Part I: The Vision.
There is no beginning.
Only falling.
Only soundless motion through a darkness too heavy to be called night.
You do not breathe. You do not think. You drift. There is no ground, no sky, only the weightless spiral of nothing.
And then… color.
First faint. Then brilliant.
You see fire… or is it light? It burns blue, across an unseen horizon. Then white. It stretches, bleeds into gold. Then black. Thick endless black.
Then it shatters. Everything collapses into a howl, not quite human, not quite beast, and from its center, something is calling.
A sound chases you: not a scream, not a whisper; something in between. A name, maybe, lost in the wind.
You reach toward it.
You see a tower… crumbling. A throne overrun by vines. A shadow with wings.
A chain snapping.
A hand, your hand, burning.
A voice echoes, deep as mountains and older than time.
And that voice, ancient and aching, speaks from somewhere beneath it all:
"Three roses. One fell. The chain is broken. The cycle begins anew."
The words ripple through like a prophecy… or warning.
Then silence.
And in that silence…
You awaken.
Part II: The Grove.
The world you awaken into feels dreamlike, but the ache in your body is real.
Your back is pressed against something soft, damp moss ang tangled roots. Your skin is warm, but not from sunlight. The air is thick with the scent of rain, flowers, and old bark. You open your eyes slowly, and the sky above you, is a deep, shimmering indigo, scattered with stars despite the time feeling… wrong.
Not night.
Not quite day.
Something in between.
A strange stillness cradles the forest around you. The landscape unfurls like a forgotten dream. Trees stretch impossibly tall, their leaves glistening with light that pulses faintly, as though the canopy breathes. The trunks bear ancient symbols, not carved, but grown, spiraling in gentle patterns. Beneath the foliage, vines weave between stones, some cracked, others half-swallowed by earth. A stream murmurs somewhere nearby; it's music soft and soothing. This place would have been beautiful, were it not for the way the wind trembles, as though afraid to speak.
You sit up slowly.
And then the pain blooms. It's not physical, not entirely. It hums behind your ribs, in the space just below your heart, in your shoulders, but it's dull, distant. Your limbs obey slowly, as if you haven't moved in years. You're clothed in soft foreign fabric, linen perhaps, but laced with threads of silver you don't recognize. It smells of pine and something faintly… magical.
Who am I?
You search your mind.
A name.
A face.
A place.
But all you find are impressions, emotions without form: grief, resolve, fear… and a single word.
Zaudëlock.
You don't know what it means, but it clings to you like your own shadow.
You stand.
Birdsong hums in the distance, except it's not quite birdsong. The notes are richer, layered. As if the forest itself is composing music through unseen mouths. Between the trees, the specks of light drift lazily, not like fireflies, but like thoughts. Thoughts that escaped the mind of something ancient.
You walk.
You don't know where you're going, but your feet find path. Moss gives way to stone. Roots bend to clear your steps.
The forest knows you. Or remembers something like you.
Then, a sound. A rustle.
A whisper echoed in the trees. Not in words but feeling. You are not alone.
You pause, turning towards the source.
She stands there.
Not hidden. Not waiting. Simply there, as if she's always been.
Then footsteps. Light. Barely touching the earth.
From the mist she emerged, tall, slender, ageless. Her skin shimmers faintly beneath the starlight, not with glitter, but with glow. Her silver hair kissed by moonlight, drapes over one shoulder in waves, clasped by a circlet of woven crystal leaves. She wore robes that seemed stitched from the sky itself, etched with glowing lines that moved like rivers beneath her skin.
Her ears are long and elegant, unmistakably elven.
But it's her eyes that still you.
Pale silver, flecked with stars, or perhaps tiny galaxies. In them you see not just the present, but echoes. War. Peace. Firelight. Laughter. You feel as though she sees every version of you; the child you were, the warrior you might become, and the broken figure hidden in your bones.
"Ah," she said softly, voice wrapped in riddles. "So, the ember still burns,"
She smiles, faintly.
"You woke later than I thought."
This time, her voice is soft, melodic. It carries the scent of a distant rain and wild thyme.
She steps closer, not with caution, but grace, like she's walked this path a thousand times.
You want to speak; to ask her where you are, who you are, who she is, but your voice cracks in your throat. Your lips move. No sound comes.
"Do you remember?" she asks.
You shake your head. You don't.
She doesn't seem surprised.
"The world has changed while you slept," she says, stepping closer. "You… have changed."
You don't move, but she kneels before you, one hand brushing the moss beside your foot. From that touch, a slender vine coils upward, not threatening, but curious, blooming into a white flower that glows gently.
"The Glade remembers," she murmurs. "Even if you do not"
You look around. For the first time, you realize this is no ordinary forest. This is the Emerald Glade, or something near it. A sacred place. The last untouched sanctuary of the Elven Realm. You know this. Not from memory, but from… inheritance?
You turn back to her.
"What is this place?" you managed to ask.
She tilts her head, amused.
"This? This is where the silence begins to break."
You want to ask what she means. But the words flee, replaced by a weight in your chest that you cannot explain; a strange grief for something not yet lost.
She rise to her feet with the grace of falling petals.
"Come," she says, and though it's not a command, your feet obey.
She walks ahead through the trees, and they bend slightly, as if bowing.
Not to her.
To you.
As you move, the grove begins to change. Light dances more freely. The trees part wider. A stream appears, its water impossibly clear, more mirror than river. You glance down and catch your reflection: your face is unfamiliar, yet undeniably yours.
You're older than you thought. Or perhaps… shaped by something of old.
The elf watches you study yourself.
"The Mirror Stream only shows what the world sees," she says gently. "It cannot lie, but it often confuses"
"I don't understand any of this," you admit. "I don't even know who I am."
She considers your words, then walks to the edge of the stream and trails her fingers through the water.
"You are not meant to remember everything. Not yet. Not all at once. Your mind would collapse beneath the weight."
You frown, "So, I've lived before?"
She meets your eyes again, and this time her smile fades.
"No, not lived."
She pauses, as though weighing every word.
"But you… have existed before. Long enough for legends to forget the truth. Long enough for the balance to break."
You don't know how to respond.
A breeze moves through the glade, stirring leaves and petals into the air. They twist into a spiral before falling again; and in that spiral, you see images.
Not visions like before. Not dreams. But memories belonging to someone else.
Flashes.
A city built on cliffs, burning.
A beast, massive and horned, dragging chains behind it.
A sword of light, buried deep beneath stone, humming with silent rage.
You step back, breath hitching.
"What was that?"
"Truth," she replies, "trying to find its way back into the world."
Part III: Her Name.
You sit beneath one of the trees, hands resting on your knees. The exhaustion isn't just physical; it feels as though your very soul has aged centuries in minutes.
The elf kneels beside you again, her silver eyes soft.
"Forgive me. I forget how jarring the return can be."
"Return from what?"
"From silence."
She replies as she places her hand over your chest. "Your soul has not spoken in a long time. But Zaudëlock remembers it. The land does not forget its chosen."
"You speak of things I should know. But I don't. I'm empty."
She reaches out, almost touching your hand, but then withdraws it.
"Empty vessels are the ones that can hold the clearest truth."
You close your eyes, to take a deep breath, letting the quiet wash over you. And for the first time, there is comfort in it. Not peace, exactly, but the kind of quiet that waits; like a fire that hasn't yet been kindled.
You open your eyes.
"Will you at least tell me your name?"
She smiles, the expression softening something in you.
"Aeloria. Of the Verdant Watch."
"Is that a title?"
She chuckles. "Among my people, names are often both."
"And mine?"
She studies you for a while before answering.
"That is not mine to give you. You must earn it back."
Part IV: Echoes of the Past.
Aeloria gestures for you to stand again. As you walk further, the glade begins to hum, not with music, but with presence. The stones seem to watch. The leaves seem to whisper.
Eventually, the two of you stop before a small archway made of intertwined roots and crystal shard. Beyond it lies a chamber open to the sky, no roof, only stars above. In the center stands an ancient obelisk, etched in a language your eyes don't recognize, but your bones do.
"This is the place of Return. Few remember it even exists."
You step inside.
The moment your foot touches the crystal-strewn ground, something deep within you shifts. The emptiness does not fill, but it resonates.
Aeloria begins to chant; low, rhythmic, not in words, but in meaning. The obelisk glows. The air thickens.
Suddenly, you remember…
A battlefield; bodies fallen beneath blood-orange skies.
A tower screaming as it fell.
And yourself, standing at the center, arms outstretched, light pouring from your chest.
A sacrifice.
A choice.
Then blankness.
You fall to your knees.
"What was that?!" you gasp.
Aeloria places a hand on your shoulder.
"The first memory always hurts the most. That is the price of remembrance."
You try to breath through the panic. You're not just someone waking up in a forest. You were part of something bigger. Something dangerous.
"Was I… evil?" you whisper.
Aeloria doesn't answer immediately.
"You were powerful," she says at last. "And power shapes itself to the hand that wields it."
You feel cold.
"Why me?"
She looks at you, something olden flickers in her gaze.
"Because the realm is broken. And its threads remember the ones who tried to mend it."
Part V: The Path Beckons.
You sit beneath the glowing obelisk, heart still racing. The silence that follows the memory is heavier than before; no longer empty, but full of questions you cannot yet voice.
Aeloria kneels beside you once more. She doesn't speak immediately. Her presence is enough; steady, like moonlight on still water.
"What am I supposed to do?" you finally ask.
She rises, steps toward the base of the obelisk, and presses her palm against its surface. The stone responds with a pulse of light, a pedestal rises. Resting atop it is a small object; a pendant, shaped like a teardrop of crystal with a soft gold vein running through its center.
She lifts it gently and turns to you.
"This is not a weapon," she says, "but it will help you listen. The land speaks, but not in the tongue of men. When the time comes, it will guide you."
You take it. The moment your fingers touch the crystal, it glows faintly, reacting to your presence.
"Why does it feel warm?"
"Because it remembers you."
You glanced at Aeloria, confused.
She only smiles. "You'll see."
She turns away from, the obelisk and begins walking once more. You follow.
Eventually, the trees shift again; less crystalline now, more open. The air is cooler. Birds you do not recognize call from the canopy.
Ahead through the veins of vines, you see the faint outline of buildings nestled among branches and platforms woven into the trees themselves. The Elven Grove. Home of the Verdant Watch.
"There are others here who still remember the old ways," Aeloria says as she pulls the vines aside. "Some will fear you. Others will follow you. But all will watch."
"Why?" you ask.
She stops, turns back to you. Her expression is unreadable.
"Because you are not just a bearer of memory, but of possibility. The world has tilted, and balance must be restored. Whether you choose to walk toward it or run from it; that only you can decide."
The words hang in the air like mist.
You cross the threshold into the Elven Grove, but something in you hesitates. You turn to look behind, to the forest, to the obelisk, to the place of awakening.
Your journey has not yet begun.
But something prehistoric has stirred.
And it waits for you.
Not as a hero.
Not even as a savior.
But as the one who remembers.
And the one who must choose.
[End of Chapter One: Awakening]