Four days earlier, Isodera Forest
He flew away, grabbing the most valuable resource they have. Fuck this! He has a valuable opinion! He was allowed to at least be heart! But now he is a miserable sack of shit? Yeah, he wasn't going to hear that. No fucking way. Cantler just picked up the Sky Scraper Stone and left, fuck them and this stupid war. If he couldn't help then he'd fly away as much as possible so at least if it goes wrong, no one will be able to put the blame on him. All because of a one night hook up. Seriously? People are just… argh!
Regardless, the Sylph is now flying, the uncomfortable feeling in his throat, the need to scream and curse suppressed as he needed to think. Most people would storm off by doing something to lash out their frustration, maybe punch a tree, loft boulders, run as fast as they can or something, but Cantler didn't do such. When his mind was full of stuff he didn't want to deal, he went to his favorite spot near the mountains, a place only he knew, grabbed the lute that was already there as he visited this place very often, and just blasted with music.
Anything that he felt like playing, something to calm down, to shout the lyrics, to appeal to his own ego or his frustrations… anything as long as it kept him busy with the song, instead of what he is trying to avoid thinking about. Flying also had his own way to calm him down, the serene feeling of freedom, of being in control of how much higher or lower you can fly, all of it was just so exhilarating. He danced between the clouds, putting his hand on the gas that floated in the sky, the humid yet warm feeling that they offered cleaning a bit of his worries. The landscape was also beautiful, the snow being a nice touch to the green he is costumed to see all the rest of the year.
It was a big postcard, but one that if painted and show in a museum, would sell millions, if not thousands of millions in the coin the civilized folk use.
Cantler's wings flapped again, with all their strength as the wind allowed him to just sash forward to the destination he desired. He looked at the gem in his hand, the tiny thing being so powerful, yet so fragile. He held it tightly enough so it wouldn't fall, as the tip of the mountain was finally at his sight. He landed carefully, picking up a few vines of the ground that were covered by the snow and made a rudimentary pendant with the gem, resting it in his neck. The lute was there too, although covered in snow. He dusted the thing off, checking if it wasn't damaged in any way, giving a few strings on the cords, testing the song. It was a bit off, but tweaking a bit with it made the tune sound way better.
He sighed, wondering what to play. The chords coming, not any song being actually played, but just enough so he could think of something. There was a lot to unpack, and he hoped that he could let it all out in one go. He thought of Quadähd, Talia, the war, himself, the tribes and their beliefs, the Toten he worshiped… It was going to be difficult trying to come up with anything that would encapsulate everything. So he just played the lute, no lyrics in mind, just his own feelings being translated.
It started slow, melancholic even, maybe even peaceful or sorrowful, a mix of bliss and loneliness. If he felt alone while surrounded by people, no one could tell, not even himself, but the melody slowly increased in speed, but not by much, the tune getting just slightly more complicated. It evolved to something like a grand and complex journey of emotions, highs and downs, dinnuendos and crescendos, bridges and inclines, improvisation and a solo, all in one instrument. He then paced down again, just humming as the song seemed to reach its conclusion. His feelings getting the better of him as small sobs starting to rise.
No one can hold sadness after all.
“Beautiful.”, A voice called, actually sounding touched emotionally.
But unlike when Henry showed up, he heard this one, as the constant jiggling of the bells made it impossible not to notice it. Thankfully whoever it is kept quiet, so Cantler managed to finish the song.
He looked back and saw…
A jester.
He blinked, just to make sure.
…
He was still there.
What the fuck?
He only saw those on the caravans that the Waxenians traded with, so why was one here?
Cantler froze, his fingers still on the lute strings, staring at the figure in front of him. A jester? Here? In the middle of nowhere? The guy's outfit was all kinds of colorful, a weird contrast to the snow everywhere. Bells on his hat and sleeves jingled with every little move he made.
The jester grinned, a mix of mischief and, oddly enough, something comforting. He gave a small bow. "Didn’t mean to interrupt your jam session, but I couldn’t resist. That was some real emotion you were playing there. Rare to hear something so genuine."
How the hell did his mask show… emotions?
Cantler, still trying to wrap his head around the situation, shook his head like he was trying to clear it. "Who... who are you?" he asked, his voice shaky. It wasn’t every day a jester just popped out of nowhere to compliment your music.
The jester straightened up, bells jingling again. "Names are funny, aren’t they? But you can call me Jingle." He tilted his head, still grinning. "And you, Cantler, seem like someone with a heavy heart. I couldn’t help but notice."
Cantler frowned, more confused than ever. "How do you know my name?"
Jingle waved a hand like it was no big deal. "I know a lot of things. Comes with the territory of being a wanderer. But don’t worry, I’m not here to spook you. I’m here because I can see you’re dealing with something big."
Cantler’s grip on the lute tightened. "Dealing with something? No... I’m just..." He trailed off, realizing he didn’t have the energy to lie, not after everything that had gone down. "Maybe I am," he admitted, his voice softening. "But why does that matter to you?"
The jester’s grin faded a bit, replaced by a thoughtful look. "Matters to me because I see potential, Cantler. Potential in your music, in you. You’re not just any Sylph; you’ve got something special, something that could actually change things if you let it."
Cantler scoffed, bitterness bubbling up inside him. "Change things? All I’ve done is make everything worse. That’s why I’m out here, trying to clear my head, trying to forget."
Jingle’s eyes sparkled, like he knew something Cantler didn’t. "Trying to forget or trying to find your purpose?" He pointed at the Sky Scraper Stone hanging around Cantler’s neck. "That little gem—it’s more than just a powerful tool. It’s a symbol, a key to unlocking what you’re really capable of."
Cantler glanced down at the stone, its soft glow reflecting off the snow. He had grabbed it in a fit of frustration, but now, hearing Jingle’s words, he couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to it, more to his journey than just running away.
"So what am I supposed to do with it?" Cantler asked, a mix of hope and desperation in his voice.
Jingle’s grin came back, wider than before. "That’s up to you. But I can tell you this: your music, your emotions. However they aren't enough. You need to take action to actually see the results.”
Cantler’s mind raced, the jester’s words planting seeds of possibility. He had always used music to get his feelings out, but could it really be more than that? Could it be a way to actually make a difference, to find his place in this messed-up world?
Jingle stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You’re not alone in this, Cantler. There are people who believe in you, even if they don’t show it. And there are those who’d love to see you fail, who’d take that stone from you if they knew what you could do with it. But you’ve got the power to shape your own destiny. Don’t let anyone take that away from you."
Cantler swallowed, feeling the weight of Jingle’s words. For the first time in days, the fog in his mind started to clear, replaced by a tiny spark of purpose. He didn’t have all the answers, but he knew one thing for sure—he couldn’t keep running. He had to face whatever came next, not just for himself, but for everyone counting on him.
Jingle stepped back, his bells jingling softly. "I’ll be going now," he said, back to his light and carefree tone. "But I think you’ve got some thinking to do, and maybe a song or two to play."
With that, the jester turned and started to walk away, his figure slowly fading into the swirling snow. Cantler watched him go, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. He looked down at the Sky Scraper Stone again, feeling its warmth against his chest, and maybe, just maybe, Jingle was right.
A weird fellow, sure, but that's the best pep talk he had in years.
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Present day, The Vale, Isodera Forest
Ambition.
That's what Jester planted on Cantler's mind. The kid was unique, a one-of-a-kind brand of fool, hilarious and stupid, yet ever so thoughtful of his consequences once they were bashed in his face. Glamorous, in some way, pathetic in others, far from average as Comic Relief was concerned. However the Sylph lacked ambition, the need to improve and mature, something that if done now, could cause major consequences, bad ones that would harm the boy, trying to run when he barely crawled out the ground.
But hey! It's going to be fun! So of course he made him ever so slightly more ambitious.
Jester jumped in excitement as he was monitoring both sides, casually checking the Lacerta to see what he was up to. The Waxenians were on edge trying to figure out who the spy was, but he gave a few subtle hints to keep the Sylph Shaman’s disguise intact. Although he had to admit that the ways he was almost caught were rather embarrassing, but surprisingly amusing. In the end, the Shaman was never caught, thanks to a minor assistance here and there, the grin the Jester had in his face too wide that even his mask was struggling to keep up.
To fix that, he went to the Sylphs. The Vale was worked so much that he could spot the exact places that anyone would fall and die. Keyword: anyone. It seemed that Zagul— sorry, Henry wasn't sparing anyone. If the so-called allies died, who would care aside from themselves? The Lacerta didn't, nor did the clown. Still, an interesting choice that the slave made, actually if he was in the same shoes as him, he'd do exactly the same thing. Maybe even tinker with it enough so it would make minor earthquakes that would send more traps and all that stuff needed to kill people.
Ah, details details.
Unfortunately for the Jester, not much was required of him as the Lacerta had almost everything under control. Even without the little and almost neglectable assistance that he offered, he doubted that Zagul would require more of it. He just tied a few loose ends, making a very good plan into a solid one. Even the letter sent to the Waxenians of where they would fight was noted, meaning that the Caravan of The Nyëthilhand would be right on the middle of the battle, and if the shards that he saw him take on the caves is anything to go about, there is nothing for him to do anymore.
Well, if that's the case…
He sat down in a tree that had a great view of the soon-to-be battlefield and took an entire bag of popcorn from… somewhere, as well as a cup of some drink. The cup most definitely came from a funfair, or carnival… Or park… one of those.
He took a slurp as he saw Arsi look at the enemy side, his face turning morbid as he saw someone in particular while Quadähd was lost in his own thoughts. He spotted Zagul, his suspicions of before being confirmed of the Lacerta being the mastermind behind all plays, or at least the loyalty issue. Even when the attack started, the Lacerta and the Waxenian Chief remained in the back lines, staring at each other. Jester could only watch, entertained at every second.
The battle started with the Elk smoke being displayed, and only when it disappeared was when both armies stepped forward, the Caravan approaching unaware of the impending combat. The Jester had a mixed feeling for that one. Should he help or not? It's the daughter of Lady Elisha in a way…
Nah, let it happen. It will be fun!
The Waxenians charged, faces all serious like they were starring in their own epic movie, while the Sylphs, led by Quadähd who was probably still second-guessing everything, moved forward like they were walking on eggshells. The air was buzzing with tension, and Jester could practically taste the chaos coming.
As the first clash rang out, Jester leaned in, popcorn momentarily forgotten. He watched Arsi and Zagul exchange these meaningful glances, like they were both in on some inside joke. Whatever plan Zagul had cooked up, it was about to hit the fan, and Jester was all in to see how it would blow up.
The battlefield turned into a total mess—swords clanging, people yelling, and the occasional flash of magic lighting things up. Jester’s eyes darted around, trying to take in every bit of the action. Arsi’s troops were fighting like their lives depended on it (which, duh, they did), while the Sylphs, who looked like they’d rather be anywhere else, were somehow managing to hold their ground.
Then, like the punchline to a really bad joke, the Caravan just stumbled right into the thick of it. Jester nearly choked on his popcorn from laughing so hard. This was the kind of chaos that made everything worth it, the kind of mess where anything could happen. He took another slurp from his carnival cup, trying to catch his breath from laughing.
As the battle raged on, Jester felt a weird kind of pride bubbling up. Sure, he’d nudged a few things here and there, but this—this was like a masterpiece of mayhem. A perfect storm of ambition, fear, and really bad luck, all coming together in one epic disaster.
Gotta give credit, if not for the Lacerta, this shit wouldn't be as good as it is.
The moment those Vermillion Stones went off, the battlefield turned into a chaotic mess of fire, smoke, and carnage. Jester had to admit, the explosions were like something out of a demented artist’s dream—bloody brilliant, if he did say so himself. The way the Earthshard triggered that earthquake, shaking the ground like it was some kind of pissed-off giant, was the cherry on top. Stakes shot out from the earth, skewering anyone unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Warriors on both sides? Reduced to shish kebabs.
And the Caravan? Oh, the Caravan. They got smacked right in the middle of this beautiful disaster. The explosions sent carriages, goods, and people flying in every direction, the High Elf’s problems getting completely steamrolled by the madness of war. Not that anyone seemed to care—the battle raged on, the fighters too busy trying not to get impaled or blown up to notice the Caravan's misfortune. Jester leaned back, taking another sip from his totally-not-stolen carnival cup, enjoying the show. This was turning out to be way more entertaining than he’d expected.
Maybe he should’ve brought two bags of popcorn.
Maybe some candy too. They are tasty.
After the leaders started fighting each other on a standoff, Zagul took this opportunity and used the Solace Shard, turning invisible for a few minutes. It took just another Vermillion Stone and a punch to the She-Elf’s face to get the Draconic Iridium. Good, one less problem, he guessed as much. He knew that The Lacerta would deliver the crystal right at Shadehill, so there was no bother to follow him.
The war? That was something he wanted to see until it was done.
----------------------------------------
Arsi was fed up with everything. He warned Quadähd and even still he wants to keep up with it. If it's a battle to their death he wants, that's one they will get.
“You’re a fool, Quadähd," he snapped, glaring at the Sylph chief. "Played by a mere gecko."
Quadähd tightened his grip on his hammer, ignoring the jibe. "It’s not just about fighting, Arsi. I am not going to be weak and accept your terms. I need to show them that we can stand strong."
“Stand strong?” Arsi shot back. “Look around! People are getting slaughtered, and you think a speech or a false sense of bravery will save them? They’re scared, confused and blinded! You’re just playing the brave leader. It’s a war, not a pep rally!”
Quadähd lied to himself. He wasn't brave, he was just trying not to focus on his son. The mess he made up, but as a father, he is going to protect him. He was desperate! How could he not do it? Sure, Henry, The Lacerta was less than trustworthy, but at least he gave a fighting chance to the Sylphs. That's enough to make the Elder Chief grateful.
Banary appeared at his side, spear in hand, some wounds, but still manageable, “Chief, let's finish this.”
Quadähd nodded, but Arsi was even more angry now, “If you fail to see it, then there is no choice but eradicate your entire existence!”
Arsi only had a sword and shield. The basic tools he needed to defend and attack, while Banary had the distance advantage of her spear and Quadähd the brute force of his hammer. It was going to be tough, but he needed to face them.
In a leap, Banary used her spear to attack him, easily deflected by the shield, but it was followed by Quadähd’s swing, forcing him to duck the blow. That small opening to retaliate was immediately shut down as the spearwoman kicked his guts, sending him a few steps behind. Arsi used this momentum to roll away from another ground slam of the hammer that again, shattered the ground with it's force, however this was an opening that the archers used to loose their arrows at them, forcing them to take cover.
The Waxenian didn't wait for them to actually get to cover, swinging his sword at the Sylph Woman, connecting a few slashes that she was too off guard to block, but not too dangerous to make any mortal wounds. Banary used her spear to build some distance, even when being overwhelmed by the attacks. Quadähd consistently using his hammer to manage even the slightest attack so he could distract Arsi enough so the woman could survive. The hammer was thrown, forcing Arsi to back off before it could hot them, striking the tree instead, almost making it fall to the ground.
A few of the Sylph warriors were attracted to the battle, some even trying to protect Banary as the others attacked Arsi alongside Quadähd, but the same happened to Arsi, his archers being lifesavers as the arrows hit the heads of their targets. In the end, Banary was left aside as both Leaders fought against each other once more, the hammer being retrieved and still being as dangerous as ever, all the while Arsi tried his best to not get crushed.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
The only real reason why he was alive right now was that the Waxenians were used to fight on the disadvantage, so this was all textbook stuff that Arsi could handle, better than anyone else. A quick stab of his sword to the thigh of the Sylph was enough to hender his movement, not to stop him, but to greatly reduce the threat he posed. Quadähd winced a bit as he tried to swing, realizing that his force was reduced, considerably so, making him judge if this was enough from his frontal assault. Maybe an assistance of Henry would be needed.
“Henry! Use that damn shard!”, He called to the cold blooded Lizard. He was so calm that that grew a bit on Quadähd, so brave even when the adversities are tremendous.
Any time now…
Any time…
Arsi looked at the Elder in disappointment. Seriously, how long would it take for him to realize it?
“We discovered who was your spy at our camp.”, The Waxenian revealed, unamused, “We killed him and sent fake information to you.”
“What?”
“And apparently, you were so delusional that you thought you had a chance. But, I wonder if you can say what is wrong right now.”, Arsi was sheathing his sword, clearly fone with the Elder, much to the increasing confusing of the latter.
“Where is that damn—.”
“Lacerta?”, The Waxenian Chief interrupted, showing no care of the battlefield as he stared directly at Quadähd, “There is no second Lacerta. Apparently he already got what he wanted, because he is nowhere to be seen in your back lines.”
He nonchalantly pointed at the barracks made in the back lines. And indeed, Henry was nowhere to be seen.
“I am such a fool.”, the Sylph realized.
“Yes, yes you are.”, Arsi said before bashing his head with the shield, rendering him unconscious, “Kill him. We will find Cantler later.”
The order was given to one of the soldiers who was taking care of Banary, who was already restrained by other three warriors. The screams of terror seeing the chief about to be executive echoed in the forest, the Vale being a bing canvas of white and red. That day more blood was spilled than the entire history of the forest, but no one would remember that day, no one would consider that a war happened there.
Well, aside from a few, that is.
One of them just witnessed it,hovering on the sky, “What did you do!?”
Arsi looked up, a frown forming in his face, “Cantler.”
“You monster!”, He said as he landed near the corpse of his father.
Huh, apparently he cared.
“Monster?”, Arsi echoed, “You started all this. If not for your, all of this wouldn't have happened.”
“Shut up!”, Cantler yelled, not taking an eye out of his father, “Shut up shut up shut up!”
A soldier was about to strike him down, making him join his father, but Arsi raised his hand to stop him, “But it's the truth. Of you didn't seduce my wife, your father, your tribe, your life would still be the same. You just had to do something stupid, and it had consequences.”
“Fuck you! What point are you trying to prove here?! That you are emotionless bastards?!”
Arsi tiled his head, “In a way, yes. But it's not a complete answer. It's simple, you fuck around, you find out.”
Some of the warriors nodded at that. Arsi looked at the battlefield once more, the battle can be considered won already, as the last few are only the ones that are being made captives to be executed later. He mourned the death of the Waxenians that sacrificed themselves to win this, but that's the price it takes to make sure no one dares to mess up with them again. This was just a seduce attempt that succeeded, and they wiped out an entire tribe, an example of what it will come if something similar or worse is done to the Waxenians.
To put it simply: Don't fuck with them, or they will fuck with you.
Cantler could not hold his tears. Father and son didn't see eye to eye most of the time, but they did care for each other. Losing a dad is never something easy to see, especially in person. However Arsi couldn't care to have sympathy, he didn't care that he was erasing a culture, all he cared was that the message was sent, and this was one of them. Zagul was still out there, somewhere, but apparently he got what he came here for of the caravan that was hit in the crossfire bellow is anything to go about. He was a mysterious man, always hiding his true intentions, but that's not his problem anymore. He has a tribe to take care of now.
However a soft sob caught him off guard. It wasn't one of the Sylphs, nor one of the guards. It was someone else that shouldn't be here. Arsi turned back, only to see her.
“Talia?”
She stared at the death, the carnage, the corpses and the burnt meat of the explosions. Craters filled with despair and blood, heads rolling around as the fire on some bushes cracked to fill the silence that the mere presence of the woman seemed to cause. She looked at the man she once called husband and the leader of her tribe, the Waxenian Woman not believing that the person who had his head wrapped in countless problems of the community seemed to think so little about the pain he was causing. And the fact that Cantler his hugging his dead father made it all more depressing.
She couldn't help but… let the tears fall as she silently observed them, stopping at Arsi's side, but not looking at him in the eye.
“What are you doing here?”, Cantler was the one to ask, his voice still trembling as he looked at the woman.
“I thought I could…”, She trailed off, looking at Quadähd, or what's left of him, “...But I was too late.
“You shouldn't be here.”, Arsi said in a cold and stoic voice, clearly irritated at her.
Talia remained silent, kneeling at the side of the Sylph Chief. She tried to look at his face, but Cantler pulled him, refusing to let anyone but him touch his father.
“I… I'm…”
“Sorry?”, Cantler interrupted, his rage being heard loud and clear, “This is what sorry feels like.”
He stared at the corpses of the many many Sylphs, the Vale once a beautiful place to be at now a grotesque and twisted version of the landscape it once was, until he glared at his father. Sorry was nothing but an insult. Where was her in these past few days? Wasn't she trying to convince Arsi to not engage in war? Or she just happened to remember that, oh yeah! There is a bloodbath soon to be happening!
“...”, She couldn't say anything about that. But her face was hurt, in more ways than one.
“Talia, we already discussed about this.”, Arsi said after watching the exchange, “Nothing you say can convince me otherwise.”
“But…”
“You love us both, I get it.”, The Waxenian spat out, clearly disgusted by it, the words making him want to puke, “But I'm not gonna play the games of a love triangle. Our marriage is forfeit, and he is going to die.”
“What?! No!”, She protested immediately, “You can't do that!”
“I can do whatever the fuck I want, woman.”, He stated evenly and calmly, “You are now but another person in the tribe. You won't be missed by me. Or anyone else.”
Are you serious? Is he truly disowning her? Does he have no sense of love? No compassion?!? Cantler's blood boiled, his wings widening as he carefully left the body of Quadähd on the ground. One of the warriors immediately went to kill the Sylph, but he did something no one could predict.
He casted a spell.
A wind sword erupted from his wings, slashing the soldier in half, the blood once again being spilled in the snow. The Sky Scraper Stone shining slightly in his neck, the pendant a reminder of where the power came from. Most would think that the Stone only granted the user the ability of flight, but that's not the case. It was a secret amongst the Sylphs, one that few had access just like the stone itself. It granted control of the wind, although the user needed to have a minimal amount of Éter to use it consistently.
And it just so happened that Cantler hand the highest Éter of the Sylphs.
Talia was shocked and tried to calm him down, only so the wind bashed her aside. It didn't cut her, but threw her away from the new battle that was about to happen. Arsi signaled so every Sylph captive would be killed, and the warriors were eager to complete the task, killing them quick enough that Cantler couldn't help at all. That increased even more the rage of the young Sylph, as he was now focused on killing Arsi, no matter the cost.
Arsi, the warrior of countless battles and Cantler, a teenager musician.
The results were obvious from here.
Cantler's breath came in ragged gasps, his fury igniting the air around him. The wind sword pulsed with his rage, its edges crackling with energy. Arsi, however, stood calm, his eyes narrowing as he gauged the boy before him. There was a time when the Chief would have found this amusing-an angry boy challenging him, thinking he could change the tide of fate with a swing of his weapon. But now, there was only a cold calculation in his gaze.
"Do you think you can kill me with that toy?" Arsi taunted, his voice as steady as a mountain.
Cantler didn't respond with words. Instead, he lunged forward, his wings propelling him with blinding speed. The wind sword slashed toward Arsi's neck, aiming to end him in one swift stroke. But Arsi was faster, raising his shield just in time. The sword clanged against the metal, the force of the impact reverberating through both of them. Cantler staggered back, surprised by the resistance.
Arsi didn't give him time to recover. In a fluid motion, he unsheathed his sword and advanced. The two clashed, steel against wind, and for a brief moment, it seemed as though Cantler might hold his own. His movements were erratic but fueled by desperation and an innate talent that surprised even him. Arsi, however, was a seasoned warrior, and each of his strikes was measured, each block perfectly timed.
Talia watched from where she had fallen, her heart sinking with every blow Cantler took. She knew he was outmatched, that this would only end in his death if he continued. But the helplessness of the situation paralyzed her, and she could only cry out, "Cantler, stop! Please!”
Cantler barely registered her voice. His focus was entirely on Arsi, on the man who had taken everything from him. The grief of his father's death, the betrayal, the loss-it all funneled into a single desire: to see Arsi bleed. But the more he fought, the more evident it became that he couldn't break through Arsi's defenses.
Arsi finally saw an opening. With a brutal strike, he knocked the wind sword from Cantler's hand, sending it flying into the snow. Cantler's eyes widened in shock as Arsi grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off the ground as if he weighed nothing.
"You should have stayed a musician, boy," Arsi snarled, his grip tightening. "You were never meant to be a warrior.”
Cantler struggled, his hands clawing at Arsi's arm, but it was futile. The strength that Arsi possessed was overwhelming. The world began to darken around the edges of Cantler's vision as the air was squeezed from his lungs.
As Cantler's wings fell limp and his life drained away, the battlefield fell into a heavy silence. The warriors around Arsi paused, the brutal efficiency of their task momentarily halted by the finality of the scene before them. Cantler’s lifeless body dangled in Arsi’s grasp, a tragic symbol of a futile rebellion. Arsi let go, allowing Cantler’s body to crumple to the ground, the once vibrant Sylph now a broken, lifeless form upon the bloodied snow.
Banary, barely clinging to life, let out a choked sob, her spirit utterly shattered. The sight of Cantler’s death—the last spark of hope extinguished—drove home the cold reality of her people’s extinction. She had fought so hard, suffered so much, but it had all been for nothing. She no longer felt the pain of her wounds; the emotional agony had numbed her to everything else. All that remained was despair.
Talia, standing on the sidelines, felt her heart sink into a pit of hopelessness. The man she had once loved, the man she thought she could reason with, had shown her the depths of his ruthlessness. Arsi had become a stranger to her, someone she could no longer reach or understand. She had wanted to prevent this, to find some way to bridge the chasm between the two worlds she cared for, but it was too late. The glint in her eyes—the spark of life and hope—was gone, replaced by a hollow emptiness.
The forest, once alive with the sounds of battle, now echoed with an eerie stillness. The Vale, stained with the blood of both Waxenian and Sylph, stood as a silent witness to the massacre. The air was heavy with the scent of death, and even the wind seemed to mourn the loss, its cold breath whispering through the trees as if lamenting the fallen.
Arsi sheathed his sword, his face a mask of indifference. He turned to his warriors, who looked to him for guidance, their expressions a mixture of respect and wariness. “It’s done,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of finality. “Gather our dead. Burn the Sylph bodies. We leave nothing behind. Later I will personally destroy the Sparrow Toten.”
The warriors nodded and set about their tasks with grim efficiency. They moved among the corpses, separating friend from foe, preparing to cleanse the battlefield of its grim evidence. The pyres would burn high tonight, erasing the remnants of the Sylphs from this world, as if they had never existed at all.
Talia remained where she was, unable to tear her eyes away from Cantler’s broken form. She wanted to scream, to cry, to do something—anything—to express the turmoil within her, but no sound came. She was empty, a hollow shell watching the aftermath of a nightmare she could not wake from.
Arsi approached her, his expression unreadable. “Talia,” he began, his voice devoid of the warmth it once held. “You shouldn’t be here. Go back to the village.”
She didn’t respond, didn’t even acknowledge his presence. Her gaze was fixed on Cantler, on what remained of the love she had tried so hard to save.
Arsi sighed, the weight of leadership pressing down on him once more. He turned away from her, knowing that whatever they once had was gone, just like the Sylphs. “Let her be,” he ordered his men. “She’ll come back when she’s ready.”
And with that, Arsi walked away, leaving Talia alone in the Vale, surrounded by the remnants of a war that should never have been fought. The Waxenians, victorious but not unscathed, began their march back to their homeland, leaving behind a scarred landscape that would serve as a warning to any who dared to challenge them in the future.
As the flames began to rise, consuming the bodies of the fallen Sylphs, Talia finally found the strength to move. She knelt beside Cantler’s body, her tears falling onto the cold, bloodied ground. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, though she knew it was too late for apologies, too late for anything. The world had changed, and nothing she could say or do would ever undo the damage that had been done.
And so, as the fire raged behind her and the sky darkened above, Talia wept for the lost, for the dead, and for the pieces of her soul that would never heal.
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Oliver’s small hands fidgeted as he paced around the village, his mind a whirlwind of worry and confusion. He had always looked up to Talia—she was like a big sister to him, always kind and brave, always knowing what to do. But lately, something had changed. The light that usually danced in her eyes had dimmed, and her smile, once so warm, had become strained. Oliver didn’t understand why, but he knew something was wrong. And now she had gone to the place where the grown-ups said there was a war.
War. The word itself was heavy, like a stone in his chest. He had heard the elders speak of it in hushed tones, their faces grim. It was something terrible, something that made people sad and angry. But why would Talia go there? She wasn’t like the warriors with their swords and shields; she was gentle, always tending to the village’s needs, always looking out for others.
“Maybe she went to stop it,” Oliver whispered to himself, trying to make sense of it all. Yes, that must be it! Talia was smart—she could talk to people and make them see reason. Maybe she was going to tell the warriors to stop fighting, to make them come back home where it was safe. That’s what Talia would do. She was good at fixing things, at making people feel better. She’d come back, and everything would be okay.
But still, the anxiety gnawed at him. What if something happened to her? What if she needed help? He couldn’t just stay here, doing nothing, while Talia was out there alone. The more he thought about it, the more the worry grew, until it felt like it might burst out of him.
“I have to go,” he decided, his small voice filled with determination. “I have to find her.”
He grabbed his little wooden sword—the one Talia had carved for him—and tucked it into his belt. It wasn’t much, but it made him feel braver, like he could protect her if he needed to. He started toward the edge of the village, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and excitement. He had never gone so far from home before, but this was different. This was for Talia.
As he walked, his mind raced with thoughts of what he would say when he found her. Maybe she would be surprised to see him, but she’d understand why he came. And maybe, just maybe, he could help her, even if it was just by being there. He imagined her smiling at him, ruffling his hair like she always did, and telling him that everything would be alright.
The forest path was long, and the trees towered over him, their branches whispering in the wind. But Oliver wasn’t afraid. He kept his eyes forward, determined to find Talia. The further he walked, the quieter the world became, until all he could hear was the sound of his own footsteps and the beating of his heart.
He didn’t know how long he had been walking when he finally saw it—the distant glow of flames against the darkening sky. His breath caught in his throat as he realized he was close. But then, in the flickering light, he saw something else—figures moving in the shadows, like ghosts in the night. His steps faltered, and for the first time, he felt a cold tendril of fear curl around his heart.
But he couldn’t turn back now. Not when he was so close.
With trembling hands, he gripped his wooden sword and pushed forward, the innocent hope of a child driving him on. He imagined finding Talia, imagined her wrapping him in a hug and telling him how brave he was. And in his heart, he believed that if he could just find her, everything would be okay. The war would end, the fires would go out, and they would all go home together.
He had to believe that. He had to believe that Talia was still out there, waiting for him, and that he could somehow make a difference. Because that’s what heroes did, right? They faced their fears and found a way to make things better.
When he found the place, he wished he didn't go there.
When Oliver finally reached the clearing, the sight before him made his heart plummet. The once vibrant and peaceful forest had been transformed into a nightmarish landscape of destruction. The air was thick with the acrid smell of smoke, and the ground was littered with the remnants of battle—broken weapons, shattered shields, and the lifeless bodies of those who had fallen.
His small body froze, the wooden sword slipping from his trembling fingers. This wasn’t the reunion he had imagined. This wasn’t the place where Talia would be smiling and telling him everything was alright. It was a place of horror, a place where the innocent hope of a child was met with the harsh reality of war.
Oliver’s eyes frantically scanned the scene, searching for her, clinging to the last shreds of his hope. But the longer he looked, the more that hope crumbled.
Amidst this chaos, was Talia.
But it wasn’t her.
Where was the smile? The warmth in her eyes? The gentle voice that always reassured him, no matter what? The woman he saw now was a shadow of the Talia he knew. She stood in the midst of the devastation, her face pale, her eyes hollow, staring blankly at the lifeless bodies scattered around her.
Oliver’s breath caught in his throat as he took a hesitant step forward, but his feet felt like they were rooted to the ground. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing with the desperate wish to turn back time, to undo what had been done.
“Talia?” he called out, his voice small and trembling.
She didn’t respond. It was as if she didn’t hear him, as if the world around her had collapsed into a void that she couldn’t escape from. The sight of her, so broken and lost, made Oliver’s chest ache with a pain he had never felt before.
He wanted to run to her, to hold her hand and tell her it would be okay, just like she had always done for him. But as he took another step, the reality of the situation hit him like a wave, cold and unforgiving. There was no going back. The innocence of the world he knew was gone, replaced by the stark, cruel truth of what war had taken from them.
Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision as he finally managed to close the distance between them. He reached out, his small hand grasping at the fabric of her dress, trying to pull her back from the edge of the abyss she was teetering on.
“Talia,” he whispered again, his voice breaking.
This time, she looked down at him, her eyes slowly focusing on the small figure at her side. For a moment, just a brief moment, the fog in her gaze seemed to lift, and she recognized him. Her lips trembled, but no words came out. Instead, she knelt down, wrapping her arms around Oliver in a tight embrace, holding him as if he were the only thing anchoring her to the world.
Oliver buried his face in her shoulder, his tears soaking into the fabric of her dress. He didn’t understand everything that had happened, but he knew one thing for certain—he had found her, and he wasn’t going to let go.
As they clung to each other amidst the ruins of what was once a peaceful place, the innocent hope that had brought Oliver here slowly began to change. It wasn’t gone, not entirely. It was still there, a small, fragile thing, buried beneath the weight of everything he had seen.
But now, that hope was different. It wasn’t just the naive belief that everything would be okay. It was the determination to hold on, even when the world fell apart, to find light in the darkest places, and to keep moving forward, no matter how much it hurt.
Because in that moment, as Talia held him close, Oliver realized that hope wasn’t just about believing in happy endings. It was about having the strength to face the world, no matter how broken it might be, and the courage to help the people you love find their way back to the light.
“We will be leaving,” Talia said, her voice flat and devoid of the warmth it once held.
“Leaving?” Oliver asked, still sobbing, his voice shaky and filled with confusion. “Where?”
“Away from here,” Talia replied softly, her words carrying the weight of the decision she had already made. “Anywhere but here.”
Oliver hesitated, unsure of what she meant, but he trusted her. He nodded slowly, his tears still falling. “...Okay.”
They both knew that there was no going back to the tribe. Oliver didn’t want to return, and Talia couldn’t bear the thought of it. The tribe, once their home, was now just a place of pain and loss, a place that no longer held any meaning for them.
There was no point in going back to that forsaken place.