Different pov-
Sylphus paused at the edge of the glade where sunlight fractured through ancient elms. Behind her lay the marble spires of Sylvanreach, home to an elf tribe older than most kingdoms. She'd grown up among centuries‑old scholars and warriors, learning from memories older than empires. Elves didn't rush life; they measured years in decades. But Sylphus had never fit. Questions tumbled in her mind faster than the Council's slow deliberations.
Today, she left. No ceremony. No farewell. In Frieren fashion, her departure was quiet—like a leaf drifting from its branch, unnoticed until it's gone. The elders understood unspoken things; they'd let her go. Her role: scout and guardian of Aether's balance. She'd tracked a disturbance east to where the world's pulse thrummed strongest—Moonlit Falls.
She stepped off the flagstone path into undergrowth. Each hoofbeat on moss carried her farther from tradition, closer to unknown. A leather satchel slung at her side held simple gear: waterskin, flint, her grandfather's worn map, and her spear—steel tip and oak shaft, etched with clan marks.
Her chest tightened at the memory of the Council's last words: "Trust in the forest, Sylphus. It will guide you." Guide her, yes—but not how she'd imagined.
The forest enveloped her, green shadows and tangled roots. Centuries‑old trees knotted overhead, their limbs heavy with vines. She moved quietly, senses tuned to the hum of Aether in air and bark. Scholars spoke of Aether as theory. Sylphus felt it in her bones: the thrum under foot, the pulse on the breeze.
She rode for hours, the roar of distant water growing from whisper to drum. Her satchel bumped against her hip as she pressed on. Finally, the path dipped, and the roar sharpened into a waterfall's cry.
Sylphus slid from her horse, boots sinking into wet moss. Moonlit Falls stretched before her—water cascading over stone in ghostly silver, mist rising in vaporous ribbons. Even elven lore called this place the forest's heartbeat.
She secured her reins to a birch and drew her spear. No time for wonder. Orders: chart the Aether flow, secure any relics, and return. But she'd never count the hours again. Not now.
A narrow ledge threaded behind the falls. She tested it with one boot, then another, moving carefully through spray and grit until she reached a carved stone arch. Vines clung to its frame; runes glowed faintly beneath moss. She knelt and brushed away debris—binding symbols, clean and unbroken.
Her brow furrowed. At Ashwood Glade, those seals had been shattered then reset. Here, they stood intact, but someone had touched them. Someone powerful.
She slipped inside. The tunnel beyond was lit by veins of crystal that pulsed with Aether. The air smelled of damp stone and magic.
Halfway through, she stepped into a circular chamber carved into bedrock. Water lapped at low ledges. At its center, a monolith—tall, rune‑covered, humming in perfect harmony with her heartbeat.
She drew in a breath. "By the Old Codes," she whispered. No human hand could realign these seals. Only a dragon—or an archmage with forbidden lore.
A crack in the silence made her pivot. Runic light glinted on crimson scales. A hatchling stood at the chamber's edge—too small to be one of the brood, too bold for a wild beast. Flame flickered on its right claw, bending the air in a subtle shimmer.
Her grip tightened on the spear. "Hold," she said, voice steady. "I'm Sylphus of the Sylvanreach Circle. State your purpose."
The hatchling cocked its head. Steam hissed from its nostrils. It didn't growl. It only watched—curious, cautious.
She lowered the spear slowly. "I want to understand these runes. If you realigned them, I need to know why."
The hatchling flicked its tail and padded toward the monolith. Its claws traced the glowing symbols, each touch steady and practiced. Runic lines shifted—fractures healing, glyphs snapping back into place.
Sylphus watched, mesmerized. After a moment, she approached, keeping her distance. "You're not working alone, are you?"
The hatchling turned, eyes bright. It extended the claw that bore the warp‑flame rune and tapped the ground once, as if to say, follow me.
Sylphus hesitated. Trust no one, the Council had drilled into her. But this creature held answers she couldn't ignore. She lowered her spear and stepped forward.
They emerged back into the waterfall's mist, the chamber entrance dripping silver into the pool below. The hatchling didn't wait; it slipped along a second tunnel hidden behind vines. Sylphus followed, spear at the ready.
The tunnel narrowed, then opened on a shallow grotto where moonlit water pooled. On a stone plinth stood a smaller monolith, vines choking half its face. Its runes glowed weakly—fractured.
She knelt beside it, hand hovering. The water's glow reflected on her cheek. "Icaris?" she called softly, using the name she'd heard whispered in the glade.
No answer. Just the hatchling padding forward, flame flickering on its claw. It traced the broken glyphs. Each touch sparked runic light that spread across the monolith like a rising tide, sealing fractures with quiet authority.
The chamber trembled. Sylphus jumped to her feet as vines and roots quivered. A deep rumble echoed—something alive, something upset.
She spun, spear braced. From the shadows, a Root Wyrm exploded into view: a hulking behemoth of bark and thorn, eyes glowing Aether green, fangs dripping resin.
The hatchling hissed and crouched, claws igniting with that reality‑bending flame. Sylphus charged, weaving Aether into her spear. The wyrm lunged—vines whipping like whips.
She ducked under its first strike, speared its bristling flank. Resin hissed on metal, but she held firm.
The hatchling leapt up, wrapping rune‑flame barriers around the wyrm's chest. Vines sizzled, then snapped as the runes bound them.
With a final roar, the Root Wyrm collapsed into a pile of broken bark and dust.
Sylphus's spear drooped. She exhaled hard. "Never thought I'd fight alongside a dragon hatchling."
The creature stepped back, flame dimming. It clicked its jaw—almost a smile.
She touched her spear to its claw. "I'm Sylphus. We're allies on this."
The hatchling dipped its head once, approving.
Moonlit Falls thundered beyond them. In that roar, Sylphus heard promise and peril. Two seals down. More waiting.
She smiled grimly. "Next stop… wherever this trail leads."
The hatchling padded ahead. Sylphus followed, spear resting on her shoulder, determined to map every relic, every seal, and uncover what power lay at the heart of Aetheryn.