The forest shimmered, Du Weldenvarden's trees towering like godly sentinels. Annabeth walked beside me, her hand brushing mine, our rings clicking softly. Furnöst scampered ahead, his sea-blue scales catching sunlight, now big as a wolf and tossing mental images of fish at me every five seconds. Shorai, Annabeth's gray dragon, glided with grace, scampering around our group, including the three elves who looked delighted at their presence. The three elves—silver-haired, sword-wielding, and way too calm—led us into the forest, their steps silent on the mossy floor.
"So, uh, is there anything we should know before we enter what was it called...Ellesméra right?" I asked the lead elf, a woman named Liora, her eyes glinting like polished jade. She nodded, still staying silent. "Customs, rules, the whole shebang, so we don't insult any of you."
Liora's lips twitched, almost a smile. "In Du Weldenvarden, we can only speak truth. However, this doesn't mean we...change what we say. Often, we will say one thing and mean another or chase around our actual meaning." She also explained the greetings and what we should say when meeting a higher-ranking figure and heavily emphasised the importance of the forest to their kind, as they loved it with almost deity-like worship, as the forest "provided for all our needs and wants" or something like that.
Personally, they sounded too much like the Na'vi in Avatar, but Annabeth nodded, scribbling mental notes, probably designing an elven etiquette manual already. "Ancient language?" she asked, tilting her head. "What does it sound like?"
The second elf, a guy named Vael, raised an eyebrow. "You're speaking it now. With a great accent, I might add."
I blinked, nearly tripping over Furnöst, who sent me a laughing image of me face-planting. "Wait, what? We're just talking English!"
Liora's eyes widened, then softened. "Your 'English' is our ancient language. Every word you've spoken since arriving carries its power—something that has not happened in our world, especially thanks to your beautiful pronunciation.
Annabeth's jaw dropped, her brain kicking into overdrive. "That must be why our words feel... heavy, more meaningful. Is it because we can only speak the truth?"
Vael shrugged, his sword glinting. "The ancient language predates our records, woven into Alagaësia's roots. Your arrival, your dragons, whom are quite beautiful, I might add, is perhaps related to the older threads of our world."
"Hold up," I said, scratching Furnöst's snout as he nudged me. "So we've been casting spells this whole time? Like, when I told Annabeth she's amazing, that's magic?"
Annabeth snorted, elbowing me. "Seaweed Brain, focus." But her cheeks pinked, and Shorai sent me a smug image of Annabeth smiling. I grinned back, lacing my fingers with hers.
Liora's gaze softened at our relationship. "For it to be a spell, it must be said with the intent, for example, you see how we are speaking now, I could say I love the warm fire, but that will not cause it to form unless I say it with my intent." I nodded, getting the general gist, and tried not to laugh at Furnöst's thirtieth transmission for fish.
We walked deeper, the forest humming with life—birds chirping, leaves whispering. Furnöst and Shorai bounded ahead, our bonds with them getting closer each day, like they were extensions of us. Annabeth squeezed my hand, her eyes sparkling with that strategist fire. "This changes everything," she whispered, sounding slightly giddy. "We're not just demigods here. We're actually dragon riders!"
I nodded, heart racing. "Guess we're learning elven magic now, Wise Girl. Ready to accidentally curse someone?" She laughed, and we followed the elves, our dragons bounding along with us to the elves' outpost city.
The forest parted like a curtain, revealing a city nestled within the trees, creating a definite whoa factor. Houses that seemed to form with the trees spiraled skyward, glowing with soft gold light, woven into ancient trees whose branches formed arching bridges. Vines draped like emerald curtains, and streams trickled through marble paths, sparkling under the sun. It was like Olympus downsized and given a nature makeover. Annabeth's eyes lit up, her architect brain probably sketching blueprints. Furnöst and Shorai, now reaching shoulder height and about 12 feet long, pranced ahead, their scales catching every glint, catching admiring and almost honorific gazes from the other elves who had gathered after seeing us.
Three elves—Liora, Vael, and a new one, Sylas—joined us, their bows low. "We'll guide you to Ellesméra," Liora said, eyes on our dragons. "Oromis awaits." We nodded, and off we went, the city's beauty fading behind us.
The elves couldn't stop arguing over who had better scales, Furnöst or Shorai.
"Such an honor to be in the presence of not one but two Riders!" Sylas said, showing by far the most emotion out of all the elves who seemed to generally be extremely good at controlling their emotions, unlike some other certain gods...not that I'm calling anyone out though...
At noon, we stopped in a sunny glade for lunch. The elves went to gather berries, leaving Annabeth and me to start a fire. I snapped twigs, and Furnöst flopped beside me, sending a sudden, clear voice in my head: Percy, I'm hungry. Can we hunt?
I froze, jaw dropping. "Annabeth!" I grabbed her arm, nearly knocking over the kindling. "Furnöst just talked! Full sentences, not just pictures!" Her eyes widened, and she spun to Shorai, who sent a sad image of a silent mouth. Annabeth scooped her up, stroking her gray scales. "It's okay, girl, you'll talk soon," she soothed. I knelt, scratching Shorai's chin. "You're perfect, kiddo."
The elves returned, arms full of fruit, and Liora smiled at Shorai's drooping wings, clearly hearing our conversation. "Patience, young one," she said, offering a berry. "Your voice will come."
Shorai perked up, nuzzling her, while Furnöst smugly sent me an image of himself talking. I laughed, ruffling his snout.
Show off, I thought to him.
You wish you could speak as delightfully, enthralling, and prodigious as I, he retorted mentally in a sophisticated and stuffy scholar voice.
Now that was funny, I laughed at his tone, something he must have picked up from my memories of annoying teachers.
Annabeth leaned into me, her ring glinting, and we sat by the fire, dragons curled close, safe and content.
Two days of trekking through Du Weldenvarden's emerald maze, and Furnöst and Shorai were chatting with everyone—full sentences, Persassy comebacks, the works. The elves loved it, showering them with praise like they were celebrities.
"Magnificent!" Sylas gushed as Furnöst belched a blue flame, singeing a leaf. Shorai, not to be outdone, puffed a gray spark, her voice crisp in our four-way connection of me, Annabeth, Furnöst, and Shorai: I'm better at it. The elves swooned, Liora nearly tripping over herself to pet them. Our dragons had rapidly grown in the past week, going from birdlike creatures to strong and fierce dragons, their scales hardening, their roars loudening, and their teeth sharpening, strutting like they owned the forest. Their fire, which had just started, was short but increasing in intensity.
Ellesméra hit like a godly gut punch when we arrived. Trees were the city—spires of living wood, making the houses, silver leaves glowing, creating the lighposts, and woven vines swaying over crystal streams to make the bridges. It was the outpost city on steroids, every inch screaming ancient magic and elegance. Annabeth's eyes sparkled, her architect brain in overdrive, while I tried not to gawk like a tourist. Furnöst and Shorai pranced ahead, their scales catching every light, drawing murmurs from elves who bowed like we were royalty.
At the heart stood a palace of white stone and living oaks and many lush gardens. We entered through the front door where Queen Islanzadí—yeah, that was her name—waited on a dais, her silver hair a waterfall, crown of leaves glinting. I always wondered, did they hear someone approach and then stop in the middle of their TV show and pretend like they were on the throne all day, or did they actually sit there for the day's entirety?
Oromis, silver-haired and frail but sharp-eyed, stood beside her with Glaedr's golden bulk looming. The second we approached, Oromis bowed low, then shook our hands, his grip firm. "Percy Jackson, Annabeth Chase, Riders of Furnöst and Shorai—welcome."
I blinked, caught off guard. Annabeth squeezed my hand, her ring cool against mine. Islanzadí's emerald eyes narrowed, her lips curling like she'd smelled sour ambrosia. "Oromis," she snapped, voice like a whip, "explain why you debase yourself before these... children in mortal rags." She gestured at my jeans and sneakers, then Annabeth's practical camp gear. "Also, even if they are riders, surely they used some wicked magic to make the dragons theirs?"
I smirked, couldn't help it.
"Nice to meet you, too, Your Leafiness. Love the tree vibe." Annabeth elbowed me, but her lips twitched. Furnöst sent me a mental snort.
She's scary, Shorai's voice chimed. I like her pointy hat, though.
Oromis straightened, unfazed. "My queen, these are no mere mortals. Their deeds span wars against titans, their bond with dragons is legitimate, and they are heroes from two wars in which all of us elves and riders, even at our height of power, could not win. Percy wields water as kin, and Annabeth's mind rivals our greatest strategists as they are descendants of the gods. Their 'English' is the ancient language, spoken with fluency as great, if not better than ours. Galbatorix's fall may hinge on them."
Islanzadí's gaze flicked to our dragons, now puffing tiny sparks, and her scowl softened a fraction. "Hmph. Confidence borders on hubris. Prove your worth, Riders, or your sarcasm will find no place here." She turned, robes sweeping, but I caught her glancing back, curious despite herself.
Annabeth leaned in, whispering, "Seaweed Brain, maybe dial back the snark?" I grinned, lacing my fingers with hers. "No promises, Wise Girl." The elves led us outside to where the Riders of old had stayed before their downfall, Furnöst and Shorai strutting around like they owned the place; the fawning elves definitely not helping their "moderate" egos.
Words: 1633 Chapter 9 will be both Arya and Annabeth!