Kaelis was unaccustomed to humans venturing this deep into the forest.

A century ago, the Elvish War had burned across the world—born from humanity’s hunger to industrialize magic. To elves, magic was sacred, symbiotic, a living pulse that connected all things. To humans, it was power to be harvested—ley lines twisted into engines and weapons.

At first, it was political: negotiations, trade bans, threats. Then came sabotage, assassinations… and finally, war.

Humans outnumbered elves fifty to one. They burned forests, desecrated sacred grounds, and drove the surviving elves into the mountains and the ancient woods.

Most humans say the elves started it. Most elves say the humans ended it—with genocide.

Now, a hundred years later, elves are legend. Their territories are marked on maps as Closed Zones—lands the law forbids crossing. Travelers whisper that if you step past the treeline, the forest itself decides whether you come back.

And yet, in the hush of late winter, after the powdered snow had settled over the earth like ash, a young human crossed that boundary.

Kaelis felt the disturbance before he saw it.

He emerged from the mist—ten feet of quiet wrath, eyes faintly glowing beneath his hood. When he spoke, his voice carried through the still air, low and sharp as a blade unsheathed.

“Amal vie nio?” (Why have you come?)

He’d forgotten how to speak their tongue. The words that came easiest were Elvish.