Dion jolted awake, blinking at the familiar beams of his home. Sunlight poured through a crack in the roof, and he hear the soft rustle of cloth. His sister Mara was near.
"Mara," he croaked. His throat was still parched. "What... happened? The bandits...?"
She turned from the pot she'd been tending. Her face was pale but her eyes were bright. "The bandits are gone," she said softly. "Elves... and humans with them. They came from the forest and chased them away."
"Elves?" Dion propped himself up in bed, wincing at the dull ache in his ribs. "Are you sure?"
She nodded. "I saw them myself. They had bows and swords. And there was a boy... he was riding the sacred white tiger of the forest." Her eyes gleamed with awe. "The villagers say it was the spirit of the forest who saved us."
Dion was quiet. He had heard stories of elves—of tricksters, and of warriors. But never of elves helping humans.
He climbed out of bed, ignoring her protests. "I need to see them," he said. "I have to see with my own eyes."
___
Past the safety of Eclion, in the coverage of the forest, the bandit scouts crept forward, trying to keep their boots on the moss out of sounds. Obscured as loose bands—snickering at the scruff of ungroomed hair and watching blades in their hands.
"Burizan's a fool," one spat, flicking a twig to the side. "A pig with a belly that can only see the silver and meat."
"Better off sticking to the banter around the fire," one laughed while adjusting the crossbow slung over his shoulder. "A tiger? Elves? He's half crazed."
"Careful," said a third, voice now much less mellowed. "The lady won't put up with mistakes. She is twice as strong as any of us could ever think of being; who knows what happens if she hears that we disrespected her orders..."
The laughter fell to silence uncomfortably.
They fell silent as a small figure broke the small clearing in front of them. Running fast, sprinting in all manner of wildness. A boy. The cloth was dusty and tattered, but it was the boy's posture that suggested something irrelevant to how he was dressed. He halted in a stumble at sight of them.
The bandits separated in an arc, eyes on weapons. "Who's the kid?" one called, voice gravelly. "What you lost, boy?"
Luenor lifted his head, breath churning. Held tight the borrowed cloak from the elves—flapping in the vernail wind. "You need to run," he blurted out, shaky. "Now. Or you'll all be... dead."
The scouts exchanged glances, confusion scrambling across their faces. Then laughter.
One stepped in close and smacked him across the face where he sprawled on the floor. "Listen to the little forest pup. Thinks he is a wolf."
Luenor pushed himself up on all fours and gasped for air when he said, "I'm warning you. . . I can't hold it back much longer."
The humor in their eyes dimmed.
"Wait. . .maybe he is—" one of the older bandits frowned.
But it was too late.
Luenor's body shuddered as the mana he was holding against his will exploded free into the world. He lifted his head, tears streaming down his cheeks, mixing with the dirt gathered. "I told you," he whispered. "I warned you."
The forest ignited in an eruption of blinding mana.
The shockwave blew out into the world snapping branches, flattening undergrowth. Light and force slammed into the bandit scouts, wrenched screams from their mouths, and unceremoniously silenced them all.
__
Inside Eclion, Dion traversed the village square and attempted to hide his awe for what he was witnessing. The elves moved with grace unlike he had ever experienced—bows glimmering, soft voices as they prepared to erect new homes. There was beauty to it, but also power, and it made his heart race with fear and wonder.
Thalanar conversed quietly with the village chief, holding his staff lightly. Dion watched as all of the older villagers treated him with a certain degree of respect.
He was still pondering how to introduce himself when he heard something cut through the air.
A deep vibration, ringing at a pitch. Then—boom.
The world shook. The square was silent.
Dion's eyes widened. "What was that?"
Thalanar looked up inspired, lightly narrowing the green of his eyes. In unison, the elves around him paused, then in unison began to move—bows raised, drawn blades.
"Faren," he said. "Telmar. With me."
They moved quickly through the trees, the scent of scorched wood and mana thick in the air. When they reached the clearing, the sight that met them was stark and silent.
Luenor knelt in the center of the devastation—surrounded by charred earth, the remains of the bandit scouts scattered like broken leaves. Mana still crackled faintly around him, fading embers of a storm.
Faren slowed as he took it in. Telmar's hand fell to his sword, though his face was soft with shock.
Luenor looked up at them, tears streaming down his cheeks. His voice cracked as he spoke. "I warned them," he said. "I told them to run. But they didn't… they didn't listen."
His hands shook, open and empty.
"And now they're dead. By my hands."