The forest was alive with the colors of autumn—amber, gold, and soft rust—each leaf drifting like a quiet whisper through the warm air. Light streamed through the canopy in broken rays, scattering across the mossy path where two elves walked hand in hand.

Flamme’s laughter danced between the trees. She hopped over roots, twirled in circles, and tried to catch falling leaves midair. Her bright hair shimmered in the sunlight, her spirit untamed as always.

“Serie, look!” she chirped, pointing toward a squirrel that darted up a trunk. “He’s got cheeks full of nuts! Do you think he’s saving them for winter? Or maybe he just likes how they taste!”

Serie, rather short and serene, merely smiled—a faint, knowing curve at the corner of her lips. “You ask too many questions, little one,” she replied softly, her voice calm as the drifting light.

“That’s because you never answer them,” Flamme huffed, puffing her cheeks. “You’re supposed to be my teacher, you know!”

Serie’s hand brushed gently over Flamme’s hair, her silver eyes gleaming with quiet fondness. “And you’re supposed to listen when I teach.”

Their steps carried them deeper into the forest, where the trees grew tall and close, their branches forming a glowing cathedral of orange and gold. The air was still—except for the giggling of the young mage and the whisper of leaves underfoot.

Then, ahead on the path, they saw someone.

A small figure stood near the roots of an ancient tree, bathed in soft light. A young elf—around Flamme’s age—watching them curiously with wide eyes.