When the Forest Turns Away

The next morning, Arlen woke with thoughts of Liora pressing on him like stones. Her absence left a hollow ache in his chest, a tightness born of the possibility that she might already be caught by Zevran, just like the Vilinkas he had been forced to lure with his song. And at the edges of his mind, a quieter worry gnawed at him—Elara, trapped somewhere unseen. He hoped she would survive. He feared the worst.

Arlen knew he had no choice—he had to find Liora. His voice, his steps, his very resolve were now focused entirely on her. He had to warn her.

He mounted his horse and rode toward the Forest of Gaiane.

Even before he reached it, the forest seemed to stir. Shadows shifted subtly, the wind whispered through the leaves with an urgency he could not yet name. Arlen’s senses tightened; every rustle, every creak of wood made his chest constrict. The air itself seemed aware—aware of him, aware of her.

If she’s in the forest… if she’s still safe… I must be careful, yet swift. I cannot leave her to chance—not now, when everything is so fragile.

With each step of the horse, a subtle pull tugged at his chest. He didn’t understand it yet, but it grew stronger, mingling with longing, hope, and the quiet terror of not knowing what he might find. The trees leaned closer, the path alive with whispers. Something was guiding him, or warning him—but what, he could not tell.

He moved among the trees, eyes sharp, ears straining for every sound that might reveal her location.

Elara’s safety lingered at the back of his mind. Alone, unseen, she might be struggling. The thought coiled tightly in his chest. He had to act carefully, but act he must. Liora… she must not be captured. He could not betray either of them.

As he stepped deeper into Gaiane Forest, he felt it awaken around him. Trees shivered, branches shifted as if aware of his passage. The ground whispered underfoot. Every shadow, every sound, served as both warning and guide.

No trap that could ensnare another would surprise him. His senses were sharpened; his connection to the forest, subtle but undeniable, told him safe paths, potential dangers. Every step was deliberate, yet natural.

The forest was alive—breathing, watching, testing. Faint vibrations of Liora’s presence called to him, distant but unmistakable. Every pulse, every note of the woodland guided him closer to her sanctuary.

There you are… you must be safe, he whispered. His heart swelled, but he remained calm, letting the forest guide him for protection, not destruction. Every branch, every shadow, every whisper now an ally, a map to Liora’s hidden world.

He followed the whispers until he reached the small stream where he knew Liora often lingered. Water trickled gently over stones, leaves rustled softly—but the space was empty.

Where are you…? he murmured, fear clenching him like a fist. Her tracks had vanished; her scent no longer filled the air. Only the serene whispers of nature remained.

Arlen stepped closer, peering along the bank, inspecting each stone, each bush, every whisper of wind. The emptiness pressed in.

His fist clenched the air; his gaze fixed on the path leading deeper into the forest. I will not let you go… Wherever you are, I will find you. His heart raced, determination driving him forward—toward her, toward her refuge, toward every danger that awaited.

He paused by the stream, eyes scanning the forest, heart pounding. Taking a deep breath, he called with all he had:
“Liora!”

Silence stretched, heavy and endless. Then, faintly, from the distance among roots and shadows, he heard a soft, uncertain rustle. Liora was there, hidden, yet the moment she caught his voice, fear jolted through her.

The forest was alive, every movement potentially dangerous. Her body tensed, muscles alert, yet inside, his voice pulled her forward. Slowly, cautiously, she moved, heart racing.

Arlen settled onto a stone by the stream, eyes tired but focused. A whisper of despair escaped his lips as he murmured her name again, softly, almost invisibly:
“Liora…”

The forest waited, attentive, as if holding its breath. Every sound, every leaf, every breeze acted as both warning and guide—and Liora felt it. Her resolve grew with each step.

She emerged slowly, still breathless. Relief washed over her, tangible, almost overwhelming. He was unharmed… Arlen was safe. She could finally let some of the tension slip.

Without thinking, she spread her wings and flew toward him, flinging herself into his arms. Arlen caught her instinctively. This time, the embrace lingered longer and deeper—both exhaling, letting fear and tension slip away, if only for a moment. He rested his hands protectively on her back, feeling the strength of her wings, her pulse, her life still vibrant and free. In turn, Liora clung to him, the warmth and steadiness of his presence giving her a reprieve from terror. Even thoughts of Elara’s unknown fate paused briefly in the shared heartbeat of this moment.

Finally, Arlen drew back slightly, eyes fixed on hers, voice trembling:
“Liora… danger… it’s coming. And… I… I am part of that danger too.”

Her eyes searched his, questions mingled with relief.
“What do you mean?” she asked, voice edged with fear, but curiosity too, refusing to step back.

Arlen faltered. Revealing everything could put her at risk—or confuse her. Slowly, he whispered:
“If you… hear my voice in the coming days… don’t listen.”

Liora shivered, uncertain. “But… why?”

He drew a deep breath, struggling with fear and guilt for both her and Elara. Every look betrayed his pain and his resolve to protect her—even if it meant keeping her at a distance, even briefly.

Finally, he explained Zevran’s cruel plot, the Vilinka hunt, and his forced role. Liora stepped back, shock and heartbreak washing over her. Her eyes filled with disbelief, and Arlen instinctively reached—but she recoiled, anger and fear coiling.

“I have no other choice,” he said, voice low, almost pleading.

“There's always another way,” Liora snapped, fury sharpening her tone. Her emotions stirred the air, a small whirlwind of her own power.

“Let me explain,” Arlen began. He stopped, hands raised in defense and plea, voice low and broken.
“Liora, listen to me…”

She lifted her gaze, eyes dark as an approaching storm, raw vilish energy stirring.
“What am I supposed to listen to? That you hunt my sisters? That you lured them with a song that once carried only light?”
She stepped back, wary of the shadow now hanging over him.
“Your power, Arlen, was a gift. And you sold it.”

Arlen swallowed, words lodged in his throat. He wanted to explain that he had no choice, that it wasn’t for him. But she would not let him.

“There is always a choice,” she said, and at her words, a wind swirled around her, lifting dry leaves as if the forest itself breathed with her anger.

Arlen took a hesitant step forward.
“I didn’t… want—”

“Enough!” The air between them snapped, like invisible glass shattering. Her eyes now held sorrow, not anger.
“I thought you were different.”

She turned, and the forest seemed to close behind her. Her steps faded in the rustle of leaves. Arlen was left alone by the stream.

The water flowed faster, as if even it wished to flee. His heart ached—not just for Liora, but for Elara too, the weight of both their lives pressing on him. Yet somewhere in that ache, a spark of determination lingered: he would find a way to protect both, no matter the danger.