(POV Aeltiàfisar)
Fheall dragged me all the way back to the training grounds.
Nalar and Inmus are out there, guiding a group of very young elves through their first sparks of magic. Careful. Patient.
My brother is overseeing everything.
He looks up as we approach—confused. He wasn't expecting us.
We don't slow down.
"Come with us," Fheall orders. Sharp. Unquestionable.
"But—" he starts.
"Later. Questions later. Move."
Something in her tone cuts through his hesitation. He follows.
We lead him into a secluded clearing.
Fheall raises her hands… inhales…
Then exhales.
A single breath. Focused. Powerful.
Light gathers in front of us—condensing into a golden cloud.
And within it—
Two figures.
The Orc King. The Troll King.
We go still. Listening.
They're speaking to a troll—judging by his posture and voice, a garrison commander.
Behind him…
An army.
Massive. Fully assembled.
Trolls. Orc warriors. Ready.
My gaze flicks to Baelkers. Then to Fheall.
Shock. Silent. Heavy.
They feel it too.
This is worse than we thought.
Or maybe…
Exactly what we feared.
A faint sound breaks the moment.
We turn.
Baelnes.
The elven spy.
Why is he here? Shouldn't he be with Bàistec?
Unless—
He knows something.
"Forgive me… may I?" he asks quietly.
"Come forward," I say.
He bows slightly.
"Thank you. What I have to tell you… concerns them."
(POV Dorcha)
Two weeks.
Two weeks of walking. Flying. Circling.
This same clearing.
The same trees.
The same rocks.
The same water.
Over and over again.
And nothing.
No entrance. No passage. No sign.
It's as if the Inner Realm… simply doesn't exist.
Worse—
We haven't seen a single living thing.
No animals.
No spirits.
No sprites.
Nothing.
A dead land.
A ghost realm.
At one point, I thought we were trapped in an illusion.
I tested it.
Counter-spell.
Nothing broke.
This is real.
Which makes it even worse.
Dawn.
Another day.
Another chance.
Or our mission ends here.
"Grrrrroooooooooooooooooaaaaarrrrrrr."
I spin.
So do Aileen and Grogher.
Sidae.
The roar shakes the air itself.
Raertha and Hercules move beside him—solemn… reverent.
They lower themselves. One knee. Heads bowed.
And then it clicks.
Of course.
Not the fairies.
The sprites.
Why didn't we think of it before?
We follow their lead.
Drop low. Heads bowed.
Aileen places an acorn at the center.
Simple.
Perfect.
A bridge.
(POV Aileen)
The acorn… is glowing.
Soft at first.
Then brighter.
And then—
Something appears.
A tiny figure, perched right on top of it.
Small. Delicate.
Oh…
He's adorable.
…He reminds me of Helbert.
My chest tightens.
Helbert…
His body is like a miniature elf.
He's wearing a soft green tunic and trousers, the color of fresh grass. A pointed cap. Brown curled shoes like the earth itself.
His face is lively—round nose, bright black eyes full of spark.
Ageless.
He looks young… but he could be ancient.
"Who are you? What do you want?" he chirps, voice sharp and ringing.
"You're… a sprite…" I whisper, a little breathless.
"Of course I am. You called me, didn't you?" he snaps. "And for your information, clouder girl —I'm not a sprite. I'm the Chief of the sprites. Name's Brick. And you've disturbed me."
He folds his arms.
"Well? What do you want?!"
I straighten slightly.
"Just to speak with you. Calmly. If that's possible… Chief Brick?" I ask, careful. Respectful.
"Just Brick," he cuts in. "And yes, it's possible."
He squints at me.
"That glow around you… I've seen it before. Who are you?"
"I'm Aileen. Princess of Cloudland."
His expression shifts—instantly.
Recognition.
"Queen Eloria's daughter!" he exclaims, lighting up. "I remember the day you were born—you were radiant! Like a star fallen from the sky!"
He tilts his head.
"…Though I could've sworn you were smaller. Hah—must be my memory failing with age."
He smiles.
"It's a pleasure, little one. Tell me—how are your parents? And my dear friend Helbert?"
My throat closes.
My vision blurs.
No.
Not now.
I lower my gaze, fighting it back.
I won't cry.
Not here.
Not in front of him.
Brick steps closer, suddenly tense.
"What happened?" he demands. "Why are you crying? Speak!"
Dorcha moves instantly.
"Chief Brick—"
Brick snaps his head toward him. Sharp. Irritated.
Dorcha catches it immediately.
"Brick. Just Brick, right. That's… actually why we're here," he says, more carefully now.
A pause.
Then—
"Good," Brick says.
"I'm listening."
(POV Brick)
I settle myself comfortably atop the acorn—good seat, this—and listen.
Really listen.
Not a single word slips past me.
If this strange little group made it all the way here… then something big has happened.
Something very big.
I drink in every detail.
Slowly… the pieces fall into place.
So it's true.
What I feared—what we feared, back at the Council—
It's all real.
…How terrible.
That flash in the sky months ago…
So that's what it was.
That's why the flowers vanished.
Why the animals disappeared.
Why our beautiful realm has rotted into what it is now.
Everything lines up.
Everything.
And these children…
They might be the answer we've been searching for.
I lean forward slightly.
"There's only one way to enter the Inner Realm… and meet the Fair Folk," I say at last.
Their eyes lock on me.
"You must become Honorary Sprites."
A beat.
"Learn to move through space as we do. And more importantly…"
I pause.
"…you must learn to perceive the true scents of nature."
Silence.
"Fail that… and you will never enter."
The orc-troll frowns.
"The trrrrue scents…?" he rumbles, confused.
Of course.
I sigh lightly.
"Let me show you."
I gesture around us.
"Tell me. What do you smell right now?"
"Grass," Aileen answers immediately.
"Yeah… and pine," the boy adds, sniffing the air.
"And… rrrrdew!" the giant finishes proudly.
…
Not one of them got it right.
"Mm. And do you know what I smell?" I ask.
They stare at me.
Perplexed.
Fair enough.
"Rot," I say.
"Mud. Decay. Mold."
Their expressions shift.
"You're still sensing the echo of what once was. The past clinging to this place."
I tap the acorn beneath my feet.
"I smell the present."
A pause.
"Something has gone terribly wrong here. Something far worse than you realize."
Their attention sharpens.
"Yes, yes—the destruction of the Scroll," I continue. "Of course. But…"
I narrow my eyes slightly.
"…I suspect there's more."
"More?" the girl asks quietly.
I let out a slow breath.
"I wish I knew."
Silence settles for a moment.
Then—
"What I do know is this: we sprites have not yet found a way to mend what's been broken."
I look at them. One by one.
Steady.
Measuring.
"You are our only chance."
I hop lightly down from the acorn.
"Come with me."
A small smile.
"It's time you met the Council."
(POV Baelkers)
Baelnes finishes speaking.
He's shaken. Deeply.
I can't blame him.
What he's seen… what he's risked…
It's no small thing.
"What you've told us confirms everything we witnessed," Aeltiàfisar says. Calm. Measured. "Thank you, Baelnes. Your warning matters."
Fheall places a hand gently on his arm.
"You've shown great courage," she adds softly.
Baelnes lowers his gaze, almost overwhelmed.
I step forward.
"There's no other path now," I say.
The words land heavy.
"We must rally the other Realms. Form an army."
No hesitation.
"No matter how strong Aileen and her companions are… they cannot stand alone against the united forces of Orcs and Trolls."
I exhale.
"And the restoration of the Scroll is too important to risk failure."
Fheall nods.
And in that instant—
She changes.
Her posture straightens. Sharpens.
Command returns to her like it never left.
Time passes…
But some things never fade.
"I will speak with my Sovereigns," she declares. "The Royal Army of the Gnomes must be alerted."
She turns to us.
"You—contact Adalberto. Nèilos. Selìna."
Her voice is steady. Precise.
"Together, we'll reach the People of the Water and prepare them."
A beat.
"Then we regroup… and head for the Realm of the Winged Magic."
A shadow flickers across her eyes.
"Let's just hope we're not too late."
"We won't be," I tell her.
And I mean it.
(POV Baelnes)
I can't stop staring at them.
The three of them.
These so-called "old warriors."
I remember what Bàistec and Urchoicha used to say—
They're nothing. Just three worn-out relics.
…
They wish.
These three—
They carry something I've never seen before.
Power, yes.
But more than that—
Presence.
Breath.
A quiet, unshakable force.
It lives in their eyes.
Now I understand.
Why stories follow them.
Why legends cling to their names.
The Knights of the Golden Light…
They're real.
And now that I know who they truly are—
There's no point holding back anymore.
They need to know.
It's too important.
I step forward.
"Before you go… there's something else."
My voice tightens.
"I need to tell you."
A breath.
"I am… the Keeper of Glàre's Heart."
(POV Urchoicha)
"And now… to Iarrthòir. Follow me!" Scrios barks.
He yanks his Mountcur upward and dives toward the depths of the mountain.
Damn this cursed bird—
I nearly slip.
"Who is Iarrthòir?!" I shout, fighting the wind tearing at my voice.
Holding onto this beast is a nightmare.
"The Chief of the Mountain Gnomes!" Scrios yells back.
Badney's mount pulls up beside us.
Poor Bàistec.
His face has gone from green… to violet… to something disturbingly close to corpse-white.
He's about to be sick.
Scrios notices too.
"Korrrrage, Bàistek! We're alrrrmost therrre!"
I hope so.
…
For once—
Scrios wasn't lying.
Within minutes, we land.
The Mountcur drop us at the base of a jagged mountain chain.
Before us—
A dense network of tunnels, yawning open like wounds in the rock.
"This is the only way to reach the Mountain Gnomes," Scrios says.
Of course it is.
These gnomes are nothing like the others.
Not like the ones of the twin rainbows.
These—
Are different.
Greedy. Suspicious. Clinging to stone and gold like starving beasts.
They shun the sun.
Since their exile, they've barely surfaced—only when absolutely necessary.
We dismount.
A few of them are already watching us.
Short. Thick-bodied. Crooked.
Hard eyes. Harsh features.
Rough burlap clothing. Bare feet.
Disgusting.
We move toward the first tunnel.
Or rather—
We crawl.
It's so low we have no choice.
An insult.
A humiliation.
Barely ten meters in—
Two of them block our path.
Spears raised. Sharp. Ready.
"Who goes there?" one of them growls, voice deep and rough.
If my knees weren't screaming, I'd laugh.
A speck… with a thunder voice.
"Skrios, King of the Trolls. Your sovereign," Scrios declares. "And Bàistek, King of the Orrrks. Your ally. With their queens. We demand to speak with your Chief—Gnôme Iarrthòir."
The guard studies us for a moment.
Then—
"Wait here. You—go get him," he snaps to his companion.
The other disappears into the darkness.
The first keeps his spear leveled at us.
Pathetic.
I shift slightly, already aching from this miserable crouch.
I'm done with this position.
Let him hurry.
Before I lose what little patience I have left.