🌳 Chronicles of Erlanth
Chapter 1 – Bleeding Roots
The light of dawn filtered through the leaves of the enchanted forest. Small beams of sunlight danced across Tom's face as he slept soundly on a massive root, soft as a pillow. His mouth was slightly open, and a bold little fly dared to land dangerously close.
"Tom! Wake up, for the sake of the wise trees!" growled a small, deep voice.
Tom groaned louder than the voice and turned over.
"Five more minutes, Finrral... I was dreaming of an elven princess... or maybe a bakery, not sure…"
Finrral, the duende, crossed his arms with his eternal book tucked under one of them.
"The forest is changing. The border guardians aren't responding. Last night, the moon turned red over the Whispering Valley. That only happens when the balance breaks."
Tom opened one eye.
"And what does that have to do with me?"
Finrral stepped closer, more serious than ever. His voice dropped to a whisper:
"Because you're the only one who can stop it. The chaos has started to move, Tom. And the roots... are bleeding."
Finrral flipped through his old book with trembling hands.
"Centuries ago, when the world still remembered the glory of the elves and the songs of dragons echoed through the skies… there lived a name that became a curse: Groto, the first and bloodiest orc king."
Tom raised an eyebrow.
"The guy from the legend? Isn't that just a story to scare kids?"
"If only it were," whispered the duende. "Groto was real. And under his reign, orcs didn't just conquer mountains and rivers… they conquered souls. He enslaved the free races of Erlanth, built his capital upon the bones of the fallen… and once extinguished the heart of the forest."
Tom swallowed hard.
"But he died, right?"
"He died," Finrral said. "But his shadow never left."
He closed the book with a sharp snap.
They walked through a forest that no longer whispered. The mist tasted metallic, and the trees looked sick. Tom tried to joke, but Finrral barely responded. With every step, they drew closer to the heart of the forest… and to something older than fear.
A crack broke the silence of the path. A soft moan, like a branch breaking… but wetter, more human.
Tom raised his head.
"You heard that?"
Finrral nodded, already alert, book closed in his hands.
They moved carefully through twisted ferns and blackened undergrowth. A few steps ahead, beneath a bleeding bush, lay a slumped figure.
A faun.
His horns were splintered, and his normally golden-brown fur was smeared with mud and blood. He gasped for air like every breath might be his last.
Tom crouched down immediately.
"Hey! Hold on! What happened to you?"
The faun stared at him, panicked.
"They're coming… Orcs… Black squad… They wiped out my village…" he coughed. "Not even the children… not even the trees… were spared…"
"We have to help him!" said Tom, looking at Finrral.
"The Staff Elder is by the Central Tree," replied the duende, already preparing leaves to bind the faun's wounds. "If he survives the journey, the Elder will know what to do."
Together, they lifted the faun, who could barely stay conscious.
As they advanced, the faun spoke in broken whispers:
"Kroto… that's what they call him. The new king… but his eyes aren't new. No. They're ancient. Full of fire… like the legend… like Groto…"
A shiver ran down Tom's spine.
"Kroto?" he murmured. "That's the new orc king's name?"
"Yes…" the faun could barely articulate. "He took the Stone Fortress in a single night… Burns sacred forests… Feeds on fear. He has Groto's eyes, young human… but his fire is even hungrier…"
Finrral's words echoed in Tom's mind:
"Groto was real. But his shadow never left."
And now… that shadow had a name.
They reached the clearing of the Central Tree. An old figure awaited them: the Staff Elder, with a beard of moss and a gaze deep as the roots themselves.
The tree's bark pulsed, as if alive. Thick, dark drops fell like tears.
Tom felt a pressure in his chest. His mind filled with images: scorched roots, broken fairy wings, orc eyes… and his own reflection, blurred in the sap.
The Tree had seen him.
And it had chosen him.
And so, between the bleeding roots and a dying faun's breath, Tom's destiny began.