The mist curled like sleeping dragons around the cobblestone paths of Elarion, a village forgotten by time but remembered by the wind. Lanterns flickered with a honey-hued glow as dusk fell over the valley, the silver light of the moon beginning its quiet reign above.
At the edge of the vale, where the forest whispered in languages older than men, a carriage creaked to a halt. From its open door stepped a girl clothed in midnight blue, a velvet cloak hugging her shoulders, a locket gleaming at her throat.
Elira Lys had returned.
Ten years had passed since the fire that stole her parents and vanished her childhood into smoke. The village had whispered her name like a ghost story, a memory better left unspoken. But now, she was back—with silence in her eyes and secrets bound in her heart.
The innkeeper, a balding man with kind eyes and a limp, recognized her at once.
“Elira…” he breathed, as though saying her name would break the spell of her absence.
She gave a faint nod, brushing past him into the inn's warmth.
“Room 7,” he called after her. “The one your mother used to love.”
The door creaked as she entered the room. Dust motes danced in the dim candlelight, and the air carried a scent of aged wood and lavender. She set her bag down and approached the window, her fingers brushing the sill worn smooth by time.
Beyond the glass, the Moonlit Vale stretched like a dream. Forests swayed like living shadows, and the old manor on the hill—her family’s manor—stood silhouetted against the stars.
A whisper stirred behind her. She turned. Nothing.
Yet the mirror on the far wall had begun to fog, as if someone—something—were breathing from within it.
And in the fog, a message appeared:
“You are not alone.”
Elira backed away, heart pounding. The locket at her throat grew warm. She opened it. Inside, the tiny portrait of her parents shimmered—then blinked.
Was she going mad?
Or had the magic of the vale awakened once more?
