Elorin jerks upright in bed, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The room is unnaturally still, the kind of silence that makes her pulse quicken. She presses a hand to her chest where Varkos had struck her down in what seemed like a heartbeat ago. No wound, no pain—just the heavy thudding of her heart, and the unmistakable feeling that something is terribly wrong.

Her fingers brush against the familiar leather strap of her satchel beside the bed, the weight of the relic unmistakable within it. Slowly, she pulls it open, her heart pounding as the faint glow of the relic meets her eyes. Cold and inert, it lies nestled inside as if nothing had happened. Her hand recoils.

It wasn't a dream. She knows that now.

The memory of the attack on the Aldervale is too sharp, too real to be anything but the truth. She remembers the fissures tearing through the earth, the shadows pouring out like ink, and Varkos—his eyes burning with malevolent intent as he killed her. Elorin shivers, closing her eyes against the rising panic. The relic had done this. Somehow, it had pulled her back to this moment, and she had no idea why—or how.

Pulling the covers aside, Elorin stumbles to her feet, moving to the window. The soft light of dawn filters through the leaves of the towering trees, casting a golden glow over the village. From her small cottage, she can see the familiar rooftops of the other homes, the distant shimmer of the Vale Council's towers, and the quiet rustling of the leaves in the breeze.

Everything looks peaceful. But she knows that peace is a lie.

Whatever had attacked the Aldervale—whatever Varkos and his shadowy forces were—they're real. She can still feel the fear clutching at her chest, the coldness of Varkos's gaze as he struck her down. The ground had split open, the shadows moved unnaturally, and the relic had pulsed with an energy that felt ancient and terrifying.

She grips the windowsill tightly, her thoughts racing. She has to warn the Vale Council. They have to know about the invasion, about Varkos and the relic. The elders will listen, won't they? Elorin isn't so sure anymore. The Vale Council is known for its slow, cautious approach to everything, and they've always dismissed her as little more than a tree-tender. A low-ranking Fae caretaker claiming to have seen a mysterious invasion wouldn't stir them to action—especially when there was no visible evidence.

But there's no time for doubt. She grabs her satchel, making sure the relic is tucked away safely inside, and hurries outside. The morning is bright, and the village is beginning to wake. Fae of all kinds move about, fetching water, preparing for the day, tending to their homes. Everything feels so normal, so ordinary. But Elorin's chest tightens as she walks swiftly toward the Council Hall, the weight of the relic pressing against her side like a ticking clock.

She reaches the stone steps of the Hall, her nerves twisting in her gut. The Hall is a towering structure, its walls formed from woven branches and roots that reach skyward like ancient fingers. The halls of the elders are sacred, a place where only the most important matters are discussed. This qualified, didn't it?

As Elorin approaches, Lyara, one of the Council's attendants, stands at the entrance. Her silver hair catches the sunlight, and she smiles warmly at Elorin, the way she always does.

"Elorin, what brings you here so early?" Lyara asks, her tone friendly, though a flicker of curiosity shines in her eyes. "The trees haven't gone anywhere, have they?"

Elorin's breath hitches, her words tumbling out faster than she intends. "I need to speak to the elders. Something terrible is coming. There's a threat. I—"

She pauses, realizing how frantic she must sound. Lyara frowns, her smile fading as concern clouds her face.

"A threat? What are you talking about?"

"The forest... Varkos. There was an attack," Elorin stammers, realizing how absurd it all sounds now that she has to explain it aloud. "The ground split open, and these creatures—shadowy figures—they attacked. They killed me, Lyara. I died."

Lyara's frown deepens, her eyes scanning Elorin's face. "Elorin, you're here now. Alive. Maybe you had a nightmare?"

"No!" Elorin's voice sharpens, panic edging in. "It wasn't a dream. I felt it. I saw it. The relic—" Her hand instinctively moves to the satchel, clutching it as if the relic itself could prove her story. "There's something dangerous in the Aldervale. Please, you have to let me speak with the council."

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Lyara hesitates, her gaze flicking toward the heavy wooden doors behind her. "The elders are in session, discussing the Harvest Festival. They won't take kindly to interruptions."

Elorin's heart sinks, frustration welling up inside her. She's losing valuable time, she can feel it. The attack, the shadows—none of it is over. The invasion is coming again, just like before.

"Please," she begs, her voice trembling with desperation. "I know it sounds impossible, but I'm telling the truth. Something is coming, and it's only a matter of time before it happens again."

Again. The word lingers in her mind, cold and heavy. What if the invasion is still coming, exactly as it had before? Is there something she can do to stop it this time?

Lyara lets out a soft sigh, glancing at the Hall once more before meeting Elorin's eyes. "I'll tell them what you've said, but I can't promise they'll listen. The Council takes time to make decisions."

Time. Elorin shakes her head, her chest tightening. "We don't have time."

But Lyara is already turning away, stepping back toward the Hall's entrance. "I'll do what I can."

Elorin watches as the heavy doors close behind Lyara, leaving her standing alone at the foot of the steps. Her heart sinks. This is wrong. They need to act now, not after a council meeting, not after endless deliberations. But what can she do?

With a heavy heart, she turns and starts walking back toward the village square. She can't rely on the Council to act in time. If she's going to stop whatever's coming, she'll need help. But who would believe her?

Her thoughts drift to the stories she's heard of warriors from the Ironhold, particularly one who's been passing through the Aldervale recently. His name is Rhylen, and though Elorin has never met him, his reputation as a skilled and fearless fighter has reached even her quiet corner of the forest. If anyone can help her, perhaps it's him.

Her pace quickens as she heads toward the market, her mind racing with possibilities. The market is alive with activity—merchants calling out, villagers haggling over fresh produce, and artisans displaying their wares. Amidst the throng, she spots him: a tall figure clad in dark leathers and a long cloak, his posture rigid, his eyes scanning the crowd with practiced vigilance.

"Rhylen!" Elorin calls, weaving through the market toward him. He turns, his gaze sharp and assessing as she approaches. Up close, he's taller than she expected, his face hardened by years of battle, his dark eyes unreadable.

"Elorin, right?" Rhylen asks, his voice low and steady. "What's the urgency?"

Elorin hesitates, her heart racing. How does she explain this? She takes a breath, forcing herself to be calm. "I need your help. There's a threat coming to the Aldervale. I've seen it."

Rhylen raises an eyebrow, his skepticism clear. "A threat?"

"Yes, an invasion," she says, the words tumbling out faster than she can control. "A dark force—Varkos. I saw it. The ground split open, shadows attacked. And the relic—" She stops herself, realizing she's said too much too quickly. But it's too late.

"The relic?" Rhylen's eyes narrow. "You found something in the Aldervale?"

Elorin nods, pulling the satchel forward and opening it just enough to reveal the faint glow of the relic inside. "This. It's powerful. Dangerous. And the invasion, the shadows—they're connected to it. I know it sounds impossible, but it's going to happen. Soon."

Rhylen's gaze flickers from the relic to her face, studying her for a long moment. "You've seen this invasion before?"

"Yes," she whispers. "And it's coming again."

Rhylen exhales slowly, crossing his arms. His leather tunic creaks as he shifts his weight, his eyes never leaving hers. "If what you're saying is true, we don't have much time."

Elorin's heart skips. He believes her. "What do we do?"

"For now, keep that relic hidden," Rhylen says, his voice steady. "The Council won't be of any help if they find out. They'll lock it away. We'll have to stop this ourselves."

Elorin nods, her pulse quickening. "You think we can?"

"We don't have a choice," Rhylen replies. "I've heard of relics like this before. It's old magic. But if it's tied to the invasion, we'll need to know more. I have contacts in the Ironhold. They might be able to tell us what we're dealing with."

"The Ironhold?" Elorin's stomach twists. "But that's—"

"I know it's far, but if we want answers, that's where we'll find them," Rhylen says, his tone firm. "Gather what you need. We leave by dusk."

Elorin watches him walk away, her thoughts swirling. The weight of the relic presses against her side, heavier now than ever. Whatever is coming, she knows they don't have much time. But as she turns to head back to her cottage, something strange happens.

The air around her seems to shift, a soft hum filling the space. The world blurs for a moment, and Elorin blinks, confused. She takes a step forward, but her vision swims, and the ground beneath her feels unstable, as though the earth itself is shifting beneath her feet. She reaches out to steady herself against a nearby wall, but everything around her begins to fade.

And then, with a sudden jolt, she's back in her bed.

Elorin sits up, her heart pounding. The room is exactly as it was when she woke that morning. The same soft light filters through the window, the same birds sing outside. It's all the same.

Her breath catches as she checks her satchel. The relic is still there. But the conversation with Rhylen—it's gone. The day has reset.

Time has reset.

She rushes outside, her legs shaky as she sprints toward the market. The scene is exactly the same as before—merchants, villagers, all going about their lives. And Rhylen, standing in the same spot, watching the crowd.

He doesn't remember.

"Rhylen!" she calls, her voice breaking with desperation.

He turns, his expression unreadable. "Do I know you?"

Elorin's heart sinks as she stares at him, the weight of the truth settling heavily on her shoulders.

"No," she whispers. "Not yet."