The Shadow of Elventree

Part 2

Thalion ascended the gnarled steps of his old treehouse. The sunset cast a warm, amber glow over the weathered wood, guiding his path upwards. Nestled among the dense boughs of an ancient oak, this secluded perch offered a panoramic view of the town and the stately palace, its banners fluttering against the backdrop of the setting sun. As he reached the platform, the familiar scent of aged wood mixed with the earthy aroma of the forest enveloped him. The treehouse was a treasury of memories—of days spent with Eldric, his closest friend. They had shared dreams and laughter here, their voices once a vibrant echo among the leaves. Each creak of the weathered planks beneath his feet drew a deep, involuntary sigh from Thalion, as waves of nostalgia mingled with a tinge of solitude washed over him. Surrounded by the embrace of old wood and the endless canopy of green, he allowed himself a rare moment to just be—a brief respite from the lingering doubts of the town below. He propped himself against a sturdy trunk. His gaze wandered over the intertwining wooden spirals and ancient stone foundations below. His breaths slow and measured against the cool evening air. The rooftops below merged into the shadowy outlines of the palace as the sun dipped below the horizon.

Elventree, while revered as a sanctuary for those fleeing Hillsfar's oppressive Great Law of Humanity, also harboured its own subtle prejudices. Not just from outsiders, but from his own neighbours—elves and humans alike—who viewed his mixed heritage with veiled disdain. The irony wasn't lost on him; these same people now unknowingly hailed another half-elf as their Lord.

His thoughts lingered bitterly on Arendor. He remembered a time when they had been inseparable, two half-elves against a world that never fully accepted them.

Their friendship had once been unbreakable, forged over years of shared experiences. But when Arendor turned his back on him, leaving him to face mockery and thrown stones alone, their promise to always stand by each other felt like a distant memory. Betrayal and hurt weighed heavily on his heart, making it impossible for Thalion to forgive him. Arendor reinvented himself, claiming a pureblooded elven lineage, and climbed Elventree's social ladder. Now, the man he once called friend draped in the trappings of a leader, a unifier, even embracing a drow as his advisor—a bold move he couldn't help but see as another facet of His Lordship's facade.
He found a strange kinship with Larae, though—a resonance he couldn't quite define. Her journey, marked by initial rejection and mistrust, reflected his own struggles. At The Dancing Stone, she had found acceptance among the Eilistraeeans, transforming into a revered high priestess advocating for peace and understanding. In Larae's newfound place within Elventree, there flickered a silent promise, possibilities he had scarcely allowed himself to consider. Perhaps, he too might find a way to navigate beyond the shadows of doubt that so often clouded his path.

The last rays of the setting sun ignited the rooftops with a fleeting golden glow, casting long shadows that almost merged the town with the forest surrounding it. His thoughts drifted to earlier days, to the countless hours spent alone in the shelter of that forest. The chill of isolation wasn't new to him. It had etched into his being since childhood, when harsh words often escalated to aggression. Beyond the reaches of the town, the forest had been his refuge—a realm where the only sound were his own footsteps and the consistent thwack of training knives slicing through the air. Sometimes Eldric would join him. Together, they would practice—Thalion with his knives and Eldric with his bow—finding solace and camaraderie amid the whispers of the forest. Yet often, Thalion found himself alone, disappearing into a world that seemed to outright reject him.

A rejection he even felt in his own home. Where his mother left him with a father who saw him as nothing more than a problem to be solved. The words of his father still rang in his ears, taunting and belittling him. "He just needs to man up, Erevan. Why can't he be more like you? You don't get hit and shy away because of your half-elf ears, do you!?" Thalion often felt like an outsider within his own family, watching from the sidelines as Erevan effortlessly charmed everyone with his gift of foresight. He admired his brother, of course, but he also resented how easily Erevan seemed to fit in. Thalion yearned to step out of this brother's shadow, to prove himself capable and strong, to prove to his father—and perhaps to himself—that he was more than the frailties they perceived in him.

Each opportunity became a flame, a spark, a chance to burn away the doubt and prove his worth to those around him. A few years ago, he uncovered a smuggler's cache hidden beneath the tangled roots of an ancient tree. Eagerly, he delivered this information to the Harpers. But their response, though appreciative, was measured and brief—a nod of approval, a pat on the back, nothing more. It wasn't at all the warm embrace of acceptance he had imagined. He needed to do more, much more, to show the people of Elventree what he was capable of, of what he was worth.

This realization spurred him to refine his abilities further, not just to shield himself but to stand as a quiet protector—a guardian from the shadows. Turning his predisposition for silence into a tool for observation and protection. Each achievement, each silent act of service became his way of shouting his worth from the rooftops, even if no one seemed to hear.

Below, the town was a tapestry of light and motion, bridging the gap between day and night. His gaze was drawn to two figures, Larae and Erelda, as they slowly walked away from the palace toward The Dancing Stone. The air between them seemed to shimmer with the intensity of their unresolved issues, as if they were surrounded by a fog of tension.

Simultaneously, on a balcony of the palace, he saw Erevan in deep conversation with Veszar. His gut tightened as he watched. Although he trusted his brother implicitly, the uneasy memory of Veszar's earlier exchange with Erelda lingered uncomfortably in his mind. However, it was the image of Erevan's concerned expression from earlier that day—his fingers anxiously tracing the vibrant green pendant around his neck, his brow furrowed in worry—that solidified Thalion's decision. Erevan's foresight and instincts had never steered him wrong, and they would not start now.

With a quiet sigh, Thalion adjusted his stance, preparing to descend from his perch. The decision was clear: trusting Erevan meant acknowledging the potential danger that Erelda represented. His hand tightened on the hilt of his dagger as he began his careful descent. He navigated the steps of the ancient oak, each step deliberate and quiet. Descending further, he gripped the rough bark, easing himself down the familiar contours of the tree. Once his boots touched the ground, he melted into the shadows. His movements were silent, his presence barely noticeable as he trailed the drow women along the path leading to The Dancing Stone. Tonight, his role transcended mere observation; he was ready to intervene, to shape the course of events directly from the shadows.