The fire in Balthazar's chamber had dimmed to embers, casting a soft orange glow across the stone floor. Toya stood before him, her white cloak trailing behind her, her chestnut skin radiant against the gloom. Her dark eyes held no fear — only resolve.
Balthazar stepped closer.
She was small — barely five feet tall — but her presence filled the room like light through a crack in stone.
He knelt.
Slowly, deliberately, the prince of Hollow Vale lowered himself to her height, his cloak pooling around him like shadow. His long black hair fell forward, framing his pale face, and his olive green eyes searched hers.
He lifted his hands.
Gently, he cupped her face — soft, beautiful, warm against his cold fingers. His thumbs brushed her cheeks, and for a moment, the silence between them felt sacred.
"What do you see," he asked, voice low, "when you look into my eyes?"
Toya didn't flinch.
She reached up and placed her hands over his — holding them, grounding them, refusing to let him pull away.
"I see pain," she said softly. "And grief. Anger. Disappointment."
Balthazar's jaw tightened.
"But I also see something else," Toya continued. "I see a man who still listens. Who still kneels. Who still wants to protect what's left."
His eyes flickered.
"We can rebuild this kingdom," Toya said. "If you're willing to let me and Hazel learn. Starting with your dead farmland."
The words hung in the air like a spell.
Hex, standing near the doorway, let out a faint breath. A smile — rare and quiet — tugged at the corner of his lips.
Balthazar closed his eyes.
His hands trembled slightly beneath Toya's grip.
Then he opened them again, and the storm inside had shifted.
"You want to restore the land," he said.
Toya nodded. "We want to understand it. Heal it. Grow something that belongs to both light and shadow."
Balthazar lowered his hands, but his gaze remained steady.
"Then you may begin," he said. "The farmland is yours to awaken."
Toya smiled — not with triumph, but with hope.
Hex stepped forward. "I'll guide you. The soil remembers. It just needs someone to listen."
Balthazar rose slowly, his height towering once more, but the weight he carried felt lighter.
The morning sun never rose in Hollow Vale — only a soft violet haze that shimmered across the sky like bruised silk. The mist clung low to the ground, curling around Hazel's boots as she stepped onto the edge of the farmland.
Toya walked beside her, her white cloak trailing behind her like a banner of light. Together, they stood before the scorched fields — acres of cracked earth, blackened roots, and trees that stood like skeletons against the horizon.
The land was silent.
But not dead.
Hazel knelt, pressing her palm to the soil. It was cold, dry, but beneath the surface, she felt something — a pulse. Faint. Slow. Like a heartbeat buried under centuries of ash.
Toya joined her, placing both hands on the ground.
They closed their eyes.
And listened.
At first, there was only silence.
Then — a whisper.
Faint. Fragmented. Like wind through broken leaves.
"We remember…"
Hazel's breath caught.
Toya's fingers twitched.
"We remember the fire. The betrayal. The blood."
The soil trembled beneath their hands.
Hazel opened her eyes. "It's speaking."
Toya nodded. "It's grieving."
They stood and walked deeper into the field, past twisted vines and shattered roots. A dead tree stood at the center — tall, blackened, its bark split open like a wound. Hazel reached out and touched it.
The tree shuddered.
A voice echoed through her mind — not loud, but ancient.
"She came with light in her hands… and left with fire in her mouth."
Hazel staggered back.
Toya caught her.
"What did it say?" she asked.
Hazel looked up at the tree. "It remembers the princess."
They circled the trunk, their fingers brushing the bark, their magic humming beneath their skin. The tree whispered again — this time to Toya.
"She took the golden seed. Promised to return. She never did."
"She lied to them," she whispered. "She used their magic. Then abandoned them."
Hazel looked around. "This land… it's not just cursed. It's heartbroken."
They knelt again, side by side, and pressed their palms into the soil.
"We're here now," Hazel said softly. "We're listening."
The soil warmed beneath their touch.
"Then grow with us," it whispered. "But not with light alone. You must learn the dark."*
Toya looked at Hazel.
Hazel nodded.
The sky had softened to a pale lavender, and the mist had thinned enough to reveal the scorched fields in full. Hazel and Toya stood side by side at the edge of the farmland, their hands clasped, their hearts steady.
They had changed.
Gone were the white dresses and cloaks of light. Now they wore dark brown gowns, simple and earthen, the fabric soft and heavy like soil after rain. Their hair was tied back with white bows — a symbol of peace, of rebirth, of unity between what had been and what could be.
They looked like daughters of the land.
Hex stood nearby, watching them with quiet pride. Then he turned and raised his staff, its tip glowing faintly with golden runes.
"Citizens of Hollow Vale," he called, his voice carrying across the valley. "We ask your hands. Your strength. Your carts. We ride to the border of the Wooden Elves. We ask for soil."
The people gathered — farmers, mages, children with baskets, elders with walking sticks. They did not question. They moved.
By midday, the first caravans rolled out of the Vale, guided by Hex and a dozen riders. The journey was long, but the elves had been waiting.
And they came.
By late afternoon, the sound of wheels and hooves echoed through the castle gates. Carriages carved from living wood, pulled by antlered beasts, rolled into the courtyard. Each was filled with rich, dark soil — fragrant, alive, humming with ancient magic.
At the front of the procession rode the elven royalty.
Prince Caelir of the Wooden Elves — tall, with skin like polished by light and hair the color of moss — dismounted first. Beside him, Princess Thalira, his sister, wore a gown of woven leaves and silver thread. Her eyes were pale green, her smile serene.
Her hair was dark brown.
Balthazar descended the steps of Noctis Spire to greet them.
"Caelir," he said, bowing his head.
"Balthazar," the elf prince replied, clasping his forearm. "It's been too long."
Thalira bowed gracefully. "We bring what you asked for. And more."
"You honor us," Balthazar said.
They entered the castle together, the elves marveling at the restored halls, the flickering blue candles, the mirrors that shimmered with memory. Balthazar led Caelir alone into the library — a vast chamber of blackwood shelves and floating lanterns, where books whispered when touched.
They sat across from one another at a long obsidian table.
Caelir looked around, then met Balthazar's gaze.
"What took you so long to restore your land?" he asked gently.
Balthazar was silent for a moment.
Then he exhaled.
"Me," he said. "Holding on to past anger. I should have put my time into restoring my kingdom."
Caelir nodded slowly. "Grief is a slow poison. It convinces us that stillness is safer than healing."
"I thought if I let go," Balthazar said, "I would forget them. The ones I lost. The ones who betrayed me."
"You don't forget," Caelir said. "You remember differently."
Balthazar looked down at his hands. "Hazel and Toya… they remind me of what was taken. But also of what still lives."
"They carry both," Caelir said. "Light and shadow. Like your land."
Balthazar's voice dropped. "Do you think it can be whole again?"
Caelir smiled faintly. "The land never stopped being whole. It only stopped being heard."
They sat in silence for a while, the fire crackling softly behind them.
Then Balthazar stood.
Caelir rose as well. "Thank them. The girls. They are the ones who listened."
Outside, Hazel and Toya stood barefoot in the field, their hands in the soil, their magic humming softly. The earth pulsed beneath them — not healed, but awakening.
And the Vale, for the first time in a decade, began to breathe.
The courtyard buzzed with quiet gratitude as the elves unloaded their carriages of rich, enchanted soil. Princess Thalira, serene and graceful, bowed once more to Balthazar before departing with her guards, her woven leaf gown trailing behind her like a whisper.
Caelir stood near the window, watching the farmland below.
"You know she's using your apples for profit, right?" he said quietly.
Balthazar didn't flinch. He walked to the hearth and lit the fire with a flick of his fingers.
"Yes," he said. "Those apples were not meant for that."
Caelir turned. "The other kingdoms won't believe they were yours."
Balthazar's jaw tightened. "Your kingdom and the other kingdom stand with me. The rest… they've turned their backs on me with the lies the princess has spoken to them."
Caelir stepped closer. "You can still grow them. And more. Strawberries. Pears. Blackberries. Carrots. Corn. Your kingdom was never built for profit. It was built for nourishment."
Balthazar sat in the high-backed chair near the fire, his cloak pooling around him like shadow. "I know. There are so many fields out there — untouched, full of healthy ingredients. But they're bathed in poisoned. The farmers and cattle are Overworked, Just to produce more."
Caelir nodded solemnly.
"Toya told me," Balthazar continued, "that the princess's farmers are dying in the fields with their cattle. The demand is too high. The soil is exhausted. They're running out of resources."
Caelir's expression darkened. "She took your gift and turned it into currency."
Balthazar looked into the fire. "She was a young and beautiful when she came here. I taught her how to cultivate the golden crisp apples. I thought I was giving her hope."
"You were," Caelir said. "But she and her family turned it into profit."
Balthazar's voice dropped. "Once I grow them again… maybe the other kingdoms will remember who created them first."
Caelir tilted his head. "Have you ever eaten one of your apples?"
Balthazar blinked. "No. I never tried it. I only let her — the princess — have the first bite."
Caelir smiled faintly. "I had one. Back then. Before the orchard burned."
Balthazar looked up.
"They were delicious," Caelir said. "A soft layer. One bite melted. Juicy. Sweet. Vanilla with a hint of cinnamon. They lasted four days, and every bite was worth a bag of golden coins."
Balthazar's lips curled slightly. "Aren't all apples delicious and juicy?"
Caelir chuckled. "Yes. But yours were different. They were made with care. With magic. With intention. You gave them away to people who had nothing, During the war."
Balthazar's eyes softened.
"You didn't just feed them," Caelir said. "You reminded them they mattered."
The fire crackled.
Fresh soil from the Wooden Elves had been spread across the cracked fields, and the citizens — once silent and wary — now moved with purpose. Children carried baskets of seeds. Elders whispered old planting songs. The air smelled of moss, ash, and something new.
Hazel stood near the center of the field, her dark brown dress dusted with soil, her face covered in dirt, her white bow fluttering in the breeze. Toya knelt beside her, sleeves rolled up, hands deep in the soil. Their laughter echoed softly, a sound the Vale hadn't heard in years.
Then came the hush.
A ripple moved through the crowd.
Prince Balthazar stepped onto the field.
He wore black trousers and boots, his cloak discarded at the edge of the orchard. Without a word, he reached up and pulled off his shirt.
Gasps erupted — mostly from the women.
His body was sculpted, muscular and lean, his abs defined like carved marble. Scars traced his torso like old stories, and his skin glowed faintly beneath the lavender sky.
Hazel blinked, her rake frozen mid-air.
Toya elbowed her gently. "Close your mouth."
Hazel snapped it shut, cheeks flushing.
Balthazar walked calmly to Hazel's side, picked up a rake, and began raking the soil beside her. The crowd watched in stunned silence — their prince, shirtless, raking dirt like a commoner.
He glanced at Hazel.
"I owe you an apology," he said quietly.
Hazel looked up, startled.
"For grabbing your neck," he continued. "It was cruel. I was angry. But not at you."
Hazel stared at him, heart thudding.
Then she smiled — soft, shy — and nodded. "Apology accepted."
She blushed, turning back to her rake.
Balthazar smirked faintly and kept working.
A few feet away, Hex arrived.
He, too, removed his shirt.
More gasps.
Hex's body was equally impressive — broad shoulders, defined chest, abs that looked like they'd been sculpted by moonlight. His gold heart-shaped earring glinted as he walked toward Toya.
Toya raised a brow. "Is this a shirtless competition?"
Hex grinned. "Just trying to keep up."
He grabbed a rake and began working beside her.
The women nearby whispered and giggled, some fanning themselves with their hands.
One elderly woman muttered, "I haven't blushed like this since the last harvest festival."
Another whispered, "If this is what soil restoration looks like, we should do it every week."
Hazel laughed, her cheeks still pink.
Toya giggled.
Balthazar rolled his eyes but didn't stop raking.
The sun dipped lower, casting golden light across the field. The soil glowed faintly, responding to the magic in their hands, their laughter, their unity.
Hazel looked around — at the citizens, the elves, the prince, the mage, her best friend.
And for the first time, Hollow Vale felt alive.
Not haunted.
Not cursed.
Just… healing.
The soil shimmered faintly with new magic, and the citizens of Hollow Vale moved slowly now, their bodies tired but their spirits light.
Balthazar leaned against the dead tree at the center of the field.
His shirt was discarded, tossed over a nearby branch. Sweat glistened down his neck, tracing the curve of his spine, dripping along the ridges of his muscular back and torso. His chest rose and fell with each breath, and his hands were coated in soil.
He closed his eyes.
The tree behind him pulsed faintly — not with life, but with memory.
Footsteps approached.
He opened his eyes.
Hazel stood before him, in her hands, she carried a white ceramic bowl, smooth and simple. Inside it, water shimmered — so clear she could see her own reflection.
Balthazar's gaze fixed on her.
"Here," Hazel said softly, holding out the bowl.
He took it gently, his fingers brushing hers.
"Thank you," he said, voice low.
He drank slowly, the water cool against his lips, sliding down his throat like silk. When he finished, he handed the bowl back to her.
"That water was fresh," he said.
Hazel smiled.
"It's from my kingdom. My elves are building a water filter for you now. To clean your wells. Your rivers."
A voice spoke behind her.
Prince Caelir approached, his moss-colored hair catching the light, his smile warm.
"Some of my elves will stay until the water runs clear," he said. "Until your fruits begin to grow. Some of my people will guard your borders. I'll return to my kingdom but if you need anything, Balthazar, let me know."
Balthazar stepped forward.
"How can I repay you?" he asked.
Caelir placed a hand on his shoulder. "Repay me by restoring your kingdom."
Balthazar's throat tightened.
Then, without hesitation, he stepped forward and embraced the elf prince.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Caelir held him tightly. "You are a younger brother in my eyes, Balthazar."
They pulled apart, smiling.
Hazel watched quietly, her heart full.
Caelir turned and walked toward the carriages, his guards waiting. Hazel and Balthazar stood side by side, waving as the elves departed, their wheels rolling over fresh soil.
The wind shifted.
Balthazar turned to Hazel.
His gaze softened.
He walked toward her slowly, then wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her off the ground. Hazel gasped, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck.
He held her tightly, his forehead resting against hers.
"Thank you, Hazel," he said gently.
She smiled, her cheeks flushed, her heart racing.
"You're welcome," she whispered.