The forest did not welcome them.
It tolerated them.
Kael felt the difference the moment they crossed the last stone marker of the mountain paths and stepped beneath the canopy of Elf lands. The air grew cooler, thicker, as if sound itself had weight. Leaves shifted without wind. Roots pressed subtly against the soles of his boots, not enough to trip him—just enough to remind him he was seen.
No banners marked the border. No guards challenged them.
That unsettled Kael more than a drawn blade would have.
"Elf territory," Tessa muttered, adjusting the strap of her scabbard. "I'd rather face Pandoran walls."
Elmyra said nothing. She walked with her head high but her steps careful, as if every movement were a negotiation.
They had not come by invitation. They had come because the letters had pointed here—because Stonewake's fracture had sent ripples through every kingdom, and the Elfs, silent for too long, were beginning to stir.
By nightfall, they found a clearing shaped unnaturally smooth, the trees growing in a perfect circle around a low stone rise. No firewood lay scattered. No animal tracks crossed the space.
"This is a waiting place," Kael said quietly.
"For what?" Jorin asked.
Kael shook his head. "For who."
They made camp anyway. A small fire. Low voices. No songs.
Kael sat apart, back against a tree whose bark felt warm despite the cool air. The relic blade lay across his knees. Since Stonewake, it had been… attentive. Not louder. Not stronger. Just closer, as if the distance between thought and steel had thinned.
Sleep came in fragments.
He woke to the sound of breathing that was not his own.
Not close. Not far.
Present.
Kael's hand went to the blade as he rose. The fire had burned down to embers, casting long shadows that twisted unnaturally across the clearing.
And there—on the stone rise—stood a man.
He wore no armor. No insignia. His clothes were travel-worn, Human in cut and make, dark enough to swallow firelight. His face was hidden behind a mask of dull metal, smooth and unadorned, with narrow slits for eyes that reflected nothing.
He stood as if he had always been there.
Tessa was on her feet instantly, sword half-drawn. Jorin followed, shield up. Elmyra remained still, watching.
"Who are you?" Jorin demanded.
The man tilted his head slightly. "Mask."
"That's not a name," Tessa snapped.
"It's the one I answer to."
Kael felt it then—a pressure, subtle but unmistakable. Not threat. Not fear.
Magic.
Not cast. Not summoned.
Held.
"You're Human," Elmyra said.
"Yes."
"You're using magic," Jorin said.
"No," Mask replied calmly. "I'm allowing it."
Kael stepped forward before he realized he was moving. "You were at Stonewake."
Mask's head turned. "So were you."
"You sent the letters."
"No."
"You agree with them."
"Yes."
Silence settled again, thick as sap.
"Why are you here?" Kael asked.
Mask's gaze fixed on him fully now. Kael felt it—not invasive, but weighing, like a craftsman testing flawed steel.
"Because you're about to break something," Mask said. "And you don't yet know how to stop yourself."
Tessa laughed, sharp and humorless. "He hasn't broken anything."
Mask did not look at her. "Not yet."
He turned back to Kael. "You feel it, don't you?"
Kael hesitated. Then nodded. "Since Stonewake."
"Say it."
"It listens."
Mask inclined his head slightly. "Good. Most people try to shout."
Elmyra took a step forward. "If you know this much, then you know what's coming. Elf nobility won't tolerate—"
"I don't teach Elfs," Mask said flatly. "They already believe they own what they touch."
"Then why him?" Jorin asked.
Mask was silent for a long moment.
"Because he knows how to refuse," he said.
The clearing darkened—not suddenly, not dramatically, but as if the forest leaned inward to hear.
Mask raised one hand. Not toward Kael. Toward the ground between them.
The earth shifted.
Not violently. Not enough to crack.
Just enough to show it could.
Kael felt the instinct rise—the pull to respond, to brace, to do something. The relic blade warmed sharply, urging alignment.
"Don't," Mask said.
Kael froze.
The pressure built. The ground trembled slightly. Sweat beaded at Kael's brow as every part of him screamed to act.
"Magic," Mask said evenly, "is not what you make happen. It's what happens when you stop forcing the world to ignore you."
The tremor faded.
The earth settled.
Kael exhaled shakily, realizing he'd been holding his breath.
"That was your first lesson," Mask said. "You passed."
Tessa stared. "He didn't do anything."
"Exactly."
Mask stepped back, already retreating into shadow.
"Wait," Kael said. "You're just going to leave?"
Mask paused. "I don't stay where I'm not needed."
"When will you come back?"
Mask's voice was quieter now. "When you fail."
Then he was gone—not vanished, not dissolved. Simply no longer there, as if the forest had decided he belonged elsewhere.
No one spoke for a long time.
Finally, Elmyra broke the silence. "A Human teaching magic."
Kael looked down at his hands. They were shaking.
"I don't think," he said slowly, "he taught me magic."
Jorin frowned. "Then what did he teach you?"
Kael closed his fingers, feeling the echo of restraint settle into bone and breath.
"How not to become dangerous."
Above them, unseen among the branches, the Elf lands listened—and remembered.