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Alf halts before the collapsed water-metal mill.
He draws back the hood, black hair catching the faint light.
Senior Attendant Hü: From what I have gathered, this village suffered for refusing loyalty to the now-late Chief Inikhadan. And as if that were not enough, they were denied refuge in Cavens Cave during the Totutũks invasion.
Alf: (Mumbling) Is the Prince Regent of Cavens Cave for me… or against me?
He genuflects gracefully, slips off his shoes, and steps barefoot onto the cracked earth.
Alf: (Deep breath in).
Senior Attendant Hü wisely takes a step back.
Alf closes his eyes. Energy stirs from his Chi Core.
With steady, precise gestures—almost balletic with firmness—he bows the scattered metal.
Fragments rise, align, fuse.
A final sharp nudge of his head slots the last piece into place.
The mill groans back to life.
Water begins to flow once more, a quiet promise to the parched village.
Alf turns to leave without a word—unaware that, from a safe distance, several elves have witnessed the entire display.
Their jaws hang slack in disbelief.
Ælfen 1: Did—did that Mister just metalbend?
Elf: That level of Kewen Trait has been lost for ages.
Ælfen 2: So how…?
Ælfen 3: (Realisation dawning) You've got to be kidding me.
Others: What is it?
Meanwhile, Elva is greeted warmly by Lawn—Graybark's aunt, whom he calls "Mama".
Lawn: In all the rush earlier, I wasn't able to thank you properly for bringing back my treasure.
Elva: Don't mention it.
Lawn: We have no Rings of Laurel to honour you, nor even flour to bake anything for thee.
Elva: [In this vast land?] (Glancing around) Where is the Central Garden of this village?
Wendi: Down this street. Why?
Elva: Lead me there.
Lawn: Oh. This way.
Central Garden of Laurel Village
The ground lies barren—dry, cracked, almost leaden.
Elva: [The land crieth.] (Crouching) It seeketh for life.
Her voice carries quiet pity.
Lawn glimpses a faint, translucent Dragon Spirit hovering behind Elva—mirroring the same sorrowful expression. Lawn shakes her own head to be sure of what she's seeing.
Suddenly an Ælfen comes sprinting in, shouting with joy.
Ælfen: Oh bless the Maker—the water is back!!
Lawn: What? Oh, bless the Maker! We can farm again now.
Elva: Water alone won't suffice.
Wendi: Pardon?
Elva: Of what good are green leaves to a tree whose roots are dead?
Wendi: Huh?
Elva: Give breath to the root, and you shall harvest in due season.
Lawn: Sorry, but we don't understand…
Graybark: (Tugging Lawn's hand backward).
Lawn: Gray? What is it?
Graybark: Trust Graybark. (Halting) The view can—should—be better from here.
Elva draws a slow bow of air.
An opaque barrier shimmers into place, enveloping the garden and herself.
She arranges her shawl over her elbows.
Bare feet glide across the earth with elegant precision.
She begins to twirl—slowly at first, then faster—spiralling downward until she folds into a gentle self-embrace.
A glistening cocoon forms around her.
The motion of the world slows—blades of wind, dust motes, everything suspended so delicately that one could pass through a spinning edge unharmed.
In the stillness, divine butterfly wings hatch from the cocoon.
Elva rises.
Her attire gleams with ethereal light; a length of fabric blindfolds her eyes.
She dances.
Light as a butterfly, wings brushing the ground, every movement enchanting—like a fairy stepped from legend.
Pixie-like sparks trail from her fingertips, joining her in a swirling ballet.
Slowly, slowly, vegetation stirs—tendrils rise, green shoots pierce the earth, healing the Garden Core.
She finishes with a graceful bow to the heavens.
The wings fade.
Moments later.
As a gesture of gratitude, the villagers form a fine pathway of honour for Elva and Alf.
Zagnon—an elder of two hundred and thirty-one years—approaches, leaning on an exquisitely carved walking rod.
Triplets of blond hair stand respectfully behind him.
Elder Zagnon: Please, tell us your names so we may honour you even in your absence.
Elva: Please, there really isn't any need for that 😅.
An Elf: Indeed, there isn't.
1st Triplet: What do you mean?
Another Elf: That young master is an advanced Metalbower.
An Ælfen: He even bent metal through Kewen.
Certain Villagers: (Gasps).
Graybark: White Miss was—is a fairy! (Giggles).
Elva: [That's why you should never trust Hinan to keep secrets…]
Wendi: Indeed. "White Miss" here is the one who brought our land back to life!
Certain Villagers: (Louder gasps).
Elva: [Hinan and Wendies. Never trust Hinan and…]
Lawn: Also, if my eyes deceived me not, I saw the faint outline of a Draga behind White Miss…
Elva: [Are you kidding me?! Adults too?!]
Certain Villagers: (Loudest gasps).
Elva: Okay, stop with the gasps!
Certain Villagers: (Pursing lips)
2nd Triplet: (Pointing at Alf) Cold as the Moon.
3rd Triplet: (Pointing at Elva) Warm as the Sun. Don't tell me they're…
Another Ælfen: Se Yör et Yär.
NOTE: "Se Yör et Yär" translates as "The Yin and Yang".
All the villagers bow deeply in native reverence before the Dragon Successors.
---
An hour passes.
Elva pauses on the steps of the Flight Carriage.
She turns, placing her favourite dagger into Lawn's hands with a warm glance toward Graybark.
Lawn: Why do you…?
Elva: I've seen Graybark's eyes shine at the sight of weapons. I'm certain he will become a fine fighter one day. Graybark?
Graybark: Yes, White Miss.
A Carriage Attendant snickers at the nickname—only to receive a swift smack on the head from his companion.
Elva: I give you my blessing to walk beside you on the path of justice. Take good care of thinë sama.
Graybark: Thank you, but…
Elva steps inside.
The carriage lifts into the sky.
NOTE: "…thinë sama" translates as "…your mother".
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Four days pass.
Throne Chamber
Princess Raina greets the returning Elflord.
Princess Raina: You're back, Your Flourish.
Elflord: (Placing hands gently on her arms) Why such excitement?
Princess Raina: The Crimson Jargophin test was today. It was difficult, but approachable.
Elva: (Walking in) You rode a Jargophin? I can only imagine the scenery of that.
Indeed—the mental image is vivid: Raina amid a blazing field (one she herself set alight), furious and frustrated in equal measure.
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