The question wasn't aimed at anyone. It was a whisper to himself, barely breathed, a gasp drowned in awe.
Before Icariel stood something so colossal, so saturated with mana, his senses frayed at the edges. He couldn't comprehend it. It eclipsed every fragment of magic he had ever felt—even the awakening of his White Sense paled beside this.
The tree wept mana as if mourning the death of a world—each drop a god's tear thick with memory.
He staggered. His knees buckled, hand clamping over his mouth. He nearly vomited. The pressure wasn't just weight—it was memory, echo, something ancient pressing into his bones.
Aelar stepped forward, voice low, heavy. "That," he said, "is one part of the Tree of Life."
Icariel's voice barely found his throat. "What… what is the Tree of Life?"
Aelar's gaze drifted—not away, but inwards. Reverent.
"Life," he murmured. "Life itself."
The words struck Icariel like thunder in a dead forest.
Aelar continued, his voice more anchored now. "The Tree of Life is a source of nearly endless magic. Pure nature magic. And we elves... we are its protectors."
He paused.
"And its children."
"Children?" Icariel echoed, the word foreign on his tongue.
Aelar nodded slowly. "Many races, many greedy hands, have tried to steal from it. To twist it. That's why it was split—divided into three—to shield it… and to shield you."
"Me?" Icariel blinked, heart stumbling.
"When I say 'you,' I mean your kind. Humans." Aelar's voice hardened slightly. "If the Tree fell into the wrong hands, what would follow would be worse than fire swallowing heaven."
Icariel said nothing. But he understood. Some part of him—primal and buried—recognized the truth of it. This wasn't just old magic. It was sacred. And sacred things bled deeper than the flesh.
"Do not activate your Spirit Zone here," Aelar warned, sharp now. "Your mind would shatter beneath it. Only those with a fortress in their soul can endure its weight."
"Y-Yes..." Icariel nodded quickly, breath still thin.
He wanted to ask more. But then—they appeared.
Two figures emerged from the treeline. Guards clad in armor of polished silver, their presence as still and cold as moonlight on stone. The symbol on their breastplates struck Icariel: a sword without edge or hilt—something sharp in idea alone. Each bore a long, low ponytail. Brown hair, brown eyes, skin colored by forest warmth.
They lowered their heads. "We are glad you returned safe and well, Warleader," one said.
"And grateful you've brought your daughter back safely," the other added, bowing to Elif.
Aelar gave a firm nod. "I must return home. My wife is worried. I will report to His Highness later."
The guards stepped aside without hesitation.
Warleader.
Icariel's breath caught. The word rang loud in his mind.
The voice chuckled from deep within. "I told you. His stance, his silence, the gravity in his tongue... He's not just important. 'Warleader' is the highest mantle an army can offer."
"Incredible…" Icariel muttered.
Aelar turned, smiled gently. "Icariel, are you ready to learn about our people—and this world?"
"Why not, Aelar?" Icariel grinned, scratching the back of his head.
The guards glanced between them, eyes tightening faintly. A human addressing the Warleader so casually? But Aelar only laughed, his mood as light as moss in moonlight.
"Then let's go," Aelar said. He looked to Faelar and Valandil. "Return to your homes. I will meet with you later. Thank you."
The two elves bowed to him, to Elif—and, to Icariel—before turning down a shadowed path and vanishing into the green.
"Come," Aelar said.
They walked deeper into the heart of the elven domain.
The roads they traveled were carved with grace, laid with polished stone. Straight lines without flaw, intersecting like veins across the forest floor. Trees rose around them like titans, their bark veined with silver, leaves rustling like old whispers.
Icariel stared, awe stitched into his gaze. "Nothing like this ever existed in Mjull…" he thought, remembering the ragged mountain paths, the scent of firewood and dirt.
Elves they passed greeted Aelar with warmth, offering nods and soft words. Elif received shy smiles and careful glances. And then their eyes would drift to the boy who followed—this half-dressed human with eyes like ink and mana like nothing they had felt before.
Some were curious. Others wary. None looked away.
They turned beneath the shadow of a giant tree—older than language—and came upon a house unlike any Icariel had seen.
It stood proud among the roots, woven into the earth, not placed upon it. Its walls were shaped from silver-barked wood, etched with the runes of forgotten wars. The roof shimmered dark green, draped in leaves that glittered like wet jade under the filtered light.
A stone path wound to an arched doorway wrapped in night-blooming vines. Their petals trembled as they passed, as if aware.
"This is our home," Aelar said, halting. He turned to Icariel. "And it will be yours for a while, too."
"My house too? What are you—"
The door burst open before he could finish.
"Elif!"
A woman flew out—silver-haired, silver-eyed—and Elif ran into her arms like a child into summer. They collapsed into each other, no grace, only need. Elif's mother began to cry, her sobs quiet but raw, fingers clutching as if the world would steal her daughter again.
Aelar watched them silently, a soft smile tugging his lips.
"You made this possible," he said to Icariel.
"Nah," Icariel muttered, gaze low. "She would've been fine without me..."
"You're wrong," Aelar said, firm. "She told me everything."
Icariel had no reply. Only silence.
Elif's mother pulled back. She was tall, nearly Icariel's height, and so beautiful it hurt to look at her. Not with the beauty of skin or symmetry—but of presence. Her silver eyes gleamed with warmth. Her silver hair danced in silent waves. She seemed made of starlight and stormwater.
She embraced Aelar fiercely. "You kept your promise. You brought her back."
"I would burn the heavens for her," Aelar said simply.
"Don't exaggerate, Father," Elif giggled.
But Aelar didn't smile. "I mean it."
The women laughed. "We know, we know."
Icariel, a few steps away, whispered inward: "I feel like an extra here."
The voice answered dryly. "They're extra to us. Not the other way around."
Icariel smiled faintly, saying nothing.
Elif's mother turned toward him, eyes narrowing.
"Who is this naked boy?" she asked, voice playful but pointed.
Icariel flushed. His only clothing: black, worn pants. No shoes. No shirt. No dignity.
"Don't tease him," Aelar laughed. "This strange one is Icariel—a boy raised in the mountains. And the one who saved our daughter."
Elena's face shifted instantly. "What?"
She crossed the distance in a blink and hugged him tight.
Icariel froze. Her warmth pressed against his skin. She whispered over and over, "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. You don't know what this means to me…"
His voice cracked. "Don't worry. She... she did something for me too. Something I'm grateful for."
She pulled back, still gripping his arms.
"You…" she said, searching his eyes. "Aelar called you Icariel, right? I'm Elena. Elif's mother. Aelar's wife. And I will do anything to repay you for protecting my daughter."
"Another new name…" Icariel thought.
The voice inside him murmured: "She truly means it. For an elf to offer her name to a human this quickly… that's no small gesture. But you earned it."
Icariel met Elena's eyes and smiled. "Nice to meet you, Elena."
Her silver eyes widened. Aelar's smile deepened. Even Elif looked faintly surprised.
Elena didn't know that Icariel—raised far from elven custom—spoke plainly, without artifice. The voice had told him what names meant here, but since no one had said it aloud, he played dumb.
It was easier that way.
And yet—something inside him stirred. A quiet ache. A breath he hadn't taken in years.
"This is what family looks like…" he thought. "Galien. Irene. Finn..."
"Let's get inside," Aelar said. "Or we'll stand here until the moon rots."
"True," Elena agreed, eyes still on Icariel.
They entered together.
The house was a living memory. Blue light spilled from enchanted lanterns, casting shadows like poetry on the curved wooden walls. The air smelled of rain and cedarwood and old books. Willow branches arched across the ceiling like ribs protecting a gentle heart.
Near a low sapphire hearth, cushions lay like fallen petals. A long table of moonwood stretched across the room, its surface worn by time, its edges carved with children's names—some faded, others fresh.
Translucent vine-curtains swayed in still air, revealing sleeping nooks bathed in pale green light. At the far end, a shrine glowed softly. Orchids bloomed there—breathing silently, unfolding like whispered prayers.
Time slowed inside these walls. Not lazy—but deliberate. Patient.
"Amazing…" Icariel muttered.
"You like it?" Elif asked, shy.
"It's new... and beautiful," he answered.
Aelar turned to Elena. "Give him clothes. Feed him. Let him rest. I have matters to attend."
Then he looked at Icariel.
"When I return…"
"Yeah?" Icariel asked, straightening unconsciously.
Aelar's face hardened in the lantern light. Shadows kissed the lines of war across his skin.
"…We begin your training. Immediately."
Icariel smiled faintly, fire and fear both curling in his gut like twin wolves.
"I'll be ready," he said.
[ End of Chapter 30 ]