As the sun began its slow ascent over Ashelia, Rhaelor stood before Vaelora's home, scroll in hand. His mind was still racing from the divine encounter, but the Architect's words were clear—Vaelora had to be the first to read it.

  Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the wooden door.

  Moments later, Vaelora emerged, her silver hair glistening in the morning light, her emerald eyes filled with curiosity. She was dressed in simple, flowing robes, fitting of her station as the Elven chief's daughter.

  "Rhaelor?" she asked, surprised. "You look troubled."

  He hesitated before extending the scroll.

  "This... is for you."

  Vaelora blinked, taking the scroll and carefully breaking the golden seal. As she unrolled it, her expression turned to one of pure shock.

  The scroll told a story no Elf had ever heard before.

  Their ancestors were not born from the earth, nor had they come from distant lands. Instead, they had come from the Garden itself.

  Long ago, before the world knew sorrow, there was a tree, one yet to mature. It stood in the Garden, untouched, waiting for its time.

  Then, Ashel and Lunara fell—deceived, banished. The world changed.

  The Deceivers were punished, but the tree remained, unclaimed and incomplete.

  Seeing this, the Architect took the tree far from the Garden, placing it in a distant land. There, He gave it a name—"Yggdrasil."

  And from its blessed branches, life emerged.

  Thus, the Elves were born.

  As Vaelora finished reading, she clutched the scroll tightly, her hands trembling.

  "This..." she whispered. "This is our origin?"

  Rhaelor nodded.

  "Then..." she looked up, her voice shaking, "why was this hidden from us? Why were we never told?"

  "The Architect only revealed it now," Rhaelor answered. "Because now, you are ready to know."

  Vaelora bit her lip. "And you expect us to believe this?"

  Before Rhaelor could respond, the Elven elders arrived, having heard the whispers of a new revelation.

  One of them, an elder named Sylthar, stepped forward. "We have heard rumors of this scroll," he said cautiously. "Is it true? Have our origins been revealed?"

  Vaelora turned, lifting the scroll for all to see.

  "The Architect Himself gave this knowledge," Rhaelor affirmed. "But belief is your choice."

  The Elves murmured among themselves. Some felt relief, others uncertainty.

  "How do we know this Architect truly exists?" another Elf asked, skepticism in his voice. "You say you spoke to Him, Rhaelor, but we have never seen Him."

  Rhaelor did not argue.

  Instead, he simply said, "Then doubt, if you must."

  A hush fell over the gathering.

  "Truth does not demand blind faith," Rhaelor continued. "It only asks to be sought. If you doubt, then search for the answer yourself."

  The Elves exchanged uneasy glances. Some nodded, willing to ponder the possibility. Others remained unconvinced.

  Vaelora, however, looked at Rhaelor differently now.

  She did not speak, but in her eyes, there was a quiet understanding.

  Despite the Architect's words, neither Rhaelor nor Vaelora were ready to wed.

  So, instead of rushing into something neither fully understood, they started as friends.

  They spoke often, learning about each other's people. Vaelora would show Rhaelor the ways of the Elves, while Rhaelor would teach her about Mana and Ashelian history.

  Though uncertainty remained, one thing was clear—this was only the beginning.

  As the debate over the scroll continued, a faint, otherworldly hum filled the air. The Elves suddenly grew silent, their pointed ears twitching as their gazes shifted.

  Then, they saw them.

  Spirits—ethereal beings of light and wind—floated between the gathered Ashelians and Elves. Their forms shimmered, neither fully present nor absent.

  Rhaelor stepped back in awe, watching as the spirits whispered among themselves in a language only the Elves could understand.

  Then, one of the oldest Elven elders, Sylthar, spoke, his voice trembling.

  "The spirits... they are speaking."

  The Elves listened, their expressions shifting from doubt to shock.

  After a moment, Vaelora turned to Rhaelor.

  "They say..." she whispered, "that you speak the truth."

  A ripple of astonishment spread through the Elves.

  "The spirits have never lied," one Elf murmured.

  "If they say the Architect's words are true..." another said, glancing at the scroll, "then we must believe it."

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  Though many were now convinced, Vaelora found herself reading the final passage of the scroll once more.

  "The unity of the two races will be sealed when an Elf and an Ashelian are joined as one."

  Her fingers trembled over the words.

  "Joined as one..." she muttered. "Does this mean...?"

  Sylthar furrowed his brow. "A bond between Elf and Human?"

  "It would seem so," Vaelora said. "A marriage between our kind and theirs."

  A wave of uncertainty spread through the gathered Elves. Though they now believed the origins in the scroll, this final passage was something entirely different.

  Would they truly be expected to unite with Humans in such a way?

  Even Rhaelor hesitated.

  Yet, the spirits remained silent, as if awaiting their decision.

  With the scroll now public knowledge, Vaelora and the Elves began searching for more truths—not just in the Architect's words, but in the histories of the Ashelians.

  They whistled to one another, passing messages between their kin. They exchanged knowledge, seeking any mention of Yggdrasil, their ancestors, or records of a time before their wandering.

  They compared their traditions to those of the Ashelians, searching for lost connections.

  As the days passed, their doubts did not fully disappear.

  But a new curiosity had taken root.

  For the first time, the Elves truly sought to understand their place in the world.

  The days passed, and though uncertainty lingered, the Elves began to accept the prophecy. The idea of unity between Ashelians and Elves was no longer met with rejection, but rather careful consideration.

  Vaelora, as the daughter of the Elven chief, became a voice of guidance for her people.

  "If this is our fate," she said one evening, standing before a gathering of Elves, "then we must decide how to walk this path with dignity, not hesitation."

  The Elves, though still adjusting, nodded in agreement.

  Change was coming.

  Just as the first glimmers of unity began to take root, a desperate scream shattered the peace.

  "HELP! THE SOUTH GATE!"

  The cry came from a breathless Ashelian guard, his face pale as he stumbled through the streets.

  Rhaelor, who had been walking near the gate, snapped his attention toward the sound.

  Without hesitation, he rushed forward.

  As he neared the southern entrance, the sight before him made his blood run cold.

  Wounded Elves, covered in dirt and blood, stumbled toward the gate. Some clutched their sides, barely able to stand.

  And behind them—pursuers.

  Dark silhouettes moved through the trees, figures of foreign invaders, their armor unfamiliar, their language unknown.

  Among the wounded, one figure collapsed to his knees just before reaching the city's entrance.

  An older Elf, his long silver hair stained red with blood.

  Vaelora's father.

  His breath was ragged, and his once-proud form shook from his injuries.

  Rhaelor's heart pounded.

  The invaders had found them.

  Rhaelor rushed forward, sword drawn, as the first of the wounded Elves collapsed near the gate.

  Behind them, the invaders emerged from the treeline—figures clad in rough armor, wielding jagged weapons.

  Some bore tattoos and markings unfamiliar to the Ashelians, their language a guttural mix of unknown dialects.

  Yet among them, some bore symbols eerily similar to the Forgotten.

  Rhaelor gritted his teeth.

  This was no mere band of raiders.

  The Ashelian guards at the gate hurried to position themselves, gripping their wooden spears. Though well-trained, they had never faced a true battle before.

  One of the invaders let out a roar, raising a rusted axe before charging forward.

  "SHIELD WALL!" Rhaelor commanded.

  The guards obeyed instantly, raising their wooden shields just in time to block the impact.

  Swords clashed against shields. Arrows whistled through the air.

  The first real battle in Ashelia's history had begun.

  Back in the Elven quarter, Vaelora had been tending to the children when a panicked Elf ran toward her.

  "My lady! The chief—your father—he has returned, but he is wounded!"

  Vaelora's heart nearly stopped.

  She dropped everything and raced toward the South Gate, her mind filled with one thought:

  "Father...!"

  As she approached, she could hear the sound of battle raging.

  The Ashelians and Elves, fighting side by side.

  But her father lay at the center of it all, barely conscious.

  Would she risk herself to reach him?

  Or would she trust Rhaelor to hold the line?

  Rhaelor cut through the chaos, his focus locked on the wounded Elven chief.

  Vaelora, frozen in place, could only watch as her father struggled for breath, blood staining his once-proud robes.

  "I have to reach him—"

  But before she could move, an axe came swinging toward her.

  A blur of silver—Rhaelor intercepted the blow, his sword locking against the attacker's weapon.

  "Go!" he shouted.

  With a swift kick, he sent the invader stumbling back and turned just in time to block another strike.

  Vaelora didn't hesitate—she darted forward, grabbing her father's arm and trying to lift him, but he was too weak.

  "Get him out of here!" Rhaelor commanded, stepping between them and the enemy.

  The Ashelian guards pushed forward, forming a shield wall.

  With the invaders momentarily held back, Rhaelor lifted the Elven chief and carried him toward the city.

  Inside the city, the nearest medic—a woman trained in healing magic—rushed to meet them.

  She placed her hands over the chief's chest, her palms glowing with a soft golden light.

  The gaping wounds began to close, the color slowly returning to his face.

  Vaelora stared in disbelief.

  "This... this is beyond what the spirits have ever done..."

  Even the spirits around them, unseen to most, watched in awe.

  This was a miracle unlike anything the Elves had known.

  For the first time, Vaelora truly saw the power of mana.

  Meanwhile, outside the walls, the remaining invaders retreated, dragging their wounded with them.

  They had not expected resistance like this.

  More importantly, they had not known of Ashelia's magic.

  As the Ashelians tended to the fallen, Rhaelor watched the last of the enemy disappear into the trees.

  "This is only the beginning."

  He turned to the guards.

  "Double the watch on the southern wall," he ordered. "And send word to Miran, Edros, and Althea."

  The battle was won—but war was coming.

  Vaelora walked silently through the Elven district, her heart heavy as she glanced at the wounded elves being carefully carried into homes. The Ashelian healers moved swiftly, their magic easing the pain of those who had barely escaped death.

  Inside her home, her father lay unconscious, his breathing steady but weak. She knelt beside him, clutching his hand.

  "If not for Rhaelor... he would have died."

  Outside, Rhaelor stood watch, his arms crossed as he listened to the distant murmurs of healers and warriors exchanging reports. The battle may have ended, but the real fight was far from over.

  Meanwhile, in the administration district, the Elders of both the Ashelians and Elves gathered.

  The room, simple yet sturdy, was filled with hand-carved wooden seats arranged around a massive table. The elders—Miran, Edros, Althea, and the wisest of the Elves—sat deep in thought as they listened to the reports.

  The first topic was one that troubled the Elves the most.

  "Mana... how can it heal wounds so easily?" one elder elf questioned.

  "We have seen spirits grant blessings, but never something like this," another added.

  Miran, ever the teacher, folded his hands together.

  "Mana is within all living things," he explained. "It flows through us like blood, unseen but ever-present. Those who understand it can shape it, guiding it into spells of creation... or destruction."

  The Elves exchanged uncertain glances.

  "Can we learn?" an Elven elder finally asked.

  Edros nodded. "If you are willing."

  The room fell into deep contemplation. For the first time, the Elves were confronted with a power they did not understand, but one that they could no longer ignore.

  After discussing mana, the conversation shifted to the state of Ashelia.

  "The walls must be finished," one elder declared. "We held back the invaders this time, but next time, they will come prepared."

  "They already knew our weaknesses," another Ashelian elder added. "And now, they have seen magic. We cannot afford to delay any longer."

  Miran nodded in agreement. "The city's walls are nearly complete thanks to earth magic and the hands of many workers. We must focus all efforts to see it done."

  Though Ashelia had no currency yet, the people worked for food, shelter, and security—a trade that kept the city alive.

  "The people are willing," Althea said. "We only need time."

  But time was something they were running out of.

  With discussions coming to an end, the elders faced two paths:

  1. Fortify the city further, ensuring that Ashelia could withstand a siege.

  2. Send scouts beyond their borders, learning more about these invaders before the next attack.

  "One mistake could cost us everything," Edros murmured. "We must choose wisely."

  As the meeting adjourned, the weight of their decision lingered.

  Would they build and defend, or seek out theenemy before they returned?