The road north was quieter.
Colder.
Less forgiving.
As Constantine moved further from Ardelion, the presence of people thinned.
Villages became sparse.
Caravans rarer.
Even the air itself seemed different—sharper, cleaner, untouched by the constant churn of civilization.
But Constantine did not slow.
His direction was clear.
Every record.
Every fragment.
Every trace of those "touched" by the Netherworld pointed toward one place.
A land few humans had ever truly seen.
A land whispered in myths more than recorded in history.
Sylvaranth.
The Land of Elves.
Even among scholars, information about Sylvaranth was scarce.
What little was known came from accounts centuries old.
Travelers who had entered its borders—
And somehow returned.
They described a forest without end.
Trees so vast they seemed to pierce the sky.
Light filtered through layers of leaves like fragments of gold.
And paths that shifted as if the forest itself were alive.
But the most consistent detail was this—
Elves did not welcome humans.
They did not trade.
Did not negotiate.
Did not interact.
They simply… allowed or denied entry.
And those who were denied—
Were never seen again.
Constantine stepped onto the final stretch of land before the forest.
The ground softened beneath his boots.
The air grew still.
And ahead—
He could hear it.
Not wind.
Not animals.
But something deeper.
A quiet, endless rustling.
As if the forest itself breathed.
The entrance to Sylvaranth was not marked by walls or gates.
It was marked by absence.
The moment Constantine stepped past a certain point—
The sounds of the outside world vanished.
No distant roads.
No human voices.
No signs of civilization.
Only the forest.
Gigantic trees rose around him.
Their trunks wider than entire buildings.
Their roots twisted like ancient serpents across the earth.
The canopy above was so dense it turned daylight into a dim, green twilight.
Constantine stopped.
Listening.
Nothing.
No footsteps.
No movement.
No signs of life.
And yet—
He knew.
He was not alone.
The elves were watching.
Constantine resumed walking.
His pace remained calm.
Measured.
Unthreatening.
A wandering merchant.
Lost.
That was the role he had chosen.
If Sylvaranth truly operated on permission—
Then aggression would only lead to death.
He adjusted the strap of his bag slightly.
Ensuring the coins inside made a faint, natural sound.
A merchant's presence.
Deliberate.
Believable.
He walked deeper.
Minutes passed.
Then an hour.
Then more.
The forest did not change.
No landmarks.
No paths.
Only endless trees.
It was said that Sylvaranth had no exit unless the elves allowed it.
Constantine continued anyway.
Because turning back was not an option.
As he walked—
He reviewed the reason he had come.
The records had mentioned only one viable lead.
One name that appeared repeatedly across centuries.
A figure dismissed as a myth.
A warning.
Or madness.
Vaelthir.
The Mad Elf.
Unlike other elves, Vaelthir did not avoid knowledge.
He pursued it.
Obsessively.
Relentlessly.
Every form of magic.
Every discipline.
Every forbidden art.
The records described him as a collector.
Not of objects—
But of power.
And among all the accounts, one detail stood out.
Vaelthir had achieved something impossible.
He had learned Rune Magic.
Not through inheritance.
Not through ritual.
But through sheer obsession.
He had sought out a Netherworld entity—
And survived the encounter.
That alone made him valuable.
But it also made him dangerous.
Elves already possessed long lifespans.
A thousand years or more.
Their bodies resilient.
Their minds vast.
If someone like Vaelthir had truly learned rune magic—
Then he was not simply a scholar.
He was something far worse.
Constantine stopped.
A sound.
Faint.
Almost nonexistent.
A shift in air.
Then—
A voice.
Cold.
Calm.
From nowhere and everywhere at once.
"You do not belong here."
Constantine remained still.
Then he spoke evenly.
"I am a wandering merchant."
"I lost my way."
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Judging.
Then—
The voice returned.
"No human 'loses their way' into Sylvaranth."
Constantine did not respond immediately.
Then—
"I seek passage."
A pause.
Longer this time.
Then—
"Humans are not permitted passage."
Constantine tilted his head slightly.
"Then I will leave."
Another silence.
Different.
Sharper.
As if the speaker was evaluating him.
Testing.
Then—
"…you would walk back the way you came?"
"Yes."
"You would not search for what you came here for?"
Constantine answered calmly.
"I go where I am allowed."
Silence.
Then—
A shift.
The forest changed.
Slightly.
Subtly.
The air grew heavier.
The presence around him sharpened.
Then—
Footsteps.
Light.
Silent.
Someone approaching.
Constantine did not move.
A figure stopped a few steps in front of him.
He could not see.
But he could feel it.
The presence was unlike anything human.
Refined.
Ancient.
Controlled.
"…you lie well," the voice said quietly.
Constantine responded without hesitation.
"I speak only what is necessary."
A soft exhale.
Almost amusement.
"…interesting."
A pause.
Then—
"State your true purpose."
Constantine did not hesitate.
"I seek Vaelthir."
Silence.
Absolute.
The air itself seemed to still.
Then—
The voice changed.
Colder.
Sharper.
"…you speak the name of a cursed one."
Constantine remained calm.
"I seek knowledge."
A long pause followed.
Then—
A quiet, almost dangerous whisper.
"…then you seek death."
Constantine answered simply.
"That is acceptable."
Another silence.
But this time—
It was different.
Not rejection.
Not hostility.
But something closer to curiosity.
Then—
The figure stepped back.
"…follow."
Constantine did not hesitate.
He stepped forward.
Deeper into Sylvaranth.