The night had left a breath of moss on the forest. A light mist rose between the trunks like a secret.
"First, we listen," Lioran said. "We don't move until the forest has accepted you."
Kaelios bowed his head. He was still only a silhouette draped in light—a nebula that roughly imitated a body. The edges of his form flickered sometimes, like a sky punctured by constellations. This detail annoyed Lioran:
"When you shimmer like that, even a blind boar can spot you. Calm your light, brother of the stars."
Aeni, advise?
Aeni: Recommendation: radiation modulation. Use Primal Will to stabilize aura at 12% emission.
Apply?
— Yes.
Kaelios's glow weakened, becoming a discreet halo, barely brighter than the reflection of dawn on a leaf.
"Better," Lioran approved. "Now, leaf-foot."
He demonstrated. Place the foot in the shadow of the leaf, then roll your weight toward the root. No crunching. Lioran moved with the elegance of a dancer, his dark hair tied back, his brown-gold eyes observing everything. He had a way of laughing softly whenever Kaelios made a sound.
"Don't worry. In a year, you'll be almost as good as me."
"A year?"
"Hasty people end up swallowed by a carnivorous bush. Or by politics, which amounts to the same thing."
Early Days — The Grammar of the Forest
They learned to distinguish dead wood from damp wood, to guess the direction of the sap beneath the bark. Lioran spoke of the invisible paths followed by sylphs; of stones which, piled three by three, indicated an ancient border.
"Elves don't have a kingdom," he said, "but the forest remembers for us."
In the evening, Lioran lit a tiny fire, hidden in a hollow in the ground; Kaelios, fascinated, watched the filaments of heat as one would read a celestial map.
"You look as if the fire owes you an explanation," Lioran scoffed.
"It's giving me one," Kaelios replied.
Aeni: Activation: Divine Analysis — passive mode.
Observation: controlled combustion; gas, pressures, micro-air currents. Conversion into schematics.
Glyphs floated on the edge of his mind. Kaelios only had to will them for the flames to obey. He held back. Lioran said: learn first, bend later.
At night, Kaelios dreamed. Not of stars or gods: white stone walls, corridors where boots clacked, a golden crown placed on a purple cushion. Cries. A brother's gaze. A smile that was too calm. Then the cold.
"You always frown in your sleep," Lioran noted in the morning. "Bad dreams?"
"I don't know if they're dreams... or memories returning in fragments."
"Then we'll let them come. When they want to."
Universal Memory — Reading the Unknown
On the fifth day, they reached a forest hamlet: a few suspended platforms, connected by rope bridges. The inhabitants—elves with hazel-brown skin and sharp eyes—looked at Kaelios with the caution reserved for phenomena. Lioran reassured them:
"He's a friend. He pays his share. And he only shines when he sneezes."
An old artisan gave them wooden tablets covered with signs. "Sap tallies," he explained. Lioran didn't know how to read those numbers. Kaelios stopped and stared at the runes.
Aeni: Corpus crossover. Universal Memory: extraction of common mathematical structures.
Result: hybrid quinary system. Conversion possible.
"You can read that?" Lioran asked, amazed.
"My mind... can."
"Keep that to yourself. The gods don't like what understands too quickly."
They helped sort the tallies. In exchange, they were offered sap cakes and braided bark to camouflage Kaelios's glow. Lioran joked:
"There, you have a local fashion: the autumn-foliage collection."
First Danger — The Shadow Hounds
On the seventh evening, the forest's mood changed. The wind no longer passed between the branches; it clung to them.
"We're being followed," Lioran whispered. "Keep your lights cold."
Three shadow hounds appeared, with ink-black fur and fangs of frost. They were ancillary creatures sent by priests of the god Vael'Tor—Lioran recognized them by the ritual cuts carved into their flanks.
"They're not after you for your beauty," he said, drawing two short blades. "It looks like a god felt something unusual when you appeared."
Kaelios felt an inner surge, an ocean of will.
Aeni: Usage authorization: Primal Will — limited intensity (level 1). Effect: mental coercion, pressure of existence.
— Authorized.
The clearing bent. The hounds slowed as if the air had turned to stone. Lioran leaped, precise, cut tendons, avoided the icy bite. Kaelios held out his hand:
Divine Analysis — trajectory, speed, weakness of the shadow links.
He traced an arc of dark light in the air that cleanly cut the ritual chain linking the three beasts. They dissipated into cold ash.
"Now that was impressive," Lioran said, panting.
"It's like I knew where to strike."
"Keep that talent... and the modesty," he added with a wink.
They buried the broken collars under a stone. Lioran grew serious:
"If a priest has marked us, the Inquisition will eventually come. The gods don't like anomalies. And you, my friend, you're an anomaly with special effects."
The Sanctuary of Clear Leaves
Two weeks passed. Lioran taught the silent codes—fingers, whistles, stones placed in a certain way. Kaelios assimilated everything with the ease of a river finding the sea.
"We're here," Lioran said one morning. "Clear Leaves. An ancient sanctuary, guarded by druids. They heal, they listen. They don't like the gods."
The druids let them in after a brief rite. Around a basin, white trees wove their foliage. The air smelled of cold honey. Kaelios sat on the edge of the water.
Aeni: Measurement of magical patterns: sentient plant network, low hostility, high memory. Recommendation: gentle synchronization.
He placed his palm on the surface. Waves ran between the water and his star-like skin. Images flowed—elves laughing, harvesting, fleeing, hiding. Sobs too.
"You see?" Lioran asked. "Here, the forest speaks."
"It's showing me fear."
"Normal. The gods decided our gentleness was a mistake. So we whisper. We disappear. We learn to be reborn."
The sanctuary, in recognition, offered them a night of rest. That night, Kaelios dreamed more intensely: flags flapping, a people chanting his name, a future Burkina above the desert, bridges of light, silent trains. Then a dagger. His brother's face. Blood flowing like a severed river. He woke up with a start.
Aeni: Elevated anxiety. Would you like to log?
— No. Not yet.
A Light with a Name
Dawn cast a silver veil over the sanctuary. That's when she appeared—first a breath, then a presence. The leaves stopped moving as if to listen. A woman advanced between the trunks, barefoot, a clear silhouette, her hair caught in the light. Her eyes held the morning.
Lioran froze.
"Aërya," he whispered, almost in prayer.
She didn't yet look like an elf: her features had something angelic and animal, both human and other—it was the mark of her fall, of that interrupted destiny. Her light didn't crush anything; it revealed.
"Strangers at rest," she said softly, "what do you seek in a place where one forgets wars?"
"Discretion," Lioran replied. "And maybe... an ear."
Aërya's gaze fell on Kaelios. She shivered, imperceptibly.
"You wear stars as others wear skin. Who shaped you?"
"I don't know," Kaelios said bluntly. "I only recently woke up. I'm learning."
Aeni: Alert: unknown light emission. Partial correspondence with entries "Grace" and "Harmony". Probability: non-hostile divine entity — Aërya.
Aërya knelt by the basin.
"The gods don't like what escapes their narratives. They will send shadows and questions after you. Here, we first heal the visible wounds. Then, the ones that have no skin."
She placed two fingers on Kaelios's forehead.
"Infinite Grace."
A gentle warmth flowed into him. The roughness of his aura smoothed out; his star-like form gained coherence.
"It will be better," she said. "But don't hide too much: some fires die when they are smothered."
Lioran, delighted, tried to be humorous:
"If you have a spell to teach me how to cook without burning half the forest, I'll take it."
"Astraea Sylphs," Aërya replied with a smile.
Filaments of air danced above the hearth, guiding the flame which began to cook the dough like a caress. Lioran's eyes widened.
"I take back everything I said about cooking. Goddess, marry me."
"We start by letting it cook," she joked, "and we'll see about the weddings."
They shared the meal. Aërya spoke little: one could guess that she had chosen the world of the living over the high steps of the heavens. Kaelios spoke even less: he didn't know what to say about what he didn't understand. But between them, something was pulled tight like a clear string.
The Priests Come — and the Forest Chooses
In the afternoon, the sanctuary vibrated. Monks in dark leather, bone masks, the march of the Inquisitors.
"They smell your trail," Lioran said, already armed.
"I can stop them from crossing the border," Aërya offered. "But they will return, more numerous."
Kaelios felt the pressure of a gaze above the clouds—a distant, irritated god. His instinct said: don't start a war here.
"Lioran, let's divert them. No massacre."
"I love it when you say 'no massacre.' It's always so reassuring," the elf replied, ironically.
Aeni: *Tactical Plan:
Divine Analysis — mapping of air flows and sounds.
Echoing footsteps: simulate phantom movements to sow confusion among the Inquisitors.
Primal Will — a brief impulse, enough to break the cohesion of the masks (ritual objects).*
Kaelios concentrated. Sounds arose in the distance: snapping branches, whispered voices, impossible tracks. The Inquisitors dispersed to pursue ghosts. Aërya blew an Yldera's Echo—the forest amplified the illusion, replaying old hunts to better lose them.
"We can't stay," Aërya said. "I can guide you to a safe clearing."
"We'll come," Lioran said. "And thank you."
They left the sanctuary under a violet sky. The walk was silent. Aërya led the way; Lioran watched the shadows; Kaelios brought up the rear, his back to the horizon.
On the edge of the clearing, Aërya stopped.
"I must return to protect Clear Leaves. But listen, Kaelios: I don't know what you are, only what you do. You protect. You learn. You refuse to bend. If one day you name what I am to my people, do it by first looking at what I choose to be."
"I promise you."
She walked away, a walking light. Lioran stood for a moment without speaking, then:
"She likes you."
"She likes the world."
"It's often related."
Simple Promises
Night returned. Kaelios sat with his back against a trunk.
"Lioran?"
"Yes?"
"You told me a year would make me almost as good as you."
"I lied: it will take you two years if you keep asking questions of the sky instead of watching where you put your feet."
"Then we have time."
They laughed softly. Above them, the stars moved as if they were listening.
Aeni: Log:
— Skills used: Divine Analysis (mapping, trajectories), Primal Will (limited coercion), Universal Memory (deciphering), Aërya assistance (Infinite Grace, Astraea Sylphs, Yldera's Echo).
— Risks: increasing interest from Vael'Tor (Darkness).
— Recommendation: mobility, learning, controlled concealment.
Kaelios closed his eyes. In the darkness, the vision of the crown returned. This time, it cracked—and through the crack passed a thread of light that resembled Aërya's smile.
"Tomorrow," Lioran said, rolling into his cape, "I'll teach you how to jump from branch to branch without ripping off half your... stars."
"It's a deal," Kaelios replied.
The breeze carried the smoke away. Somewhere, far away, a god grumbled—and the world, for now, did not listen.
End of Chapter 2