The palace hall swallowed the afternoon sun, its light fracturing through stained-glass windows depicting ancient elven victories and mythical beasts.
Towering pillars, carved from white marble veined with shimmering gold, soared to a vaulted ceiling where constellations of polished amber glowed, independent of the fading day.
The air, cool and smelling of cedar and something sharp, like ozone after a distant storm, hummed with a subtle, resonant energy.
Every surface, from the intricate mosaic floor underfoot to the delicate filigree adorning the archways, spoke of power and age.
Lord Althaeon, his posture a rigid column of emerald green and silver, led the way. His steps, silent as falling snow, echoed Keith's heavier tread and Evelyn's softer rustle beside him.
Keith's blood-red eyes, still adjusting to the shifting light, darted across the opulent expanse.
The stone beneath his boots felt alive, vibrating with an unseen pulse.
A tremor, faint but undeniable, traced a path up his spine.
It wasn't cold; it was the prickle of raw power, a sensation that had become a constant companion since the guardian elf's touch in [The Dark Forest].
He clenched his fists, the tips of his fingers tingling. The King. This was it. The weight of the impending meeting pressed down, a physical burden.
Althaeon stopped before a set of colossal doors, crafted from a wood darker than night, yet gleaming with embedded moonstone.
Runes, intricate and alien, pulsed with a soft, internal light along their frames.
The air here was thicker, charged with an undeniable presence.
"Beyond these doors," Althaeon's voice, a low rumble, seemed to vibrate through the very stone, "stands King Aerion. Approach with respect. Speak only when addressed. Your purpose here is significant, young Keith. Do not falter."
Keith swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
Evelyn squeezed his arm, a brief, reassuring pressure. Her eyes, wide and fixed on the immense doors, mirrored his own apprehension.
A deep thrum, like the resonance of a massive harp string, vibrated through the doors.
They swung inward, not with a creak or a groan, but with a silent, fluid grace, revealing a chamber that dwarfed the hall they had just traversed.
The throne room.
It was a cavern of polished obsidian and living crystal.
A single, colossal crystal, impossibly tall, shot from the floor to the zenith of the domed ceiling, shedding an ethereal, cool blue light that painted the entire space in shades of midnight and sapphire.
Water, clear as glass, cascaded down its crystalline facets, pooling into a shallow, glowing basin at its base before vanishing into unseen channels.
The air, humid and fresh, carried the scent of wet stone and something metallic, like lightning.
At the far end of the chamber, raised on a dais of swirling dark stone, sat the Elven King.
He was not what Keith expected. Not a wizened elder, but a being of breathtaking, terrifying beauty.
King Aerion's skin shimmered, a living tapestry of moonlight and shadow, his eyes twin pools of liquid gold that seemed to hold the very essence of the stars.
His hair, a cascade of pure white, flowed like spun silver over shoulders draped in robes of deep violet woven with threads that caught the light like scattered diamonds.
He sat upon a throne of gnarled, luminous wood, roots twisting up from the dais, embracing him like a living embrace.
A crown, delicate and intricate, fashioned from what looked like woven starlight, rested on his brow.
He exuded an aura of ancient power, serene yet utterly dominant, like a mountain that had stood since the dawn of time.
No guards stood near him. No courtiers.
Only the King, the crystal, and the echoing silence.
Althaeon bowed, a deep, reverent inclination that seemed to humble even his formidable presence.
Keith, a beat late, followed suit, a clumsy dip that felt inadequate in the face of such majesty.
Evelyn, ever graceful, sank into a low, elegant curtsy.
"Rise, Lord Althaeon," the King's voice resonated through the chamber, not loud, but with a depth that vibrated in Keith's bones.
It was a melody and a command, a whisper and a roar. "And bring forth your guests."
Althaeon straightened, a flicker of something unreadable in his usually impassive eyes.
He motioned for Keith and Evelyn to approach the dais. Each step felt like walking on glass.
The King's golden gaze, unwavering, fixed on Keith. It wasn't a stare of malice, but one of intense scrutiny, as if Aerion peered directly into his soul.
Keith felt a strange pressure, a warmth spreading through his chest, then a faint chill. His magic, dormant for days, stirred, a phantom hum beneath his skin.
"You are Keith," the King's voice, a silken thread, wove through the air. "The one touched by the Whisperer."
Keith's breath hitched. The Whisperer. That was the name the guardian elf had called herself. He hadn't known.
He had only known the ancient, gnarled being who had pressed a hand to his forehead and awakened something profound within him.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Keith managed, his voice rough, barely a whisper in the vast chamber.
"And you, young one," the King's gaze shifted to Evelyn, a soft smile, barely there, touched his lips. "You are his constant shadow. A loyal heart, indeed."
Evelyn's cheeks flushed, a rare splash of color. She dipped her head again.
"The Guardian of the Grove," the King continued, his golden eyes returning to Keith, "does not bestow her gifts lightly. Her touch is rare, reserved for those whose threads are intricately woven into the tapestry of fate. Tell me, boy, what do you feel?"
Keith shifted his weight. How to describe it?
The constant hum, the sense of something vast and untamed stirring within him, the way the world seemed to shimmer at the edges of his vision.
"A warmth, Your Majesty," he began, choosing his words carefully. "A… pressure. Like something is waking up inside me. The world feels… different. Sharper. Louder."
He hesitated, then added, "And sometimes, a coldness. A strange echo."
The King's gaze intensified. "Ah, yes. The echo. It is the signature of the old magic. The magic of the First Bloom. Do you know what has been granted to you, young Keith?"
Keith shook his head. "Only that it is magic, Your Majesty. The guardian elf… she said it was a connection. To the heart of the forest."
A low, resonant sound, like the deep sigh of ancient trees, emanated from the King.
"More than a connection, child. You have been granted a spark of the Primeval Song. The very essence that flows through the roots of this world. It is the magic of creation, of life, and of the raw, untamed forces that shaped our reality. It is a gift of immense power, but also of immense responsibility."
Keith felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach.
Responsibility.
He was just a boy from another world, thrust into a world of ancient forests and magical kingdoms.
"Such power," the King continued, his voice taking on a deeper, more somber tone, "is sought by many. And corrupted by others. It is a beacon in the dark, and darkness will always seek to extinguish it, or twist it to its own designs."
A shiver ran down Keith's spine. The suspenseful tone of the King's words hung heavy in the air, a premonition of danger.
He thought of the whispers in [The Dark Forest], the shadowy figures he'd glimpsed, the feeling of being watched.
"The Whisperer," the King mused, his golden eyes distant, as if seeing beyond the chamber walls, "has not chosen a vessel in centuries. The last was… before the Great Sundering. Before the Veil thinned. Her decision speaks of an urgency, a necessity that transcends our understanding."
He paused, then his gaze snapped back to Keith, sharp and piercing. "You are now a nexus, boy. A point where ancient energies converge. This gift, however, is untamed within you. A wild fire. Without guidance, it could consume you. Or worse, be turned against you, or against those you seek to protect."
The words struck Keith like a physical blow.
Consume him?
He remembered the strange, uncontrolled surges of energy he'd felt, the way his hands sometimes tingled with an unseen force.
He'd dismissed it as novelty, as a sign of his new ability. Now, a more sinister interpretation settled in.
Evelyn, sensing his unease, took a half-step closer, her hand instinctively reaching for his arm, then hesitating.
"You speak of danger, Your Majesty," Keith managed, his voice a little stronger now, a spark of defiance in his eyes. "What kind of danger?"
The King's lips thinned, a shadow passing over his luminous features.
"The kind that seeks to unravel the very fabric of existence. The kind that slumbers in forgotten places, waiting for an opportunity. Your awakening, Keith, is a tremor in the earth that has been felt across realms. It stirs ancient enemies, and it draws them closer."
The air in the chamber seemed to grow heavier, colder.
Keith felt a prickling sensation on his skin, as if unseen eyes were watching them from the shadows that clung to the edges of the vast room.
[A/N: Hello guys it's been a while, hope you've been well. There are going to be some adjustments to the plot but don't worry you guys are going to enjoy it. Thanks for the support so far.]