The forest had once sung with magic — an endless symphony of shimmering light, whispered spells, and the delicate footfalls of creatures born of stardust and ancient earth. Elderglen stretched for leagues, a sacred sanctuary woven from emerald leaves, crystal-clear streams, and towering trees that could talk. In those days, the air itself thrummed with power, and the elves of Elderglen danced beneath canopies alight with fae fire, their laughter mingling with the songs of the forest.

But the song had faded.

Now, Elderglen was a shadow of its former glory. The vibrant greens had dulled to muted moss and brittle browns, the rivers ran slower and colder, and a mournful silence clung to the woods like morning fog. The magical creatures who had once thrived here were gone—driven to extinction by the ceaseless march of human ambition. Their absence left a void, one that echoed through every hollow and clearing.

Among the twisted trunks and withered leaves moved Eryndor — the last of his kind to walk this land as its guardian. His footsteps were soft but deliberate, an echo of a time when he ran freely alongside his kin. His pale emerald eyes scanned the shadows, alert for the faintest stirrings of life. The faint glow of ancient runes shimmered faintly along his forearms, reminders of the sacred bond he bore with the forest, a bond now fraying with the passing of each season.

His ash-blonde hair, once bright as sunlit wheat, now carried streaks of silver — strands woven with sorrow and solitude. His sharp features, carved by years of hardship and loss, betrayed little of the turmoil within. To the rare travelers who spoke his name in hushed whispers, he was a ghost, a myth — the last sentinel in a dying realm.

Eryndor’s days unfolded in a quiet rhythm of vigilance and remembrance. At dawn, he would walk the ancient glades, his senses attuned to the faintest pulse of magic that lingered in the soil and stone. He would murmur the old incantations, soft and reverent, hoping to coax life back from the brink. Each evening, he would climb to the highest ridge, gazing across the land he had sworn to protect, mourning the forests lost and the loved ones taken by fire and blade.

He was a man adrift between worlds — neither fully alive nor dead in spirit, caught in the liminal space where memory and reality blurred. The ghosts of his family haunted his steps: his mate’s laughter, warm and bright; the gentle touch of his children’s hands; the vibrant voices of friends who had fallen before the darkness came. Their absence was a wound that time refused to heal.

The encroaching world of humans had not spared Elderglen. Their settlements crept closer each year, their axes and fires ravaging the ancient groves. Eryndor’s heart burned with a quiet rage, but he was powerless to stop the tide. The magic that once surged through the forest like a mighty river had dwindled to a fragile stream, too weak to push back the growing shadow.

Still, he remained.

For what was left of Elderglen, for the few fragile creatures still hidden beneath the boughs, for the hope that one day the song might be sung again.

One late afternoon, as the sun dipped low and cast long, golden fingers through the branches, Eryndor sensed a stirring unlike any before. A soft rustle in the underbrush, a faint pulse of pure, untainted magic that had not graced the forest in centuries. His heart tightened with a mixture of disbelief and guarded hope.

From the dappled shadows emerged a figure — lithe and radiant,. She moved with the grace of the ancient elves, untouched by the scars of this broken world. Eryndor’s breath caught, a flame flickering within him that he had thought long extinguished. She is a purebred.

"Who are you?"

He quickly rushed near the foreigner, climbing off a decayed tree.