Daylight, as we emerged from the Whispering Depths, seemed aggressively bright. The relief of Elara's recovery was palpable, yet fragile—like blown glass resting upon a sword's edge. She walked with new steadiness, but a contemplative quiet had taken the place of her usual anxiety. The elven echoes inside her had gone silent, but the price, I suspected, was more than just a dive into a haunting lake.
Our temporary "camp" was little more than a recess beneath a cliff, with Sylva's campfire smoke quickly dissipating to avoid drawing attention. That's when the sound reached us—not hostile elves this time, but a single horn, clear and melodious, echoing across the valley.
A lone elven rider, mounted on a magnificent white elk, appeared at the clearing's edge. He wore no battle armor, but robes of green and silver satin, and his bearing was ceremonial rather than threatening. He carried a banner with the emblem of Lytheria—a stylized tree wrapped in a spiral.
Sylva and Gorr immediately moved into defensive stance, but the elf raised an empty hand.
"Greetings," his voice was soft and polite, yet cold as marble. "I am Laeron, herald of His Majesty, King Elandor of Lytheria. I bring an invitation, not a declaration of war."
He extended a scroll sealed with moon-colored wax. Sylva, wary, took it.
"King Elandor invites the bearers of the fragments and their... companions... to a banquet at the Hall of the Silver Tree, to negotiate terms of peace and a possible alliance." Laeron announced, his eyes passing over each of us with a mixture of curiosity and thinly veiled disdain.
"It's a trap," Gorr growled, his hand tightening around the shaft of his spear.
"No doubt," Sylva agreed, not opening the scroll. "But a royal banquet is not an ambush. Refusing would be a grave insult—and Elandor would have justification to unleash all of Lytheria's might upon us."
"Peace?" Liriel scoffed with a bitter laugh. "After hunting us like beasts? Obviously, they want the fragments. It's a pathetic ruse."
"Perhaps," Laeron tilted his head slightly. "Or perhaps His Majesty has realized that Ambassador Kaelen's approach was... excessively aggressive. The fragments are a threat to all. The King believes a diplomatic solution preferable." His gaze settled on me. "He is particularly curious about the mortal who carries the storm's core."
I felt the weight of my pack—the fragments inside seemed to whisper in response. They wanted this. They sensed the proximity of greater elven power.
Elara touched my arm. "Takumi, we can't trust them."
"But what if it's real?" Vespera interjected, eyes gleaming with excitement. "A royal banquet! There must be good food. And wine! And chances to cause a scandal in a fancy hall!"
It was the worst idea possible—walking willingly into the lion's den. But Sylva was right. Refusing would give Elandor the perfect excuse. And we were exhausted, wounded, and hunted. The prospect of a truce, even a false one, was tempting.
"What are the terms?" I asked Laeron.
"Safe passage to the city gates. You will surrender your weapons at the entrance. You may bring your... personal items." His gaze lingered on the backpack. "The banquet will be held in three days. You will be guests of honor."
Guests of honor. The phrase rang hollow and dangerous.
"And if we say no?" Gorr's voice was a low growl.
Laeron smiled—a thin, warmthless gesture. "Then His Majesty will understand that you prefer the path of war. And he will act accordingly."
The threat was clear. I looked at the group—Liriel, her pride wounded and her wine cup ever near. Vespera, thrilled by potential chaos. Elara, healed but wary. And Sylva and Gorr, our unstable allies, who would surely abandon us if we refused and full war erupted.
"We'll go," I said at last, the words leaving my mouth more like a sigh of resignation than a declaration of courage.
Laeron inclined his head. "A wise decision. Preparations will be made. An escort will meet you here in two days." He pulled the reins of his elk and departed, disappearing into the forest as silently as he had come.
The silence that followed was heavy.
"Idiot," Sylva spat, finally breaking the scroll and tossing it to the ground. "You're walking straight into the cage."
"Do we have a choice?" I shot back, fatigue roughening my voice. "We're surrounded, indebted, and Elara's still recovering. We need time. And maybe... just maybe... we can gain something from this."
"What? A fine epitaph?" Gorr muttered.
"Information," Elara said softly. "If we're in the heart of Lytheria, we can find out what Elandor really plans with the fragments. And… maybe find a way to neutralize them."
Liriel snorted. "Or I could simply demand he return my throne. Worked so well last time."
The next two days were filled with feverish tension. Sylva and Gorr trained us in basic elven etiquette—how to greet, which fork to use (an absurd complication, in my opinion), and most importantly, how not to accidentally insult a royal lineage thousands of years old.
"Remember," Sylva said, her face serious. "Do not make prolonged eye contact with the King. Do not turn your back on the royal table. And, for the gods' sake, do not mention see-through clothing, debts, or the word 'despidor.'"
"That's a lot of don'ts," Vespera complained, practicing a clumsy bow.
When the elven escort arrived—a group of six guards with impassive expressions—we set off toward the capital of Lytheria, the city of the Silver Tree. The journey was silent and uncomfortable. The forest grew denser, older, and the air heavy with magic. It was beautiful, yes, but a beauty that crushed rather than welcomed.
The city was carved in and around a single colossal tree, its trunk shining like polished metal and its branches stretching up to the clouds. Bridges of glass and silver connected elegantly carved platforms and buildings. It was breathtaking and intimidating.
At the entrance of the great hall, inside the tree itself, we were disarmed. My borrowed sword was confiscated with a look of disdain. The backpack with the fragments, however, they allowed me to keep—a sinister confirmation of what they truly desired.
The Hall of the Silver Tree was breathtaking. Light filtered through the leaves above, creating dancing patterns on the crystal floor. Musicians played ethereal melodies, and the scent of exotic flowers and fine food filled the air. Elves dressed in stunning attire spoke in soft voices, their eyes following our entrance with a mix of fascination and horror.
And there, at the back of the hall, on thrones of living roots, sat the royal family. King Elandor, with silver hair and eyes that seemed to see through centuries. Queen Lyra, with serene and deadly beauty. And Princess Theron, young and curious-eyed, who did not stop staring at us.
Kaelen, the Ambassador, was also there beside the throne. His face was a mask of politeness, but his hatred for us was almost tangible.
We were led to the seat of honor near the royal family. The food was a work of art—crystallized fruits, meats so tender they melted, wines that tasted of stars. But every bite tasted of ashes.
The banquet proceeded with polite and unfathomable conversation. Elandor questioned us about our journey, carefully avoiding the topic of the fragments. He seemed genuinely interested in Liriel, asking about the "divine world" with sharp curiosity.
It was when the third cup of wine was served that things began to unravel.
Vespera, excited by the atmosphere and potent elven alcohol, decided it was time to dance. She stood up and, before I could stop her, pulled Elara onto the dance floor.
"Vespera, no!" Elara whispered, alarmed.
"Relax! Just follow the rhythm!"
The "rhythm" was a complex elven waltz. Vespera, of course, had no idea of the steps. She stumbled, pulling Elara, who also tripped, and the two of them fell onto a group of elven nobles, knocking over a tray of crystal glasses filled with a bright blue liquor.
The sound of shattering crystal echoed through the hall. The music stopped.
For a moment, there was silence. Then Kaelen rose, a triumphant smile on his lips.
"Behold," he announced, his voice cutting through the air. "The savagery of these… adventurers… knows no bounds. They desecrate our court with their mere presence."
Tension rose instantly. The guards straightened.
It was then that Liriel, probably sensing that her divine authority was being challenged, decided to intervene. She rose, her silver dress gleaming.
"Silence, insolent mortal!" she bellowed, pointing at Kaelen. "How dare you insult the guests of a goddess?"
Elandor raised a hand calmly. "Goddess Liriel, please. It's merely… an incident."
But Liriel was not in the mood to be calmed. "I demand an apology! And… a new round of wine! A better one than this!"
In her agitation, she gestured wildly, and her magical wine glass, which she had insisted on bringing, flew from her hand. The glass spun through the air, spilling red wine like blood, and landed on Princess Theron's head.
The entire hall went silent in shock. The young princess sat frozen, wine running down her pristine face and her white silk dress now stained red.
Liriel froze, her pride evaporating into pure terror.
Kaelen did not miss the opportunity. "This is an insult to the royal family! Guards, seize them!"
The guards advanced. Gorr and Sylva reached for their weapons, remembering too late that they had been disarmed.
Chaos erupted. Vespera, trying to help, grabbed a piece of crystallized fruit and threw it at a guard, hitting him in the eye. Elara, panicking, attempted a cleaning spell on the princess's dress, but her control was still shaky. A jet of water and magical soap sprayed from her staff, not only removing the wine but also partially dissolving the fine fabric, leaving the princess's shoulder… semi-exposed.
A new silence, even more horrified, fell over the hall.
I looked at King Elandor. His serene face had turned to granite. His eyes, now cold as steel, met mine.
"Your fame," he said, his voice low but carrying the weight of a mountain, "has done you no justice."
He stood.
"Takumi, bearer of the fragments. You and your group have desecrated my house, insulted my family, and demonstrated a grotesque inability for civility. The peace negotiations are over."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over each of us.
"But I am not a man without mercy. There is a tradition in Lytheria to resolve disputes of this nature. A duel. A single combat, before the court. If your champion wins, you will regain your safe passage and may depart in peace. If you lose… all fragments will be confiscated, and you will be judged for your crimes."
He pointed to Kaelen, who stepped forward with a blade-like smile.
"My champion will be Ambassador Kaelen."
Then, his gaze returned to me.
"And you, Takumi. You carry the storm's core. You will be your group's champion. The duel will be at dawn. Until then, you are our… guests."
The final word fell like the door of a cell slamming shut. The guards closed in around us. I looked at Elara, pale and trembling; at Vespera, finally looking repentant; at Liriel, stunned by her own incompetence; and at Sylva and Gorr, who looked ready to strangle us themselves.
I, Takumi, former student, novice adventurer, bearer of a useless goddess and cursed fragments, now had to duel a master elven warrior for the freedom of my group. My life was not just a nightmare. It was a tragic farce that insisted on worsening with every chapter. And the worst part? The fragments in my backpack whispered in excitement. They were eager for bloodshed.