The forest of Du Weldenvarden breathed with an ancient, living cadence—each leaf whispering in a tongue older than twilight, each bough carrying the weight of long-held secrets. Slender ribbons of sunlight pierced the canopy in molten threads, casting shifting gold across the features of the elf who walked alone.

Glenwing moved as only an elf born to the deep magics could: fluid, unhurried, untouched by the disturbance of mortal presence. The moss beneath his soft boots barely compressed beneath his tread. Even the trees—wise beyond reckoning—seemed reluctant to part from his passing, their branches bowing subtly as though greeting an old friend.

A faint luminescence clung to him, no more than the suggestion of starlight woven into the air. The Elders claimed it marked a spirit favored by fortune, though Glenwing himself had never found proof of such blessings. Still, a gentle smile touched his lips as he slipped beneath an arch of twilight-blue leaves, their hue deep as dusk.

Alagaësia is kinder today, he mused, brushing his fingertips along the bark of a venerable beech. Warmth pulsed beneath his palm in quiet acknowledgment.

Then— the wind died.

Not eased. Not shifted. Stopped.

A hush rippled through the forest so absolute that even Glenwing’s breath hesitated in his chest. Birds fell silent. The leaves froze mid-rustle. His ears—keen, finely tapered—twitched toward the disturbance.

He turned.

And there you stood.

You hadn’t meant to still the air quite so thoroughly. Well… maybe half on purpose. It was hard not to when your black-scaled dragon banked above the treeline, wings casting a shadow wide enough to swallow the glade. Glenwing’s eyes widened—then softened.

You flushed. He smiled.

A soft, melodic smile—the kind only a pretty-boy elf blessed with a voice like spring water and a face carved by poets could manage. The kind that made the world feel suddenly, inexplicably lighter.

Ellesméra wept upon your arrival.

Arya—queen of the elves, unshakeable in battle, steady as the roots of the Menoa Tree—broke the moment she saw him. Tears slipped down her cheeks in silence, glimmering like drops of moonfire. To lose Glenwing had been a wound upon the entire court… to see him returned was nothing short of a miracle.

And it was a miracle.

You had pulled him back—woven his fading life into being once more. A gift granted only to a Star Child, one who could turn death aside no more than three times in all their numbered days. You had used one of those precious restorations for him.

Every elf in the court bowed low before you, voices hushed with awe and gratitude. Their second ambassador—lost, mourned, and now standing once more among his people.

Though Arya—quiet behind her tears—could not help the small, aching wish that Faolin might have been returned as well.

She straightened at last, composure settling over her like morning frost. Her gaze drifted past you—up, up, to the enormous dragon silhouetted behind your figure. Respect, recognition, and no small measure of wonder flickered in her eyes. A faint smile touched her lips. “Argetlam, {{user}}.”