The rain had begun before sunset, a slow drizzle that whispered against the stone walls of Silverspire Keep. By the time night fell, the skies had opened in full, hammering the castle with a storm that washed the banners limp and drowned the torches in the outer courtyards. Thunder rolled over the capital like the growl of an unseen beast, and lightning tore at the horizon, bathing the towers in pale, jagged light.
Inside the throne hall, the King of Celera's western dominion sat alone, draped in a robe of white and silver. Estramma Silvers had dismissed his court early that evening. He had sensed something uneasy in the air, though he could not name it. For decades, he had ruled with a fair but firm hand, trusted by the nobles, adored by the common folk. Yet Estramma knew better than to mistake adoration for loyalty.
The hall was quiet, save for the occasional groan of the storm against the high glass windows. The silver torches flickered on their sconces, reflecting on the marble floor, where the symbol of House Silvers—a crescent moon cradling a sword—was carved deep.
Estramma's silver eyes, the mark of his bloodline, narrowed as the echo of armored boots approached. The great doors of the throne room opened without announcement.
"Brother," came the voice. Smooth. Calm. Too calm.
Estramma rose. His crown, a circlet of moonsteel, glinted faintly as he stepped down from the throne dais. "Drelvian," he said, his tone flat, measured. "You choose to enter at night without herald? What business presses you so?"
The man who entered bore the same silver hair, though darker at the roots, and eyes that carried a glimmer of frost rather than Estramma's steady glow. Drelvian Silvers—second-born of the line—moved with a deliberate grace, his armor blackened steel instead of silver. Behind him came no guards, no advisors, only silence carried on the wind and storm.
"You know why I've come," Drelvian said.
Estramma's jaw tightened. "If it is about the council's decision, I will not reverse it. The borderlands must remain under crown stewardship. You are not fit to govern them."
Drelvian's lips curved faintly, but there was no warmth in it. "Fit… or unwilling to kneel, is that the truth of it?" He descended the hall's length, each step echoing like a hammer against stone. "You sit here, beloved Estramma, playing king of fairness, while you bind our house in chains of your choosing. You were always too soft to rule."
Estramma's hand brushed the hilt of the ceremonial sword at his side, moonsteel forged for more than display. "If you speak further treason, brother, weigh your words carefully. There are lines you cannot return from."
Drelvian stopped halfway between the throne and the door. The torchlight painted his face in harsh shadows, silver hair plastered to his cheek with rain. He drew his blade in one smooth motion. Not moonsteel, but black iron laced with runes. The air shivered as it left its scabbard.
"I have already crossed them," Drelvian said.
Estramma's breath sharpened, and the hall felt suddenly smaller, heavier. The storm outside seemed to hold its breath. With a sound like breaking ice, the brothers surged toward each other.
Steel clashed on steel. Sparks scattered across the marble. Estramma's moonsteel blade flared with silvery light, each stroke measured with decades of discipline. Drelvian's blackened sword answered with ferocity, each blow crashing like a hammer meant to break bone.
The throne hall rang with their duel. Statues cracked, banners tore, and the marble floor bore deep scars where steel had met stone. Lightning flashed through the windows, illuminating Estramma's stern face, then Drelvian's twisted grin.
Estramma drove his brother back, striking with precision. "Stop this madness! You shame our bloodline, our ancestors, our goddess!"
Drelvian laughed, breathless but wild. "Ancestors? Goddesses? I care nothing for them. Power belongs to the hand that takes it!"
Their blades locked, and for an instant, silver eyes met silver eyes—one steady, one burning with hunger. Then Drelvian whispered a word in an unknown tongue. The runes on his sword flared. Dark fire surged across the lock, searing Estramma's arm.
Estramma staggered, the moonsteel blade slipping from his grasp. Drelvian seized the opening, driving his sword through Estramma's chest. The sound was wet, final.
The king's breath caught. His silver eyes dimmed as blood stained his white robes. The storm outside roared again as if the heavens themselves had witnessed the betrayal.
"You…" Estramma's voice rasped, faint as the storm drowned it. "The crown… was never meant for hands like yours."
Drelvian twisted the blade, and Estramma fell to the marble, crown rolling from his head to clatter against the stone.
Silence filled the throne hall, broken only by the storm.
Drelvian stood over the fallen king, chest heaving, silver hair matted with rain and sweat. His eyes lingered on the crown, gleaming faintly where it lay. He reached for it, but paused, his lips curling. "Not yet," he muttered. "There is still the boy."
In the western wing of Silverspire Keep, far from the throne hall soaked in betrayal, hurried footsteps rang through the narrow stone corridors. The storm outside swallowed most sounds, but the urgency of those within could not be hidden.
"Quickly, this way!" whispered Ser Rowan, a knight of the Silvers line, his armor stripped down to the barest pieces so it would not betray him with noise. His grizzled face was set, silvered hair bound back in haste.
In his arms he carried a boy no older than three. Belerick Silvers, crown prince of the realm, pressed his small face against Rowan's chest, half-asleep, half-dreaming, oblivious to the terror that had seized the night.
Two more figures flanked the knight. Mirra, a maidservant whose family had served Estramma for generations, clutched a small satchel tight, inside it what little food and clothing she had managed to gather in moments. Her eyes, dark with fear, flicked down every shadowed passage.
And Jareth, the steward, broad-shouldered and strong for his years, bore a lantern dimmed with cloth to give them only the faintest light. His breathing was heavy, not from exhaustion but from the weight of what he already knew—that the king was dead, and the usurper's men would not rest until the last heir had been silenced.
Rowan's boots splashed through puddles as water leaked from the storm overhead. "We must reach the hidden passage. Once beyond the outer walls, the Forest of Lumina will give us cover."
"The elves—" Mirra began, her voice trembling.
"Better the elves' unknown mercy than Drelvian's sword," Rowan cut in. "Now move!"
They rounded a corner, only to halt as two armored figures stepped from the shadows ahead. Their pauldrons bore the sigil of House Silvers—defiled now by their allegiance to the traitor.
"There!" one shouted. "The boy—stop them!"
Rowan shoved Belerick into Mirra's arms and drew his short sword in a single motion. "Run!" he barked.
The clash was immediate. Steel rang against steel as Rowan met the first guard head-on, driving him back with ferocity born of desperation. Jareth swung the lantern into the second's face, the glass shattering, flame sputtering as oil splashed. The guard cursed, momentarily blinded.
"Go, Mirra!" Rowan roared again.
The maidservant fled down the corridor, clutching the boy tight against her chest. Belerick stirred now, small hands fisting at her dress, silver eyes blinking open to the chaos. He began to cry, a thin wail lost in the storm's howl.
Behind her, Rowan's grunt of pain rang out, followed by the sickening scrape of blade through armor. Jareth's bellow came next, then silence.
Mirra bit her lip so hard it drew blood, but she did not look back. She ran until the corridor gave way to a narrow stair, spiraling down into the damp earth. At the base, a heavy door awaited, its wood warped with age. She pushed, and it groaned open onto the hidden passage beyond.
The tunnel was dark, carved long ago as a king's escape should the castle ever fall. Roots clawed through the ceiling, and water dripped in steady rhythm. Mirra pressed forward, her breath ragged, Belerick's cries echoing through the cramped space.
At last, the tunnel ended at a small gate opening onto the woods. She stumbled out into the storm, the scent of wet earth and pine filling her lungs. The Forest of Lumina loomed before her, vast and endless, its silver-leaved trees swaying under the rain.
But fate was cruel.
A shadow detached itself from the trees ahead—another of Drelvian's men, faster than she had believed possible. His sword gleamed as lightning split the sky.
Mirra screamed, twisting her body to shield the boy. The blade came down—
And struck her instead.
The world tilted, the forest spinning around her. She fell to her knees, blood spilling across the mud, her arms still tight around the child. Through the haze of pain, she looked at Belerick's silver eyes, wide with terror.
"Forgive me, my prince…" she whispered, her voice breaking. "Live… live for your father's name…"
Her grip loosened, and the boy tumbled into the mud, crying out.
The soldier raised his sword again, but before he could strike, the storm itself seemed to turn. A flash of light pierced the trees, cold and silvery, and the man staggered back as if struck by unseen force.
The cry of the child carried into the forest, echoing under the storm.
The soldier who had struck Mirra down cursed under his breath, shaking rain from his visor. The storm poured harder, soaking his cloak until it clung like a second skin. He stepped forward, intent on silencing the wailing child.
But from the tunnel behind, more boots echoed. Three more of Drelvian's men emerged, their armor dark and dripping, their eyes glinting with the fervor of those who served the usurper's ambition.
"You found them?" one called, his voice rough above the storm.
"Aye," the first grunted, lowering his sword toward Belerick. "The maid's done for. The brat still breathes."
Lightning split the sky, casting the forest in pale brilliance. For an instant, the towering trees of Lumina seemed alive, their silver leaves thrashing like restless spirits. The boy's cries cut through it all, sharp and fragile.
"Kill him quickly," said the second soldier, drawing his blade. "Our lord gave orders—the boy does not leave this night alive."
The first soldier raised his sword again, but the third stepped closer, hesitation on his face. "He is but a child," he muttered, barely audible. "Is this truly what Lord Drelvian commands? A babe, scarcely able to walk?"
The second sneered, rain sliding off his helm. "Drelvian commands, we obey. Do you question now, after swearing your oath?"
The hesitant one clenched his jaw. His gauntleted hands trembled as he gripped his weapon, torn between duty and something buried deeper. He had known Estramma—had served him faithfully for years. Yet here he stood, asked to slaughter Estramma's son like an animal.
The first soldier barked, "Enough talk. Do it, or I'll do it for you."
The sword lifted higher, its edge catching the lightning. Belerick's silver eyes widened as though he sensed the doom hovering over him. His cries grew sharper, filled with panic.
But the storm would not relent. A sudden gust tore through the trees, driving sheets of rain sideways, bending branches until they cracked. The forest itself seemed to shudder, and the sound of the boy's wailing carried farther, deeper into Lumina.
The fourth soldier swore. "We must finish this now, before the elves hear! If they find us here—"
"Then strike!" the first snarled. "End it!"
The hesitant soldier stepped forward, his sword raised, his hands trembling. The boy's cries met his ears, piercing through the storm. His vision blurred with rain—or was it guilt? He faltered, blade hanging midair.
The first soldier growled and shoved him aside. "Coward! I'll see it done myself."
He raised his sword for the killing blow.
But in that moment, the forest moved.
A sound unlike any thunder rolled through the trees—low, resonant, as if the earth itself had spoken. The silver leaves shook, casting droplets like a thousand glittering tears. A pale light flared among the trunks, soft yet blinding, halting every soldier where he stood.
The boy's cries stilled, replaced by a wide-eyed gaze fixed on the glow.
The soldiers turned, their blades uncertain in their hands.
"What… what is that?" whispered the fourth, his voice trembling.
The hesitant one stepped back, his heart pounding, fear and awe mingling in equal measure.
The light grew stronger, silver as moonfire, spilling across the forest floor.
The first soldier squinted into the silver glow, rain sliding down his face beneath the rim of his helm. "It's nothing but swamp light," he growled, though the tremor in his voice betrayed unease. "The elves' tricks, maybe—but no spirit nor shimmer will stay my hand."
He shifted his grip and advanced on Belerick again, boots splashing through the mud. The boy had fallen to his knees, tiny hands pressed into the earth, his silver hair plastered to his forehead. His cries had softened into hiccups, but his eyes—those pale, gleaming eyes—fixed on the blade above him.
The hesitant soldier—Tora, though none spoke his name—stepped forward again, desperation cracking his voice. "Wait! If the elves are near, striking the child here will bring their wrath on us all. Let us carry him back to Drelvian instead. Let our lord decide his fate himself."
The first soldier snarled, spinning on him. "Drelvian's orders were clear: the boy dies tonight. You've grown soft, Tora. Do you think the usurper will show mercy if he learns we spared the brat?"
Tora's hand shook on his sword. He opened his mouth to argue further—but the second soldier grabbed him by the arm and yanked him back. "Enough of this. Do the deed, Veynar. We cannot linger."
The third and fourth soldiers drew closer, their faces grim, watching as Veynar—the first—raised his sword high.
Belerick let out another thin, wavering cry, his small body trembling against the storm.
Veynar's blade descended.
At the last instant, Tora threw himself forward, crashing against his comrade's arm. The sword scraped against mud instead of flesh, sparks of steel striking stone.
"You dare!" Veynar roared, shoving Tora back with a forceful kick.
Tora fell to his knees, breath ragged. His sword clattered into the mud, but he snatched it back up, holding it between himself and the others. His eyes burned with conflict and guilt, but his voice steadied.
"I will not see a child murdered before me. Not Estramma's son. Not while I still draw breath."
"Traitor!" the second soldier bellowed.
The three turned on him as one, blades flashing in the storm. Tora met them, steel clashing, his movements wild but desperate. Sparks burst in the darkness, the ring of steel echoing between the trees.
Belerick crawled backward, little hands scraping against roots and wet leaves. His chest heaved, tears streaming down his cheeks, but he did not look away. His silver eyes fixed on the men fighting before him—the men deciding whether he would live or die.
Tora blocked one strike, then another, but he was only one against three. A blade sliced across his arm, another grazed his shoulder. He staggered, teeth clenched against the pain.
"Run…" he gasped at the boy, though he knew Belerick could barely understand. "Run…"
Veynar spat and drove his sword deep into Tora's chest. The man's cry was lost to the storm as blood spilled into the mud. His knees buckled, and he collapsed before the child he had tried to save.
Belerick let out a scream, high and piercing, shaking with terror.
The glow in the forest surged brighter, silver light spilling like dawn between the trees. The soldiers froze again, their eyes darting to the shifting brilliance.
"What sorcery is this?" whispered the fourth, voice tight with dread.
The light moved closer, not flickering but steady, deliberate. Leaves whispered though no wind stirred, and the rain seemed to soften where the glow touched.
Veynar lifted his sword once more, rage and fear mingling on his face. "Enough of this! Whatever comes, I'll silence the brat now!"
He raised his blade again, stepping toward Belerick, who lay trembling beside Tora's fallen body.
The glow swelled until it bathed the clearing in silver-white, blinding in its purity.
The silver light flared higher, and from its center, a figure stepped forward. Rain fell around her in sheets, but it seemed to part for her, sliding off her robes and hair as though repelled by some unseen force. Lasara Nightshade, Priestess of the Moon, moved with a grace that made the storm itself pause. Her midnight-black hair clung to her shoulders, yet her presence was radiant, framed by the pure, silvery glow that poured from her very being.
The soldiers blinked, unsure whether they were seeing a living elf or some manifestation of the forest's will. The one called Veynar took a step back, gripping his sword tighter, his knuckles white.
"You… what are you?" he demanded, voice wavering.
Lasara's violet eyes swept over them, calm and unyielding. In her hands, she held a staff carved from moonstone, the tip glowing like a shard of the night sky. Her gaze fell on the boy at her feet, silver-haired, soaked and shivering, yet alive. She bent slightly, her voice soft but carrying over the storm.
"This child is under my protection," she said.
The soldiers hesitated, fear and disbelief warring on their faces. The glow from her staff seemed to reach into them, making the blades in their hands feel heavy, almost foreign.
Veynar's voice shook as he spoke, barely controlling his rage. "We have orders… from Drelvian. The boy—he must die!"
Lasara's hand rose slowly, the glow intensifying. The light washed over the forest, and the storm seemed to respond. Branches bent away, leaves trembled, and the rain softened to a gentle fall around her.
"You will do no such thing," she said, her tone firm, commanding. She did not move forward, yet every soldier felt a pressure, as if the air itself had become a barrier.
A wind rose suddenly, spinning leaves and water around them in a silver whirlwind. Veynar swung his sword, desperate, but the blade met no resistance yet could not reach the boy. The forest moved as if alive, roots lifting slightly from the earth, tangling and twisting to block their advance.
Tora, still struggling from his wounds, dropped his sword and fell to his knees, eyes wide. He could not speak. All the soldiers could do was stare at the radiant figure before them.
Lasara lowered herself gracefully to one knee, staff pointed at the boy. The silver light concentrated around Belerick, forming a protective dome that shimmered like the surface of a moonlit lake. Rain splashed harmlessly against it, and the boy's small cries softened into quiet sobs.
"This is a place of sanctuary," Lasara said, her voice firm and unwavering. "You will harm him no more. Leave, or you will find yourselves defeated—not by me alone, but by the will of the forest itself."
Veynar's teeth clenched. His eyes darted to the shadows between the trees, where the branches bent and the undergrowth seemed to writhe. He lifted his sword for one final desperate strike—but before he could move, a gust of wind, sudden and violent, threw him off balance. He fell hard, face-first into the mud, the silver light illuminating his panic.
The other soldiers stumbled backward, fear breaking their resolve. Something in the air pressed on them, made them feel small, powerless, as if the forest itself had taken a side.
Lasara's voice cut through the storm again. "Go. Leave this place. Return to the man who sent you and tell him this: you will not succeed."
The soldiers, shaken to their cores, looked at one another. Veynar scrambled to his feet, dragging his comrades behind him. None dared resist the silver glow; none dared strike the boy again. Their retreat was chaotic, stumbling through mud and rain, the echoes of their curses swallowed by the storm.
The forest fell silent after they disappeared, save for the soft patter of rain and the distant rumble of thunder. Lasara rose slowly, her eyes never leaving Belerick.
The boy's small body trembled, and he looked up at her with wide, silver eyes. Lasara bent down, brushing a wet strand of hair from his forehead.
"You are safe now," she said softly, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. "I will not let harm come to you."
Belerick clutched at her robes instinctively, the only anchor in a night of loss and terror. Around them, the Forest of Lumina seemed to breathe, leaves rustling gently in approval, roots settling back into the earth.
Lasara stood again, cradling Belerick carefully in her arms. The rain continued to fall, but it no longer seemed threatening. Instead, it was cleansing, washing away the blood and chaos of the night.
The boy's cries had faded. Now, only silent tears remained. Lasara whispered, "Come. We must take you to safety, to the Tree of Luna. There, you will rest."
And so, beneath the silver glow of the Moon Priestess and the ancient guardians of the forest, Belerick Silvers, heir of a fallen king, took his first steps into a new life.
Lasara moved through the Forest of Lumina with the boy cradled in her arms. The rain had softened to a gentle drizzle, beads of water sliding off her dark robes and the silvered leaves above. The forest seemed alive, luminous under her presence; moonlight filtered even through the storm clouds, reflecting off the silver leaves like scattered gems. Every step she took left no trace of mud or broken foliage, as if the forest itself shielded her passage.
Belerick clung to her, small fingers curling into the folds of her robes. His silver eyes darted from tree to tree, wide with fear and wonder. The forest was like nothing he had ever seen: enormous trunks twisted toward the sky, their bark etched with faint glowing runes, roots snaking across the ground like great serpents. Strange flowers glimmered faintly, and insects with wings like glass flitted through the misty air.
Lasara spoke softly, her voice steady and melodic, yet carrying an unshakable authority. "Do not be afraid, little one. You are no longer in danger. I will keep you safe."
Belerick's lips quivered. "They… they tried to kill me," he whispered, voice trembling. "My father…"
Her hand gently stroked his hair, silver strands sticking to his pale face. "I know. Your father was a great man. And now, he rests. But you are still alive. You are strong. And you will grow stronger."
The path they followed wound through thick groves of silver-leaved trees, each tree seeming to hum faintly, as if recognizing the boy's royal blood. Eventually, the forest opened into a vast clearing at its center. There, standing taller and wider than any tree Belerick had ever seen, rose the Tree of Luna. Its trunk was wide as a fortress tower, its bark glimmering silver with veins of soft light, and its branches spread like arms cradling the sky. The leaves shimmered with faint stars, even though the night was storm-clouded.
At the base of the Tree of Luna, carved into its living bark, was a doorway large enough for a person to walk through comfortably. Faintly glowing runes spiraled around it, pulsating with a gentle rhythm. Lasara approached the entrance, lowering Belerick onto the mossy floor.
"You will be safe here," she said, motioning to the doorway. "Within the Tree of Luna, the forest protects you as I do. The old magic resides here; it will shield you from harm, and it will guide your growth."
Belerick's small hands clenched nervously. "I… I don't understand," he said softly.
"You need not understand everything now," Lasara replied. "All you need to know is that you are safe. In time, you will learn much about the world and yourself. But for now…" She lowered him gently into the soft moss, wrapping a cloak around him. "Rest."
The boy's eyelids drooped. Exhaustion overtook him—tears, fear, and the adrenaline of escape all demanding release. Lasara crouched beside him, watching until he finally drifted into an uneasy sleep.
Once certain he slept, she rose and turned toward the clearing. Her gaze swept across the surrounding forest, alert for any lingering threats. None remained; the soldiers had fled, and the storm was beginning to wane. Still, her mind remained cautious.
Lasara raised her staff, and silver light spiraled upward, encasing the Tree of Luna in a protective barrier. Faintly, the tree itself seemed to respond, branches intertwining in a lattice, runes flaring in soft synchrony with her staff. She murmured words in an ancient elven tongue, weaving the magic of the forest with her own Moon Blessings, sealing the boy within a circle of safety.
Once the protective enchantments settled, she returned to Belerick's side. The boy stirred, blinking his silver eyes at her.
"Who… who are you?" he asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.
"I am Lasara Nightshade," she said, voice steady, yet gentle. "Priestess of the Moon. And now, I am your guardian."
Belerick's eyes, wide and shining, reflected both fear and relief. "You… will take care of me?"
"I will," she said firmly. "From this night onward, you are under my care. You will never want for safety again. You will live, little prince. That is my vow."
As the rain eased and the first hints of dawn approached, the silver glow of the Tree of Luna pulsed softly, bathing the clearing in a gentle, protective light. Around them, the Forest of Lumina seemed to sigh in relief, as though acknowledging the boy's survival and Lasara's guardianship.
And so, on that night of blood and betrayal, Belerick Silvers, the last heir of a fallen king, began the first chapter of a new life—one under the guidance of the Moon Priestess, within the living heart of the forest. He would awaken to a world full of wonder, danger, and magic unlike any he had ever known.
Lasara settled Belerick onto a bed of soft moss beneath the Tree of Luna, brushing the silver hair from his forehead once more. Even in his exhausted state, the boy's small body radiated a faint energy, the mark of his royal blood and latent potential. She studied him carefully, noting the unusual hue of his eyes and hair—silver like the moonlight itself—a trait rarely seen outside of elven bloodlines.
"This is why I took you," she whispered softly, almost to herself. "The signs are clear. You belong here, among the forest and its magic."
Carefully, she pulled from her robes a small bundle: simple linens, a tiny bowl, and a vial of healing tincture. Gently, she cleaned the mud and blood from Belerick's face and hands, murmuring soft words of comfort. The boy's eyes fluttered open once, then closed again as fatigue overcame him.
Once he was tended, Lasara rose and walked slowly around the base of the Tree of Luna. She traced her fingers along the carved runes that spiraled up its trunk, feeling the pulse of ancient magic that ran through the living tree. The forest responded to her touch, leaves rustling as though in acknowledgment. Seven smaller trees surrounded the great Tree of Luna, each glowing faintly, each representing one of the seven chakras that every being in Celera could access. Lasara's gaze lingered on them.
"Someday, little one," she murmured, "you will learn what this place holds. Each tree will guide your training, but tonight you only need to rest."
She returned to Belerick, settling beside him. Her hands hovered over him for a moment, channeling a soft, silvery energy. The glow encased him gently, easing his fear and calming the lingering traces of pain. Slowly, his breaths evened, and the tremors of the night's terror ebbed away.
Lasara's eyes softened as she watched him sleep. The boy's lineage was undeniable—he carried the blood of kings and elves alike. He would grow strong, perhaps stronger than any before him. But for now, he was just a child, vulnerable and in need of protection.
Outside, the Forest of Lumina hummed softly, its silver leaves shimmering as if celebrating the survival of the young prince. Rain fell lightly now, almost tenderly, dripping from the canopy above. Somewhere in the distance, the faint calls of mystical birds—pheonixes, perhaps—echoed through the trees, adding to the serenity of the moment.
Lasara rose slowly, her staff glowing faintly in the dim light. She cast her gaze across the clearing, ensuring that no shadow lingered, that no danger had followed them. The storm had passed, leaving the forest alive and quiet, bathed in the silver light of the Moon Priestess.
Finally, she sat beside Belerick again, whispering words only she understood. A protective charm, soft and subtle, woven into the very air around the boy. The forest would guard him, but so would she.
As the first hints of dawn brushed the sky beyond the trees, Belerick remained asleep, safe for the first time in his short life. And Lasara, Priestess of the Moon, watched over him, knowing that this night marked the beginning of a new chapter—not only for the boy, but for the future of Celera itself.
The great Tree of Luna stood silent, its branches stretching toward the heavens, and the smaller chakra trees glimmered faintly, waiting. Tonight, the forest had claimed a new charge, and the Moon Priestess had made her vow: Belerick Silvers would live, and under her guidance, he would grow in ways no one could yet imagine.
With that, Lasara finally allowed herself a moment of stillness, kneeling beside the sleeping prince, letting the silver glow of the forest envelop them both. And for the first time that night, the Forest of Lumina was at peace