The light in Velarion was different.
It wasn't the harsh blaze of the sun nor the flickering warmth of torches. It was alive—woven into the branches of crystal trees, humming softly through the veins of the city like blood through a sleeping beast. The towers did not rise from stone, but unfurled like petals from trees the size of mountains. Bridges of woven bark and glassroot connected platforms high above the forest floor, where ancient songs still clung to the air like mist.
Riven stood at the edge of the Emerald Terrace, staring down at the city beneath him. It shimmered in hues of emerald, jade, and soft white. It looked like a dream remembered from childhood.
He pulled his spiritthread cloak tighter around his shoulders.
"It grows," said the elf beside him. Her name was Vaelrin—an aide to the Council, and unlike most of her kind, willing to talk. "The city is not built. It is sung. Our ancestors carved nothing—they whispered to the roots and asked them to rise."
Riven said nothing. Not because he lacked words, but because words felt inadequate.
Back home—back on Earth—cities were concrete tumors. Built by hands that had forgotten how to ask permission from the world. Here, even the wind seemed to listen.
"You look like someone expecting war," Vaelrin observed.
"War expects me," Riven muttered.
She tilted her head. "A grim thing to say."
"Truth isn't always bright," he said. "But it cuts clean."
She smiled faintly. "You sound like someone who has bled more than he should."
He didn't answer.
The summons came the next morning.
A leaf, silver and humming with runes, appeared on his bedside table. No messenger. No guard. Just the leaf, humming with authority.
Council of Thal'Quessir.
Vaelrin guided him. Through twisted spires and silent passageways, past great halls carved with scenes of wars older than any human empire. Elves bowed as he passed. Not deeply—but with the kind of wary respect reserved for storms on the horizon.
The Council chamber was not a room.
It was a grove.
Circular, open to the sky. In its center stood a tree unlike any other—leafless, white-barked, with branches that spread like antlers across the heavens. Beneath it sat seven figures, robed in moss and woven light.
"Riven," spoke the one in the center. Their voice echoed with layered tones—a man, a woman, and something else all at once.
"You summoned me," Riven said. His voice did not tremble.
"You bear weight not meant for mortals," said another elder, eyes glowing silver. "The Seeress has marked you. And the roots... they whisper your name."
Riven narrowed his eyes. "What do they say?"
"That you are a Convergence."
That word again.
He remained silent. Let them speak. Let them try to peer into him. Let them see the thing that even he could not name.
"Your victory over Sylas was not strength alone," said a third, their face shadowed by a hood of light. "There is something inside you. Something ancient. Sleeping."
Riven clenched his fists.
"I didn't ask for it," he said.
"No soul ever does."
A silence followed. But it was not empty. The grove listened.
Then the oldest among them stood.
He walked toward Riven, staff tapping the roots.
"There was a time," he said, "when the world was whole. Before the great sundering. Before the Crowning."
"Crowning?"
"Three Awakenings. Three Paths. One Crown. It is said that when one soul walks all three paths and survives, the world will bend to their will—or break."
The words landed like stones.
Riven stared into the elder's eyes. Saw the reflection of something vast.
"And you think that's me?"
"We do not know. But the forest does. And it chose to bless you."
That night, Riven walked alone beneath the Tree of Eyes.
Not its real name—but that's what the elves called it. A tree whose bark shimmered like watching pupils, whose branches bore no leaves, only glowing sigils that pulsed like breath.
He needed air. Space. Stillness.
But his thoughts were loud.
Three Awakenings.
What did that mean? Power? Destiny?
He didn't want to rule. He didn't want crowns or thrones. He wanted to survive. To grow strong enough that no one could take his future away from him.
But the world... it seemed to want more.
A soft voice broke the silence.
"You think too loudly."
It was Vaelrin.
"Sorry," he said.
"Don't be. It is the mark of those who carry storms."
She sat beside him, her hair catching the moonlight.
"Why are you helping me?" he asked.
"Because the world is shifting. And when it does, the wise place their trust in the one standing where all paths meet."
"You sound like the Seeress."
She laughed. "She sounds like me. I'm older."
Riven blinked.
She smiled.
"What is it you truly want?" she asked.
Riven didn't answer at first.
Then, slowly: "To go home."
"And?"
He turned to her. Eyes hard.
"To never be weak again."
The next day, the Council gave him a gift.
Not gold. Not weapons.
A book.
Bound in bark and starlight.
It contained knowledge of the elven world—and beyond.
The Kingdom of Velarion, nestled in the Emerald Veil, was one of five ancient sovereignties that ruled the continent of Orithal. It was not the largest, but it was the oldest—a cradle of magic, where time bent to song and memory.
To the north lay the dwarven holds of Grumdar—mountains carved by hammers that had not rested in a thousand years. Their people were bound to stone and flame, craftsmen and warriors in equal measure. Fiercely proud. Fiercely secretive.
To the west sprawled the nomadic beastkin tribes of the Runeblood Steppes—warriors who bore animal traits, each clan bound to a sacred totem. They lived with the wind and warred with the world, holding no kingdom but the one written in their bones.
Farther still, beyond the Pale Expanse, rose the crystal spires of Seradahl—home to the high mages. A city of scholars and arcane lords, where even the air shimmered with spells unspoken.
And in the far south... the Black Marsh.
A place not ruled by any race. But watched.
For there, the sky was always gray. And the ground pulsed with something that should not be awake.
Riven closed the book.
And the wind outside the window howled like a warning.
Velarion accepted him.
But it did not trust him.
He felt it in the way trees shifted when he passed. In how the birds went silent. In the sideways glances of elven children, who whispered behind their mother's robes.
He was not of this place.
But he was marked by it.
The shrine waited.
And within it, a trial.
Not of blades.
But of understanding.
For only those who walked with the roots could find the way forward.
And Riven?
He had never been afraid of the dark.