The forest did not welcome all. But it did not turn her away.
Elira staggered into the outer edge of the Whispering Vale just before the second arrow fell. The trees were tall and pale, their trunks swaying as though breathing. Mist laced the undergrowth, and the air shimmered—thick with a quiet that pressed against the soul.
Behind her, the shadows stopped.
The assassins had reached the threshold... but they did not enter.
One of them hissed. The others simply faded into the dark, as if the forest had swallowed them without a sound.
Elira fell to her knees, gasping. Her daughter remained asleep, tucked tightly against her chest.
Still silent. Still alive.
She pressed her forehead to the soil and whispered, "I've brought her. Please... if your spirit lives, Aetheris, accept this final offering."
There was no answer.
Only silence.
And then... the wind began to move.
---
The forest exhaled. Trees bent as if listening. Petals bloomed where none should have grown. The veil between the divine and the living trembled, thin and shimmering like ripples across a lake.
Elira rose shakily. Her legs were numb. Her arms ached from holding the child for so long. But she had come this far.
She stepped deeper into the glade, guided by an unseen pull.
At the center of the Vale lay the Ruins of Aetheris—an ancient altar carved from black crystal, encircled by hollowed pillars and moonflowers.
No one had stood there in centuries.
Elira moved toward it, each step slower, her breath becoming frost.
"Let her live," she whispered. "Let the world forget... until she is ready to be remembered."
She knelt and placed the child upon the altar.
---
The air thickened.
A whisper echoed through the leaves—not in a voice, but in feeling.
Blood of my blood. Vessel of two worlds.
The child stirred.
Elira's eyes filled with tears. "Is it you?"
The altar glowed faintly beneath the child's body. Symbols emerged in soft light—old glyphs of rebirth and concealment. Not a shield. A seal.
A seal of silence.
She shall be hidden from death's hand, from prophecy's tongue, and from those who would name her.
The light traced the child's chest. A faint mark shimmered like falling ash: a circle with five crossing lines.
And then, the whisper spoke again—just once.
Lysara.
Elira gasped. "Her name?"
A warmth passed through the forest like breath.
So it shall be.
---
Elira collapsed beside the altar, her hand reaching out to brush the baby's fingers. "Lysara," she breathed. "You are loved."
The wind stilled. The forest hushed. Her body, finally giving in to exhaustion and magic's toll, could go no further.
She smiled faintly. "Your brother has your eyes," she murmured. "He'll protect you... when he remembers."
The last thing she saw was the child's tiny hand opening toward the sky.
And then the Empress of Aetheria closed her eyes.
The forest drew its breath.
And the world forgot.
---
Far away, in the capital, the Emperor woke with a start. The night was cold. The moon still missing. And something in his chest told him she was gone.
---