Chapter 4 – The Old Wounds of the Elves
That night, the forest was silent. Only the chirping of insects and the murmur of a distant stream broke the stillness. In the heart of that silence, a dim fire burned within a great wooden hall, its pillars and walls shaped from living trees. Though simple now, the structure still carried an aura of reverence—a faint echo of the glory that had once been.
Around the fire sat several elves, their hair long and white, their faces lined with age, their emerald eyes dim yet heavy with memory. They were the elders—the keepers of knowledge, survivors of the calamity that had shattered their race.
In the lap of one such elder, the newborn prince Valdyn slept peacefully, his tiny breaths steady, his face serene. Yet the story unfolding around him was anything but peaceful.
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"Listen well, Serenea," spoke Elder Elrond, his voice deep and weighted with the burden of time. "Your son must one day know this story. Without understanding the scars of our people, he cannot hope to lead them toward rebirth."
Queen Serenea, though still weak from childbirth, sat propped against cushions. Her gaze was weary, yet full of respect for the elders. "Tell it, then... so that Valdyn may know the weight he is destined to bear."
Another elder added, "This is not merely history. It is a wound carved into our very blood."
The fire crackled, and the tale began.
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Eighty years ago, the world was consumed by what came to be called the Ragnarok War.
The four great races—humans, orcs, beastmen, and elves—clashed in a struggle for land, resources, and supremacy. Tensions that had simmered for centuries erupted into open conflict.
The humans, vast in number, mustered an army of 200,000 soldiers.
The orcs, born for battle, sent 150,000 warriors.
The beastmen, resilient and fierce, rallied 120,000 fighters.
And the elves... could only gather 50,000 souls. That number included forest elves, dark elves, and snow elves combined.
"That number... even counted children," Elder Elrond said grimly. "For we had no choice. Our men were few, and so we sent even those barely grown."
Valdyn stirred faintly in his sleep, his small fist clenching as though his infant body could feel the weight of those words.
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The greatest battle was fought at the heart of the ancient forest—beneath the towering World Tree, the sacred source of elven life and power.
"The World Tree... it was our home, our spirit, our everything," whispered an elderly elf woman, her voice trembling. "And they burned it..."
Flames devoured the colossal branches that stretched to the heavens. Screams of dying elves filled the air as smoke blotted out the stars. Spirits of nature wailed, the magic of the forest cried out, but it was all in vain.
"The humans struck with steel formations. The orcs crushed our lines with brute force. The beastmen encircled us. We fought with arrows, with magic, with our very lives... but one by one, our kin fell."
Thousands of elves perished at the roots of the World Tree. Fire consumed its sacred trunk until nothing remained but ash and char. With its fall, so too fell the heart of elven civilization.
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"After that war," Elder Elrond continued, "our men were nearly wiped out. Of the fifty thousand who marched, fewer than a thousand returned. Most were crippled, aged, or broken."
Serenea lowered her gaze. She knew it was true—her own father had perished on the battlefield, her mother in the desperate flight that followed.
"And then came the crueler curse," another elder said bitterly. "Our wombs failed us. To bear one child could take nearly ten years. And many of those children were weak... some did not survive at all."
From tens of thousands, the elven race dwindled to barely three thousand souls. They scattered into fragments—some hiding deep within the forests, others retreating to mountains, and some fleeing north into the cold. No cities remained. No kingdom. Only shadows of their former majesty.
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While the elves faded into obscurity, the other races thrived.
Humans claimed the central lands, building kingdoms upon the ruins of war.
Orcs dominated the western regions through sheer military might.
Beastmen ruled the southern plains, guided by primal strength and instinct.
The elves became myths. Many humans believed them extinct. In truth, they still lived—scattered, hidden, surviving on whispers and memory.
"And this," Elder Elrond concluded, "is the world into which Valdyn is born. A world where we are but ghosts of what we were. Yet... an old prophecy remains. 'A child of golden hair shall be born of Thalorian blood. He shall bring about the return of our people.'"
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Queen Serenea gazed down at her son. Even in slumber, his golden hair caught the glow of the crystals, shining faintly as though touched by starlight.
"Valdyn..." she whispered. "You are not only my child. You are the answer to the prayers of our people."
The baby shifted, a soft sound escaping his lips, before settling again into peaceful sleep. Yet within his dreams, the System stirred faintly.
[DING!!]
> World Lore Updated.
Memory of the Elven Calamity unlocked.
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The night returned to stillness, broken only by the crackle of the fire.
The elders closed their eyes, lost in prayer.
Queen Serenea clutched her child closer, as though shielding him from the weight of history.
And in that simple cradle, a newborn bore the burden of an entire race:
A people thought extinct.
A world that had turned against them.
And a prophecy yet to be fulfilled.
His name was Valdyn Thalorian.
And from that moment onward, he was more than a child—he was the symbol of elven rebirth.
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