes shone with a serene wisdom.
"You are not from here, and yet the Sylvaenar has accepted you. Who are you?"
Lioran hesitated, then replied in a hoarse voice:
"I am... no one. I have lost everything I had."
The Elder nodded gently.
"Then it is time to find what you can still gain. Come with me."
The vision showed their walk through the forest. Lioran then discovered a hidden village, invisible to profane eyes: Havelune. The suspended huts blended into the branches, and luminescent walkways connected the dwellings.
But more than the village, it was the World-Tree that overwhelmed him. Its crown rose so high it seemed to touch the heavens, and its golden leaves shimmered like living stars.
"It's..." Lioran stammered, his throat tight.
"It is the origin of our people," the Elder said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "This is where the first elves were born. And this is where you can be reborn."
Guardian of Havelune
The visions accelerated. Lioran was seen growing up in the village, trained by the elders, welcomed by the inhabitants as one of their own.
He trained every day, perfecting his archery skills, his strength with a sword, and his mastery of mana. His years of survival in the Sylvaenar had forged him, but it was in Havelune that he learned to channel his gifts and turn them into a force to protect others.
Quickly, he earned everyone's respect. The children followed him everywhere, admiring his presence, and the elders recognized in him a rare strength, mixed with kindness.
"You have suffered, but it is from that suffering that your light is born," the Elder Thalanor once told him.
And yet, every evening, at the foot of the World-Tree, Lioran would whisper the same name:
"Selindra."
He missed her smile. Her voice. Her gaze. She was his anchor, even across the distance.
The Meeting with Kaelios
Then the vision shifted to a familiar moment. A hunt in the forest.
Kaelios, still a newcomer to this world, came forward, curious, a weapon in his hand. And there, their paths crossed.
A grown Lioran, strong and radiant, emerged from the clearing, bow drawn. His gaze fell upon Kaelios.
"You don't look like a simple hunter," he said with a wry smile.
"And you don't look like an ordinary elf," Kaelios retorted.
They had laughed, a sincere, spontaneous laugh. It was the beginning of an unbreakable bond.
The visions showed their battles side by side, the nights spent around the fire where Lioran told stories to make Kaelios and Aërya laugh, the shared hunts, the advice given like an older brother.
For Kaelios and Aërya, who were watching these memories, the weight of his absence became even more unbearable.
The End of the Ritual
The light intensified, then slowly dissipated. The roots released Kaelios and Aërya, and their eyes opened in the silent clearing.
Before them, Lioran's mana crystal now rested, embedded in the roots of the World-Tree, sealed for eternity. A soft glow emanated from the bark, like a blessing.
The entire village bowed. Tears streamed down the cheeks of the elders, the children, the warriors. Aërya placed her trembling hand on the crystal.
"Your soul is here, among us. And we will never forget you."
Kaelios remained silent, but his clenched fists betrayed his inner vow. His burning gaze fixed on the World-Tree.
"I will pursue your dream. I will build a kingdom where no child will have to endure what you went through. Lioran... I swear it."
The Promise
When the crowd dispersed, Kaelios and Aërya remained alone, facing the Tree. The wind lifted their hair, rustling the golden leaves.
"Kaelios..." Aërya whispered, her voice still trembling. "You saw her too... Selindra."
He slowly nodded.
"She was his light. His only refuge in the darkness."
A meaningful silence passed. Aërya squeezed his hand.
"Then we must find her. So she'll know. So she can come and honor his memory."
Kaelios looked up at the star-studded crown of the World-Tree. The stars danced in its branches like thousands of benevolent souls.
"Wait for us, brother. We will tell her. And your name will resonate forever."
And in the rustling of the leaves, he thought he heard a reply: a breath, an approval, as if Lioran's soul, now resting in the Tree, was entrusting his hope to them one last time.