The city did not mourn.
In the days that followed the tragedy within Aurelion, the Golden Crown, life continued as though nothing of consequence had come to pass.
The marble streets remained unblemished. The banners still danced beneath the wind. The voices of merchants and nobles alike filled the air with hollow normalcy.
Yet for one soul—
the world had ended.
Lonan Margon did not remain.
He departed the capital without farewell, without purpose—guided only by the weight that pressed upon his chest, and the memory that would not fade.
The image of his mother's fall lingered within his mind, unyielding, relentless.
And so, he walked.
Beyond the gleaming walls of Aurelion…
Beyond the reach of the gods…
Until the world began to change.
Stone gave way to soil.
Gold to green.
Silence to wind.
He had entered Sylvaris, the Emerald Wilds—the forested kingdom where nature held dominion, and where the elves made their home among ancient trees and whispering spirits.
It was here that Lonan had once lived.
But nothing felt the same.
The forest, though alive, seemed distant. Its beauty did not soothe him. Its calm did not reach him.
He walked without rest.
Until—
he heard it.
The clash of steel.
Voices raised in anger.
Lonan halted.
Ahead, upon a narrow forest path, a carriage stood still—its wheels half-sunken in the earth.
Around it, men moved with violence.
Bandits.
Their laughter was harsh, their movements reckless, as they struck against the lone figure who stood before the carriage.
An elf.
Tall. Composed.
His blade moved with precision—not wild, not desperate, but measured.
Each strike carried purpose.
Each motion… control.
Lonan watched.
For a moment—
he forgot his pain.
Steel met steel.
A bandit lunged—
and fell.
Another cried out—
and was silenced.
Within moments, it was over.
The forest returned to stillness.
The elf lowered his blade.
From within the carriage, a noble figure emerged—clad in fine garments, untouched by the chaos that had nearly claimed him.
Yet his gaze—
held no gratitude.
Only disdain.
"…An elf," the noble muttered.
He stepped down, brushing dust from his sleeve as though the very air had offended him.
"I require no aid from your kind."
The words fell cold.
The elf said nothing.
For a brief moment, their eyes met—
and within that silence lay a history far older than either of them.
A past stained by war.
By betrayal.
By blood spilled long before the gods had claimed dominion.
Without another word, the noble turned—
and departed.
No thanks.
No acknowledgment.
Only pride.
The elf watched him go.
Then turned—
and began to leave.
"Wait!"
Lonan's voice broke the silence.
The elf paused.
Lonan approached, his breath uneven, his eyes alight with something unfamiliar.
"Amazing…" he said. "What you did… it was—"
He stopped, searching for words.
"Teach me."
The elf regarded him.
His gaze was calm.
Measured.
"…No."
The answer came without hesitation.
Lonan blinked.
"…Why?"
"Because I have no reason to," the elf replied.
He turned once more.
But Lonan stepped forward again.
"I am Lonan," he said quickly. "I live within Sylvaris. I hold no hatred toward elves."
Still—
no response.
"Please," Lonan continued, his voice tightening, "make me your student."
The elf did not turn.
"I do not take students," he said.
And with that—
he was gone.
Not by step.
Not by sound.
But as though the forest itself had swallowed him whole.
Lonan stood alone.
Silence pressed in.
Then—
anger.
It came swiftly.
Violently.
He struck the nearest tree.
Once.
Twice.
Again—
and again—
and again—
Until his fists split open.
Blood stained the bark.
But still—
he did not stop.
"Die…" he muttered.
His voice trembled.
"Die… all of you…"
His hands trembled.
"I will kill you all!"
The forest did not answer.
Only the wind bore witness.
Days passed.
Lonan returned to Sylvaris.
But word travels swiftly—even through the quiet of the forest.
"…That is him."
"…The boy from Aurelion…"
"…His mother died before him…"
Whispers followed him.
Not cruel.
Not kind.
Only curious.
Lonan did not listen.
He ran.
Through the forest—
past familiar paths—
until he reached the small home that lay hidden within its heart.
There—
he fell.
And wept.
Elsewhere—
within the same forest—
a name was spoken.
"Lonan Margon…"
The elf from before—Elandor Vaelis—stood still as the words reached him.
"…Where does he dwell?" he asked.
A direction was given.
And without delay—
he moved.
Deep within the forest, near a quiet waterfall, stood a small dwelling.
There—
Elandor arrived.
And what he saw—
gave him pause.
Lonan stood alone.
A blade in his trembling hands.
His strikes were clumsy.
Unrefined.
Yet he did not stop.
Even as his wounds reopened.
Even as his strength faded.
He continued.
Driven not by skill—
but by something far stronger.
Will.
Elandor stepped forward.
"Enough."
His voice was calm.
Yet it carried weight.
Lonan turned.
His vision blurred.
"…You…"
A faint smile touched his lips.
Then—
darkness.
His body gave way.
Elandor caught him before he struck the ground.
Days passed.
When Lonan awoke, the world felt… distant.
The scent of food filled the air.
Warm.
Familiar.
For a fleeting moment—
he believed—
"…Mother?"
He rose.
Followed the scent.
And stopped.
It was not her.
It was him.
The elf.
"What are you doing here?" Lonan demanded. "Where is my mother?!"
"Calm yourself," Elandor said.
A pause.
"…Do you remember what came to pass?"
Silence.
Then—
memory.
It returned.
And with it—
pain.
"…Mother…"
The word broke.
Tears fell—
but only for a moment.
Lonan wiped them away.
Elandor watched him.
"…I have yet to give my name," he said. "I am Elandor."
He gestured to the food.
"Eat. Before it grows cold."
Lonan hesitated.
Then obeyed.
The silence between them was not empty.
It was… understanding.
"…Where did you get this?" Lonan asked suddenly.
Elandor paused.
For a brief moment—
uncertainty crossed his face.
"…I hunted," he said.
Lonan narrowed his gaze slightly.
But said nothing.
When the meal was done, Elandor rose.
He looked down at the boy.
At his wounds.
At his eyes.
At the fire that had not faded.
"…When you have finished," he said, "we shall begin."
Lonan looked up.
"…Begin what?"
Elandor's gaze did not waver.
"Your training."
And for the first time since that day beneath the golden sky—
Lonan Margon felt something stir within him.
Not grief.
Not hatred.
But purpose.
And thus—
the path of defiance
truly began.