The world did not know of Elvarin, for it was never meant to.
Far beyond the eyes of mortals, veiled in the deepest green of the Starlit Forest, lay a kingdom hidden beneath an invisible barrier. To the untrained eye, it was only thorns and endless trees, but to those born of its blood, it shimmered like a dream a land where time itself moved gently, as though the forest wished its children never to age.
Silverleaf trees arched like cathedral spires, their branches woven with glowing blossoms that pulsed with soft blue light at night. Rivers of crystal water ran between mossy stones, whispering lullabies. Deer with antlers like crystal glass drank beside wolves with feathered tails, and neither predator nor prey raised fang or claw.
Here, the elves of Elvarin lived in harmony. Their homes were not built but grown living trees sculpted into elegant towers, roots curling into bridges and walkways, lantern-flowers glowing upon every path. Music often drifted across the air, mingling with the soft hum of enchantments.
It was a place of peace, a paradise untouched. And yet, even within paradise, shadows stirred.
Morning came to Elvarin not with noise, but with music.
As dawn spilled silver light through the canopies, the song of the leafbirds rose like a chorus a thousand delicate voices woven into harmony. From the treetop homes, elves emerged in robes spun from silken vines and gowns stitched with petal-thread, their beauty near divine.
Among them moved Elira.
She did not wear gowns of silk, nor jewelry shaped from moon-crystals. Her dress was simple, sewn from coarse flax dyed green, patched at the knees and shoulders where wear had bitten through. While other maidens bore garlands of golden leaves, Elira's hair was tied back with a strip of plain cloth.
Yet no one could deny her beauty. Her eyes, the color of amber under sunlight, glowed with quiet fire. Her skin, dusked by hours beneath the forest sun, made her stand apart from the alabaster tones of highborn elves. There was a grace in her movements, even as she stooped low to gather herbs at the river's edge.
Children ran to her.
"Elira, will you show us the glow-moss trick again?" they cried, tugging at her hand.
She laughed, the sound light and unforced. She brushed her fingers across the moss-covered stones, and the green fungus sparked to life, glowing with an inner blue flame. The children squealed in delight, clapping.
But from the path above, two noble-born maidens passed, their gowns trailing silver threads. One leaned close to the other and whispered loud enough for all to hear:
"Strange, isn't it, how someone so low can bear a face fit for queens? Pity she'll never be more than a herb-gatherer."
The children grew silent, sensing the sting. Elira straightened, eyes lowered, and offered no reply. She had learned long ago that words against the highborn only fed their cruelty. Instead, she gathered her basket, smiled faintly to the little ones, and turned back to her work.
In her heart, though, the whisper echoed a reminder that in this kingdom of wonder, she was a shadow at its edge.
The heart of Elvarin woke with ceremony.
At the break of dawn, when the first sunbeam pierced the misted canopy, the elves gathered in the Moonstone Court a vast circle of pale stone etched with runes older than memory. From every treetop hall and vine-laced dwelling they came, their steps light as wind upon grass.
The highborn nobles walked at the forefront, their cloaks woven with silver-thread that shimmered like starlight, crowns of feather and crystal resting on their brows. Behind them came the warriors, tall and broad, armored in living bark shaped by druid-smiths, carrying spears tipped with glowing quartz.
Drums began to sound slow, deep beats that seemed to echo the very pulse of the forest. Voices rose in a haunting song, half prayer and half command, sung in the Ancient Tongue. The melody wound through the air, lifting the spirit of the kingdom in one united voice.
Elira stood among the crowd at the edge of the court. Her plain dress and woven basket set her apart, but still she sang, her voice soft yet true. She watched as the Elders raised their staffs, summoning sparks of magic that danced in the air like drifting fireflies. To outsiders, it would have been a scene of impossible wonder a people united, radiant, untouchable.
But Elira noticed the divides others ignored.
The highborn children sat closest to the Elders, receiving whispered blessings. The lowborn, like her, lingered at the back. Warriors boasted of hunts and conquests, while the workers and gatherers bowed their heads, invisible.
As the final note of song faded, the High Elder lifted his voice:
"Children of Elvarin, our barrier holds strong. The forest shields us, as it has for a thousand dawns. Give thanks to the gods who keep us hidden."
The crowd cheered. Magic flared brighter. The nobles smiled, radiant in certainty.
Yet Elira felt a flicker of unease. For when the Elder spoke of the barrier, his hand trembled upon his staff.
And from somewhere at the edges of the crowd, she thought she saw a cloaked figure watching eyes cold, sharp as ice.
That night, the forest slept beneath a veil of mist.
Moonlight spilled across the treetops, catching on the crystal domes of noble halls and the rope bridges that swayed gently in the breeze. The barrier shimmered faintly, a veil of light so subtle one could mistake it for starlight but every elf knew it was their shield, the wall that kept enemies at bay.
Elira lay in her small hut near the river's edge. It was a humble dwelling: a thatched roof of moss, walls woven from reeds, the air rich with the scent of drying herbs. Her mother slept in the corner, worn from another long day. Elira sat awake, staring at the flicker of her oil lamp.
That's when she heard it.
A whisper. Soft as breath, curling through the night.
"Elira…"
She froze. The voice was not her mother's. It seemed to come from the air itself, from the very trees outside. She rose, stepping carefully across the creaking floorboards, and opened the door.
The forest glowed faintly under the moon. Fireflies drifted like embers. And there, at the edge of the clearing, stood a figure. Hooded. Cloaked in shadows.
Fear pressed against her ribs, but her feet moved forward.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
The figure did not answer with words. Instead, it lifted its hand. A fragment of glowing crystal shimmered in its palm ancient, broken, as though once part of something greater. The light pulsed, and with it came a rush of images:
A woman running through fire, clutching two newborns to her chest. A kingdom of elves in chains, dragged into snow and darkness. And the barrier of Elvarin, shattered like glass.
Elira gasped, clutching her chest.
The vision faded. The figure was gone. Only the fireflies remained, flickering in the night air.
She stumbled back into her hut, heart racing. Her mother stirred but did not wake.
And though she could not explain why, Elira knew the voice was no dream. It was a warning. A call.
And it had chosen her.
The next morning dawned crisp and golden, dew glittering like glass on every leaf. The elves of Elvarin moved with their usual grace hunters slipping into the trees, healers tending to herb gardens, children darting along bridges spun of vine and light.
But beneath the beauty, unease stirred.
In the Council Hall, a chamber carved into the living heart of a great oak, the High Elder stood with the Circle of Nobles. Their robes rustled softly as they argued, voices low but sharp.
"They are too close," said Lord Caerith, his eyes cold as polished stone. "Our scouts swear they saw shapes in the northern mists. Cloaked men. Not ours."
"Stories," muttered Lady Iranel, fanning herself with disdain. "No outsider has touched Elvarin's border in a thousand years. The barrier holds."
The High Elder's staff struck the floor, silencing them.
"Stories are seeds," he said. "They root in truth." His voice faltered for an instant, so faint only the closest lords noticed. His hand trembled again.
At the edges of the chamber, unseen and unheard, Elira lingered with the other lowborn helpers, bearing water and cloth. She listened, each word sinking into her bones. Strangers in the northern mists. Cloaked men. Not ours.
Later that day, the whispers spread like wildfire. In the markets, fishmongers muttered of trees scarred by frost, though no winter had touched Elvarin in centuries. Children dared one another to run to the barrier, to see if the light still glowed as strong. Hunters returned with less game, saying the woods grew too quiet.
And when the moon rose that night, far beyond the shimmering barrier, the Iceborn scouts watched from the shadows.
They were tall, armored in dark steel rimmed with frost. Their breath misted in the air though no cold stirred the forest. The leader touched the barrier with a gloved hand the light rippled faintly, weaker than it should have been.
He smiled.
"The stories are true. Their magic wanes."
That evening, Elira slipped away from her chores and wandered toward the edge of the forest where the barrier shimmered like woven glass.
The air was quiet here. Too quiet. No birds sang, no insects buzzed. Only the faint hum of the barrier filled the silence.
She reached out. Her fingers brushed the light.
Once, it had been warm like touching sunlight on water. Now, the magic felt thin, brittle, almost cold. She pulled back with a shiver.
"Elira," called her friend Rynel, appearing from the trees with a bow slung across his shoulder. He was tall and strong, a hunter with eyes as sharp as the hawks he trained. "What are you doing here?"
She hesitated. "Listening. It doesn't sound the same."
Rynel frowned, pressing his own hand to the barrier. His brow furrowed. "You're right."
They stood in silence. Beyond the barrier, faint shapes shifted in the fog, too distant to name. Elira's stomach tightened. Were those trees… or watchers?
Rynel forced a smile. "Probably nothing. The elders will fix it."
But his eyes betrayed unease.
As Elira turned to leave, a low crack echoed through the barrier soft, fleeting, like ice splitting in spring thaw. She spun back, heart pounding. The light still shimmered. Whole. Unbroken.
Yet she knew what she had heard.
The shield of Elvarin was fracturing.
And in that moment, she remembered the whisper from the night before. The vision of fire. Chains. Twins in arms.
She pressed a hand to her chest, breath uneven. Something inside her stirred fear, yes, but also a strange sense of being watched. Chosen.
Far away, unseen beyond the fog, the Iceborn scouts marked the sound too. They grinned, retreating to deliver the news.
"Their wall is failing."
Elira slipped away from the chatter of the village and the bustle of the market, walking deeper into the forest until the familiar hum of magic enveloped her.
She reached the sacred grove a hidden circle of shimmering stones, each etched with runes that glowed softly in the moonlight. In the center, a quiet spring mirrored the stars above, its water untouched by wind or rain, perfect and still.
Kneeling by the spring, she folded her hands. Her lips moved in whispers, but the words were not of the old elven gods, whose faces had long since faded from her heart. She prayed instead to the Unknown One, a presence she could feel more than see.
"Give me strength… guide me…" she murmured. "Keep us safe, even if I am nothing."
The wind rustled the leaves above, carrying with it the faintest echo of voices she did not know ancient, soft, promising. The spring's surface shimmered with light, ripples forming patterns she could not name. A warmth stirred in her chest, gentle but insistent, like fire waiting to be unleashed.
Elira bowed her head, unaware that she had taken the first step on a path no elf before her had walked. That prayer, humble and true, was the spark that would ignite destiny.
The first rays of dawn broke through the forest canopy, spilling gold and rose across the stones. The grove glowed with life, ethereal and beautiful.
But in that light, a shadow lingered at the edge of the grove. Beauty and danger intertwined, a reminder that even paradise could be broken.
And as the sun climbed higher, Elira rose, her heart beating fast with a mixture of fear and resolve. She did not yet know what awaited her only that her life, and the fate of all Elvarin, was about to change forever.