Elowen felt the change before any physical sign appeared.
It wasn't pain. Nor fear.It was a subtle misalignment—like when the wind shifts direction inside an ancient forest, and every leaf knows it before the first branch ever creaks.
She was kneeling at the eastern boundary of the colony, where the taiga began to grow denser, older. The trees there did not grow in natural lines; they leaned slightly toward one another, like silent accomplices. Snow never touched the ground—it hovered a few centimeters above it, suspended by an invisible web of ancient runes, carved not into stone, but into the earth itself.
Elowen touched the ground with two fingers.
Mana answered.
Not as a flow, but as an echo.
"So this is it…" she murmured.
Behind her, a spectral deer watched in silence. Its translucent form pulsed with bluish hues, its eyes reflecting something that was not there.
"Go back," Elowen said without turning. "Not yet."
The deer hesitated… then dissipated like mist under the sun.
She rose slowly, her dark cloak sliding over her body with an almost unreal lightness. Since returning to the colony with Max, Elowen had kept herself in constant motion—brief conversations, long walks, rituals interrupted halfway through. Not from anxiety.
But from vigilance.
Something had changed.
And it wasn't coming from the Other World.
"Helix…" she whispered the name as if it left a bitter taste on her tongue.
She walked to one of the Anchor Trees, among the oldest in the colony. Its trunk was far too wide to be human-made, its bark etched with symbols no modern alphabet could translate. Elowen pressed her palm against the trunk.
The tree opened its eyes.
Not physical eyes—but awareness.
Images flooded Elowen's mind like shattered reflections: black glass, metallic structures, containment fields vibrating out of sync. Too many humans. Too much energy. Too much intent.
"They're meddling where they shouldn't," she murmured.
The tree answered with a deep, almost imperceptible shudder. A warning.
Elowen withdrew her hand.
"I know," she said quietly. "So am I."
She thought of Max.
Not the confused Max of the first days. Nor the broken woman who had awakened in the reflection. She thought of the Max who was slowly learning to breathe without guilt. The Max who still didn't understand how rare she was—and how dangerous that made her to herself.
"They felt you," she said to the wind. "They don't know who yet… but they felt it."
Elowen walked back toward the colony, passing houses carved into living trunks, natural bridges formed by intertwined roots, elves watching her with silent respect. Some of them knew something was wrong.
None knew what.
As she approached the central clearing, she felt another presence.
"You're walking too much," said a deep voice.
Elowen turned to face Aerendyl, one of the Ancient Wardens. His silver hair fell to his waist, and his eyes carried the weight of centuries.
"And you're standing still for too long," she replied.
He smiled faintly.
"You felt it too?"
"I wouldn't be here if I hadn't," Elowen said. "Helix has begun moving larger pieces."
Aerendyl crossed his arms.
"Humans."
"Always humans," she answered. "But this one in particular…" She paused. "…is not ordinary."
"Drexler," Aerendyl said.
Elowen stared at him.
"So you heard it too."
"Whispers," he replied. "Echoes crossing layers that should never touch."
Elowen closed her eyes for a moment.
"He doesn't understand what he's touching," she said. "But he understands that something is there. And that's enough to make him dangerous."
"And the human?" Aerendyl asked carefully.
Elowen opened her eyes.
"She's not just human," she said firmly. "And she's not ready."
Silence stretched between them.
"You're too attached," Aerendyl said—not as an accusation, but as a statement.
"I know," Elowen replied. "And I don't regret it."
She looked toward the more distant cabins.
"If Helix learns to see the way she does…" Her sentence died before it could finish.
Aerendyl completed it:
"The world will no longer have reflections. Only fragments."
Elowen took a deep breath.
"We need to accelerate the preparation," she said. "Teach without breaking. Guide without pushing."
"And if it's too soon?"
Elowen smiled, but there was weariness in her eyes.
"Then we will have arrived too late anyway."
She walked away, leaving Aerendyl alone in the clearing.
Above them, the treetops creaked softly—not from the wind, but from something deeper.
Somewhere far away, black glass vibrated beneath human hands.
And for the first time since she had crossed the reflection, Elowen had the clear, unsettling sense that they were no longer alone on the board.