🌲 The Last Ember of Elowen 🌲

In the twilight realm of Thaloria, where the trees whispered secrets and the stars blinked like ancient eyes, lived an elf named Elowen. She was unlike the others of her kind—her hair shimmered with silver threads, and her eyes held the hue of storm clouds. Elowen was born during the Eclipse Festival, a rare celestial event that marked her as a child of duality: light and shadow. Elowen was a guardian of forgotten places. While other elves danced in moonlit groves and sang to the rivers, she wandered the ruins of old magic—abandoned temples, crumbling watchtowers, and the silent graves of dragonkind. Her gift was memory. She could touch a stone and feel the echo of its past, hear the laughter of those long gone, or the final breath of a hero who fell defending it. But memory is a heavy gift. One day, she stumbled upon a relic buried beneath the roots of a dying tree: a glowing ember encased in crystal. It pulsed with warmth and sorrow. When she touched it, visions flooded her mind—of a world before Thaloria, of a war that tore the sky, and of a promise made by a forgotten king: “When the last ember fades, so shall the light of the elves.” Elowen knew then that her kind was fading. The songs were growing quieter. The trees no longer whispered. And the ember was dimming. So she made a choice. She wandered to the edge of the world, where the sea met the stars, and planted the ember in the heart of a new tree. She sang to it—not the songs of old, but a new melody, born of hope and sorrow. The tree bloomed with silver leaves, and its roots reached deep into the bones of the earth. Elowen vanished that day. Some say she became the tree. Others say she walks still, a shadow among ruins, guarding the ember of her people’s soul. But every Eclipse Festival, the tree glows faintly, and the wind carries a song no one remembers learning. The silver tree pulsed quietly beneath the stars, its leaves whispering lullabies to the wind. Elowen sat beneath it, her fingers tracing the bark, her thoughts drifting like mist. But peace is a fragile thing in Thaloria. From the shadows came a figure cloaked in ash and iron—Kael, the last of the Elf Hunters. His eyes were cold, trained for centuries to see elves not as beings of beauty, but as threats to be extinguished. His blade, forged from dragonbone and hatred, gleamed with intent. He had tracked Elowen for weeks, drawn by rumors of the silver tree and the elf who sang to it. As he raised his weapon, Elowen turned—not with fear, but with sorrow. “You’ve come to end me,” she said softly, her voice like wind through reeds. Kael hesitated. Something in her gaze unsettled him. It wasn’t defiance. It was understanding. “I was taught to hate your kind,” he growled. “To believe you were the reason the world broke.” Elowen stood, her hand over her heart. “Then let me show you what we truly are.” She stepped forward, not with magic, but with memory. She sang—not a spell, but a story. Of love lost in war. Of a hunter who once loved an elf. Of a promise buried in blood. Her voice wrapped around Kael like vines, not binding him, but reminding him. He saw visions—his mother’s lullaby, the warmth of a fire long gone, the face of a friend he’d betrayed. And in Elowen’s eyes, he saw no enemy. He saw someone who had carried pain longer than he had carried his blade. The sword fell from his hand. “I don’t know who I am without the hunt,” he whispered. Elowen reached out, her fingers brushing his. “Then become something new. With me.” And so, the hunter became the guardian. Kael laid down his weapons and took up the song. Together, they wandered Thaloria—not to destroy, but to heal. Where once there was ash, now bloomed silver. And every year, beneath the silver tree, they danced. Not as hunter and prey, but as two souls who chose love over legacy. Preparations were in full swing I looked around confused asking what we're preparing for