Elizabeth Rousendahal's Travel Diary – Day 1 of the Pilgrimage to Vhalmir
I'm not exactly sure what I expected from this journey. Perhaps awkward silence. Maybe the icy tension between three princes who can barely tolerate each other. But what I got… was something else.
The first day began with pink clouds drifting over the golden fields of the East. The sky looked like a living painting, and the trees—tall, twisted, their leaves changing color with the time of day—cast shifting shadows over us as the unicorns pulled the carriage with solemn steps. Dust rose from the road in shining spirals, as if it had its own flecks of light. One of the escorts swore he saw a crystal-winged dragonfly singing a tune as it passed.
But nature's magic was nothing compared to the tension inside the carriage.
Mayron didn't look at Dren. Dren didn't speak to Mayron. Narel… Narel snored openly, sprawled on one of the cushioned benches with a blanket up to his nose and a look of sinful bliss on his face.
Until it happened.
Narel, pretending to be sleepwalking—he later admitted it through laughter and tears—stood up mumbling about "flying breads" and hugged Dren, who responded in the only way he knew: by lifting him by his tunic and tossing him… straight onto Mayron. The impact was clumsy, ridiculous, and would've been hilarious if not for the fact that Mayron's staff jabbed into Narel's back, eliciting a shriek so sharp it startled even the unicorns pulling the carriage.
—"WHAT THE HELL?!" —Mayron yelled, trying to get Narel's limp body off him.
—"AHHH! My spine! My soul has been shattered!" —Narel wailed on the floor.
—"Are you okay?!" —I asked as I tried to lift him by the arms.
—"That staff is illegal! I demand emotional compensation!"
Vincent simply sighed. Veldora unsheathed his sword by half an inch, as if the outburst posed an actual threat.
And yet… it was that ridiculous accident that melted the ice.
Dren snorted a laugh. Mayron let out a short, nasal chuckle. Even Vincent raised an eyebrow in mild surprise. And for the first time, the carriage filled with laughter instead of tension.
That was the beginning of a… curious kind of coexistence.
Mayron is more sensitive than he lets on. At night, I saw him cleaning his staff with an enchanted cloth, murmuring protective spells. He's not just a prince—he's a devoted mage. He stays up late reading floating grimoires, unfolding them with a flick of his fingers.
Dren… is difficult. Sometimes I catch him staring out the window with an expression I can't decipher—maybe nostalgia, maybe rage. He doesn't speak much, but when he does, his words carry weight. He doesn't like being watched, but he accepts my presence without complaint. Last night, I overheard him telling Narel:
—"Don't die on this journey, idiot. If we're going to do something big, I need you alive to get in my way."
—"Was that you saying you care about me?" —Narel asked from under his blanket.
—"I'm saying only I get to kill you."
Sir Veldora doesn't speak. Ever. But at night, when he thinks I'm not looking, he takes out a handkerchief embroidered with my initial and wipes it with reverential care. I think his grandfather entrusted him with protecting me more than he imagined.
Vincent… remains a mystery. During the second day of travel, he conjured a crystal sphere to teach me about "memory knots," a type of magic tied to ancient emotions. He spoke of unnamed prophecies, of dreams that weigh heavier than destiny. He listened to me with a focus few have offered. He told me:
—"An heir isn't born only by blood. She's forged, step by step, when the soul chooses to carry what no one else dares to face."
At sunset, we passed through an enchanted forest called Arbelath, where the trees have eyes. Not like ours, but living runes that watch travelers as they go. One blinked when I greeted it. I don't know if it was magic… or courtesy. Dren said that if you stay too long there, you start seeing your own mistakes projected onto the bark. Narel fell asleep instantly. Maybe out of fear.
I'm tired, but also… curiously excited.
Elizabeth Rousendahal's Travel Diary – Day 2 of the Journey to Vhalmir
Today something unexpected happened—something miraculous.
A landslide of ancient rocks, massive and covered in enchanted moss, blocked the road midway through the day. No one was hurt, thanks to our escort and Vincent's magical sentries, who detected the tremor before it hit. But we were stranded for hours next to a crystal-clear river that looked like it had leapt out of a fairytale.
The water sang as it danced over the stones, and the trees along the banks—tall and bowed like they were whispering secrets to the current—reflected perfectly on the surface. Butterflies, as large as my hand, flitted past with wings that shimmered like living stained glass.
The surprise wasn't the beauty of the place—though it was breathtaking—it was what happened between Dren and Mayron.
Without any grand speech or formal apology, Dren walked up to Mayron, crossed his arms, and gave him a dry stare before saying:
—"Let's go fishing. I'm bored. You look useless, but maybe you know how to throw a line."
It wasn't polite. It wasn't graceful. But it was… honest.
Mayron, to my surprise, didn't even argue.
—"You'll regret underestimating me, bastard," —he muttered.
And they did.
At first, they tried the traditional method: makeshift rods, patience, stillness. They lasted ten minutes. Then Mayron used gravitational magic to lift a dozen fish from the water all at once, floating like silver stars in the air. Dren grunted, threw off his cloak, and—like a bear—waded knee-deep into the river, pulling fish out with his bare hands like they were enemy weapons.
—"Twelve! I win!" —he yelled, soaked, his hair stuck to his forehead like a wet serpent.
—"You didn't use magic! That's cheating!" —Mayron snapped back.
—"The real world doesn't have fair rules, encyclopedia prince!"
That night, the camp dined on fish. One huge one was cooked by Vincent himself, who prepared it with a slow-smoke spell over volcanic stone. Narel clapped like a child every time a spark jumped from the fire. Even Sir Velndora seemed to smile. Maybe.
But the best part, the truly important thing, was seeing Dren and Mayron sitting by the same fire. They weren't friends. Not yet.
But they were no longer enemies.
And that… was more than I had ever hoped for.
Elizabeth Rousendahal's Travel Diary – Day 3: The Road of Ancient Roots
Today felt different.We no longer spoke of the tournament. Nor of prophecies. Nor of the true reason for the pilgrimage. Something shifted in the air—as if, instead of crossing a path, the path was crossing us.
The trail was one of the oldest on the continent. They call it the Road of Ancient Roots because the trees have overtaken the cobblestone, and if you look closely, you can see hidden engravings in the stones themselves: forgotten names, symbols of extinct clans, even poems carved in runes that glow at sunset.
In the midst of that world between history and enchantment… I realized something.They no longer seem untouchable to me.They're no longer "the princes of the tournament," nor "the heirs of ancient empires."
Today, watching Dren argue with Velndora for using a real sword against Narel in a ridiculous training match ("It was to help him dodge faster!"), and seeing Mayron kneeling beside Narel, healing his arm with a regeneration spell while Narel whimpered like a child...
—"Ow, no, no, no! I'm going to lose my arm! I'll have to learn to write with my mouth!" —Narel screamed with dramatic flair worthy of the theater.—"Calm down," —Mayron said with the tired tone of an older brother— "You won't die from a scratch. Though maybe your pride will."
And I... I laughed. Truly laughed. Without fear. Without duty.I began to see them as what they perhaps were never allowed to be.
Boys.Young.People.
Even Dren, with his bad temper and that fire in his eyes, seemed less like a threat and more… like an open wound that still bleeds. And Mayron, with his corrections, his magical pride, and those pauses before speaking, looked like someone carrying the weight of a thousand expectations. And Narel… Narel is the bridge between extremes. I don't know how he does it. But he connects. He laughs, teases, and connects.
Sometimes I wonder…What if we really could change this?What if there were a way to avoid more wars?What if my role isn't to choose between them, but to find another path?
Today I have no answers. Only many questions… and a faint hope.Tomorrow, the horizon will change again.But for the first time… I'm not afraid.—Elizabeth
Day 4 – The Forest That Does Not Dream
Today we crossed a stretch the maps call The Forest That Does Not Dream. A name that, at first, struck me as poetic… until I understood it.
It's not that the forest is dark or menacing. Quite the opposite.It's too perfect.Too quiet.
The trees grow in impossibly straight lines. The leaves don't crunch when they fall. There are no birds, no insects, no breeze. Nothing.Just a constant whisper in the back of your mind. As if something… or someone… were watching you without eyes.
—"This place was sealed centuries ago," —Vincent said as he drew protective runes on the carriage's wood— "They say a dormant consciousness dwells here. A vegetal spirit that was once a god."
—"And if it wakes up?" —I asked, struggling to keep a casual tone.
—"Then we negotiate… or run."
Thankfully, nothing happened. Or at least, that's what I thought.
But that night, in my dreams, I saw a tree.A massive one.With a hollow in its trunk… and a crown inside.I didn't touch it. I couldn't.But I felt its weight.Its cold.Its waiting.
When I woke up, Vincent was watching me from his guard post. He didn't say a word. He just nodded once, as if he knew exactly what I had dreamed.
—"The forest does not dream… because it steals the dreams of those who cross it," —he told me later, before we went to sleep.
And I… didn't sleep.
Day 5 – Vhalmir on the Horizon
The air changed.I don't know how to describe it, but I felt it the moment I opened my eyes.It smelled different. Cleaner, colder… and charged with something ancient. Not like ordinary magic. This was something else entirely.
—"It's the atmosphere of Vhalmir," —said Narel, munching sweet bread with his feet up on the carriage's backrest— "The kingdom breathes wisdom. And a bit of arrogance, I admit."
The mountains of the Stellar Kingdom rose in the distance, etched into the morning mist like living sculptures. Rays of sunlight fell through the clouds like golden staircases. Vhalmir was built on floating terraces, suspended by ancient crystal formations that pulsed gently—like geological hearts fast asleep.
—"That over there… is floating?" —Mayron asked, watching one of the levitating cities slowly spin on its axis.
—"Only the upper districts," —Narel replied proudly— "The poorer zones still ride mounts or use magic elevators."
Dren said nothing. He stared at the horizon with a guarded expression.
—"I've never seen anything like this…" —he murmured, barely audible.
—"Don't hate it for being beautiful," —Narel said kindly— "You'll like it. There are libraries. And ancient weapons hidden in the temples. Maybe you'll find a sword that talks."
—"Better one that shuts up," —Dren grunted.
We laughed. All of us. Even Vincent let out an exhale that sounded almost like a chuckle.And I…I felt like I was stepping into a new world. Not just a kingdom.
A floating mystery.An empire of living dreams.
In the distance, a procession of banners came to greet us. Crystal carriages, soldiers in silver armor, and a magical band that made the air shimmer with suspended notes.
—"Is that parade for us?" —I asked, surprised.
—"No," —said Narel, smiling.
—"No?"
—"It's for you."
And then I understood.The world was watching.And the pilgrimage… had just begun.