Page 21

The Hand That Held Me So Tightly Goes Limp

“ E lf? Where are you?”

I let out a shaky breath. It’s úri’s voice echoing from somewhere up ahead. So it’s probably not a trap, after all.

“I’m coming!”

My nails scrape against the ground as I drag myself forward. The tunnel feels more constricted now, sloping upward, forcing my head lower with each step. My shoulders grind against the rough walls, the surface tearing at my skin. I can feel fresh cuts stinging with every movement.

“An elf is slow,” Kra mutters from behind.

“An elf isn’t used to your tunnels,” I snap.

We continue in silence after that. I push forward, crawling one painstaking step at a time, each movement more grueling than the last. I force myself to take shallow breaths to avoid the stench clinging to the air.

In my mind, I see Naeva’s bright smile, hear Aeralon’s laughter, and feel Father’s strong embrace. I picture Mother’s watchful eyes, sharp and focused, tracking my every step as I walk past her.

I’ll be with you soon. I’ll warn you. Stay safe.

Don’t go outside. Don’t let yourselves be killed.

When faint streaks of light break through the darkness, it feels as though an entire history has passed, perhaps even half a day or more.

I’ve lost all sense of time in the suffocating blackness at the heart of the Hollow Tree.

Somewhere nearby, the spiders’ parents lie in wait.

Strangely, the narrowness of the tunnels offers a sense of security.

“An elf should be glad,” Kra murmurs. “An elf is almost free.”

“It was kind of you to help me,” I say, my voice rough and strained from the stifling air.

“Spiders hope an elf will keep their promise,” úri replies. “That an elf will protect their home.”

“I’ll do my best, I promise.”

The hole opens into a void high among the treetops.

I peer out, and chaos engulfs my senses.

Flames consume the bark, licking upward like ravenous tongues, while elves claw desperately at vines, scrambling for any hold.

Others flee in blind terror, sprinting toward the shadowed expanse of Eytherthlarn.

Behind them, warriors in gleaming armor give chase, relentless in their pursuit.

And the screams.

Gut-wrenching, soul-piercing cries of despair.

I’m certain the drums haven’t yet been sounded. If they had, the square would be swarming with elves. Far more than this. And I would’ve heard the thunderous strikes reverberating through the tree, shaking everything in their path.

Why hasn’t anyone sounded them?

Surely, I’m not the only one who thought to warn the village. Sun elves are said to possess an innate sense of duty and morality. Even if panic renders some into cowards, most should recognize what needs to be done.

I climb out, blinking rapidly as my eyes struggle to adjust to the daylight. The pale, hazy light seems weak, but after the suffocating darkness of the tunnels, it’s blinding, like stepping into the sun.

The stench of trapped decay fades, replaced by the smell of fresh destruction—fire, ash, and dying elves.

To reach the drums, I’ll have to pass the Star Tree. That’ll allow me to check on it and ensure it’s still standing, untouched, not engulfed in flames, and that no enemies are climbing its sacred branches.

Other trees are already ablaze, their charred remains spitting embers into the air.

But surely not the Star Tree. It’s farther away, safer. It must still stand.

My family must be safe.

They must be.

“Thank you again,” I say, gripping a vine for balance. I perch on the edge, one foot pressed against the rough bark, and glance back at the spiders one last time. úri has moved forward, his broad body nearly blocking the tunnel, while Kra peers out from behind him as much as the tight space allows.

“It was a pleasure to help an elf,” úri says, his voice hinting at what might be a smile, but it’s hard to tell. “Spiders now consider Iszaelda a friend. If an elf ever needs their help again, an elf only needs to ask.”

I launch into the open air, swinging swiftly between the forest’s vines. Below, smoke coils upward, spears fly, and screams echo. I stay above their line of sight, safely out of reach.

Several songs pass before I finally spot the tree we call home and realize that what I see… is real.

In that moment, time shatters.

The tree is on fire. Half of the Star Tree is consumed by massive flames that roar toward the sky, devouring everything in their path. Pine needles, branches, homes, and bark are all reduced to ash as the inferno stains the world with the charred black of death.

The scene dissolves into a haze. Twigs and thorns claw at my cheeks, jagged splinters pierce my feet, and sharp brambles slash across my palms.

The drums, Parae, the monster—none of it matters anymore.

All I can think about is my family.

My tree.

My home.

I’m no longer careful. I hurl myself through the forest without thought, my gaze locked on the burning tree. With every frantic movement, it draws closer, looming larger and brighter, consuming everything else in my mind.

Soon, it fills my entire vision.

Soon, I’ll reach it.

Jump, land on bark, climb higher. Avoid the greedy flames, falling needles, and crumbling stones. Keep climbing. Breathe. The air is heavy with smoke, clinging to my lungs. I leap again, landing in the backyard. The snow is gone, melted to reveal scorched, searing earth as black as volcanic rock.

Father’s makeshift target has been reduced to ash. Only two arrows remain, buried in the bark, their shafts half-charred and crumbling to dust. I tear my gaze away, swallowing against the dryness in my throat, and hurry toward the entrance.

It burned here briefly, but the flames have long since died out. Someone must’ve put them out. It wasn’t that the fire itself was ever truly a threat. If anything, it invigorates us, fueling our energy and strength.

But someone started it. Someone climbed up here with intent, igniting the blaze. And whoever they are, they almost certainly carry weapons far deadlier than fire…

A strange scent lingers in the air. The fabric covering the entrance is gone.

I dart inside, leaping between the branches until I reach solid ground.

My foot slips on something wet, and I crash to the floor, pain radiating through my tailbone.

Ouch! Gritting my teeth, I steady myself with a hand pressed against the slippery surface, pushing upright and bracing against the wall for support.

I inhale sharply, wiping my hand across my face.

Blood.

Why is there blood on the floor? Whose blood?

I scan the room, the acrid taste of soot and ash clinging to my tongue. A cough rips from my throat, then another. Scorch marks streak the walls, evidence of flames that had eaten their way through. I step toward the dining room, my heart hammering in my chest.

My palms are slick with sweat, and my breath comes quickly. Shallow and frantic, almost feral.

It’s empty.

“Hello?” My voice trembles as I turn, searching every corner. “Mother? Father? Naeva?”

No reply.

“Aeralon?”

That leaves the other floors. I sprint to the rope ladder. Climb, climb, climb, fast, animalistic, desperate. Higher and higher, my pulse pounding in my ears. I reach the second floor, and my world crumbles.

“Father!”

I drop to my knees, clutching his shoulders, shaking him, slapping his cheeks. “Father! Please, wake up! Oh, please, wake up!”

His face is pale, and his dark-blond hair spreads around his neck like a fallen veil.

I throw myself at the overturned dresser pinning him down, every muscle straining as I shove it aside. He must be unconscious. He has to be.

But as the dresser leaves his body, the truth hits me. The wood is soaked with blood seeping from his chest. An uneven wound cuts across his tunic, staining it a deep crimson.

I lean in, my hands trembling as I quickly undo the fastenings, string by string, exposing the broad chest beneath. The wound is gaping red, nearly black.

I swallow, leaning close to his lips, listening for breath.

I hear nothing.

I place a hand on his chest, searching for movement.

Nothing.

His chest is still and cold, like water beneath the ice.

I pull him into my arms, clutching him desperately and holding him closer. Closer.

“Father! Wake up! You can’t die, do you hear me? For all the fires, you can’t die. You mean everything to me, Father. You mean… everything.”

I pry his eyelids open. Empty whites stare back at me. I let go, and the skin slid shut again. My heart is racing. My head spins. Nausea rises, the world tipping on its axis.

Any moment now, I’ll faint or worse. Dizzy, lost, exhausted.

Is this really happening?

The stench is unbearable. Death, fire, blood, and charred wood, all tangled together. It coats my mouth, dry and rancid. The house is silent. So silent it feels like no one’s lived here for sun cycles. I can’t stay. I must leave him. I must find the others.

I lean down again and kiss his forehead. I place Naeva’s bed leaf over him. Protective. Loving. My stomach twists in agony, writhing like earthworms.

“Naeva!”

I stagger to my feet, legs trembling, my pulse pounding. Thud-thud-thud-thud.

And then… there. There they are.

Mother and Aeralon. Their eyes are wide open, frozen in terror, their mouths agape. They lie on the floor, embracing, protecting, and comforting one another. Mother with a long, two-handed crown sword driven through her frail body.

I rush forward, dropping to my knees. I pull the sword from her slender form and throw it to the side. Leaning over Aeralon, I close his empty emerald eyes—my beloved brother.

Only last night, you held my arms. Only last night, you were in my embrace. Warm and soft. Laughing. Happy.

“Aeralon!”

I shake him, a wail ripping from my throat, raw and burning. I cradle him in my arms, stroking his hair, his body limp against me. His eyelashes are so delicate. His bright voice, silenced forever.