Threads of Despair and Light

Arlen walked through the forest like a man who had lost all directions. Every snapping branch sounded like a reminder. When he reached home with his horse, the little cottage felt foreign. The air was cold, as if the warmth Liora had brought had vanished. In the corner hung her cloak—the one he had given her on the first night. Now it was just a piece of cloth.

He sat at the table. His gaze lingered on the empty cup. A few drops of tea still remained, the tea she had once prepared with Elara. His thoughts wandered—Elara, Liora, Zevran, his song that now hunted the vilinkas.

His voice cracked as he spoke into the emptiness:

“What have I done?”

A wind stopped at the doorway, as if listening. The air in the room grew heavy, filled with a silence sharper than a scream. Arlen covered his face with his hands. He did not cry. He only breathed too fast, like someone trying to hold onto a world slipping through his fingers.

Far away, deep in the heart of the forest, Liora sat among the roots of an ancient tree. Her hair shimmered in the moonlight, but her face was empty. Her fingers trembled faintly as they touched the earth.

“Why can’t I hate you, Arlen?” she whispered.

The forest did not answer. Only the leaves stirred, as if trying to comfort her voice.

Both in silence, each alone, felt the same pain, unaware that they were still connected by the same pulse, the same song that had been born when they first looked at each other.

In the hall of Lyria, the air trembled with tension. The sky outside was dark as lead, with occasional flashes of light warning that something moved across the mountains.

Aelira stood near the throne, her light weaker this time, cold.

“He is still asleep,” she said quietly, almost pleading. “He does not respond to the calls, nor to the song of the trees.”

Alaric interrupted her, his voice low, steady, filled with determination.

“He must wake.”

Aelira paused and looked at the king. “We have to hope. Only he can save us from Zevran. No one else has the power to stop what is coming. Lyria alone will not withstand it.”

“Hope is a fragile weapon,” he said softly, almost mournfully.

“But sometimes, it’s all that remains,” she replied.

The king slowly turned north, where Guardian had once saved all worlds. In his gaze there was both burden and faith—as if he were ready to risk everything, even Lyria itself, if it meant the Guardian would open his eyes again.

Next day the Zevran’s camp spread its black banners at the edge of the Gaiane forest. The air was thick, saturated with the metallic smell of weapons and smoke. Amid it all stood Arlen—clad in a dark cloak.

Each breath cut his throat.

Zevran approached him, a smile devoid of warmth.

“Your voice will open the gates for me, Arlen. The vilinkas will come on their own. You will be my key, your song their command.”

Arlen bowed slightly, averting his eyes so Zevran could not see the emptiness within them.

Inside, he felt chaos—every note of his song was a weapon, every word a betrayal. And yet… somewhere in the distance, through layers of pain, he felt something pure. Liora’s breath.

“For Elara,” he whispered to himself. “I must endure…”

As he began to sing, the air changed. The trees of Gaiane trembled, flowers closed, leaves curled as if trying to flee.

Liora, hidden deep in the forest’s heart, heard the song. Her body tensed. Her heart ached—this was not the voice she knew. This song was danger.

“No, Arlen…” she whispered. The vilinkas around her were frightened, some already moving toward the sound, enchanted by the power of the song.

Liora struggled with herself, with every pulse. Her song wanted to respond—the vilinka nature could not resist the call, but her mind screamed: you must not.

Liora’s knees weakened as Arlen’s voice filled the forest. It was like a river that once sang life, now cutting through soil and roots. She tried to hold her breath, pressing her hands over her ears, but the vibrations came from within.

Her sisters fell one by one into the captive song. The forest wept, yet it could not defend itself.

Liora stepped forward, barefoot, trembling, yet her face was calm, almost resigned.

“Arlen…” she whispered. In that moment, she did not see him, but she felt every note, every fracture of his soul. There was no hatred in him. Only despair. And a love bleeding through darkness.

The air was dense. The sound cut it into pieces.

Liora fell to her knees. Her eyes filled with tears of light.

“If this is your song… then… let it guide me,” she said softly.

Arlen, mid-song, suddenly felt something—warmth piercing the darkness. His eyes widened as he saw her.

“No… Liora, no…” he stammered.

The fairy he had once saved now walked straight into the trap, into his song.

And as Zevran’s soldiers spread the nets of light and tore into the darkness, Arlen cried out—not a song, but a raw, torn scream that shattered the sorcerer’s control for a moment.

“NO!”

The air broke in an echo. Liora’s gaze met his as the nets enveloped her. Tears streamed down her face, but her expression was not hateful. It was sorrowful.

“Why did you do this to us, Arlen?”

And then everything collapsed.

Arlen stood where Liora had just been, now her face caught in a misty web of light. His hands froze, unable to move; his voice was broken, as if the melody had been ripped from his heart.

“Liora…” he whispered, the word echoing through the forest, which still felt her spirit but could not protect her. Every note of his cry shook the ground, yet the nets remained unbroken.

The wind brought her scent—the smell of forest soil and flowers, now intertwined with pain—and Arlen felt his heart slowly shattering. His eyes blurred with tears, but his soul remained steadfast—he knew he had to stay clear-headed, even though everything in him screamed.

Zevran stood in the shadow of the trees, his smile sliding over his face like black ice.

“Look, Arlen,” he said coldly, “this is the cost. If you want Elara, if you want your peace… listen and fulfill your part.”

Arlen clenched his fist with anguish. Every part of him urged rebellion, yet at the thought of Elara depending on him, he realized the bitter truth. I must, because if I don’t… I will lose everything.

The forest around him whispered; the trees shivered slightly, as if sensing his pain, and the birds were silent. His voice, which had once brought life, had become a weapon—and now this weapon was destroying everything he loved.

Arlen bowed his head, his heart heavy as stone.

“Forgive me, Liora…” he whispered into the emptiness, as the soldiers slowly carried the nets forward, her face still bathed in the soft light that defied the darkness.

In that moment, Arlen knew that everything he had known was about to change—that every step he took, every breath, every sound of his voice would determine the fate not only of himself but of all he loved.