Lacres slowly opened his eyes. Above him stretched the night sky.

The dark clouds parted gradually, letting moonlight pierce through. A silver glow washed over the earth. Lacres remembered the daytime sky—once a clear blue, now stained black as if someone had knocked over an ink bottle. Only near the moon did any light remain. In that inky void, a few stars blinked faintly like indifferent eyes, utterly uninterested in the world below.

*They must love this quiet night too,* Lacres thought. He shifted his heavy body slightly. As he tried to stand, he realized he was bound to a massive tree.

A gentle breeze swept across his cheek. Leaves rustled overhead as the wind pushed the clouds aside. Moonlight spilled onto the ground again—and there stood Hilwen before him, perfectly poised.

Her longsword shimmered with a faint, cool light.

*Is it finally time?*

Lacres’s face twitched as he tried to smile. But his skin was charred beyond recognition, twisted into something monstrous. Hilwen didn’t hide her disgust.

“Where’s your mask?”

“Lost somewhere long ago.”

Lacres replied flatly to his sister’s blunt question. His grotesque grin widened, as if mocking her. Hilwen’s fury deepened. She strode forward, pressing the sword’s tip against his throat, fighting the urge to slash it open.

“Stop smiling. It’s revolting.”

“My apologies. This face is mine to command—and it laughs when it pleases.”

He shrugged, wearing that unsettling smirk. “Besides, I haven’t looked in a mirror for years. What does it matter to me?”

“It matters to *me*!”

*Crack!*

Hilwen’s sword slammed into the tree behind him, splintering wood. She leaned close, snarling:

“You have no idea! Your face is an insult—to me, to our family, to our entire race!”

She yanked the blade free and held it横 across his throat. Yet Lacres showed no fear. He kept that chilling smile, unyielding.

“If you truly believe that… then strike.”

His voice was low, his grin widening.

“Kill your brother. If you think you can lead the Kante Elves alone—do it.”

“I need no permission from you.”

Hilwen stepped back, raising her sword. She aimed at his throat and swung without hesitation.

*Clang!*

A feathered arrow struck her blade, knocking it off course. Hilwen whirled around, roaring:

“Who dares—?!”

Her words died. A colossal silver shape blotted out the sky. With a thunderous beat of wings, a Silver Dragon landed, kicking up a storm of wind and leaves. Hilwen’s fury turned volcanic. She gripped her sword tighter and shouted:

“Silver Dragon! What right do you have here?! You pathetic last relic of the Ancient Epoch! Where were you during the war? When our fate hung in the balance? You watched as Demons drove us back! As lesser humans humiliated us! Yet you hoarded your centuries of secret arts—never lifting a claw to erase even a shred of our shame!”

She raised her sword, pointing it at Dysaia’s head.

“And now? You meddle like a busybody! What are you but a coward hiding in human skin, terrified of mankind? What can you possibly change?!”

“I don’t *think* I can change anything.”

Dysaia’s voice remained steady, unyielding. Yamwen and Oren slid off her back. Yamwen nocked an arrow; Oren drew his longsword.

“I *know* I must act.”

Hilwen’s rage twisted into humiliation. She slashed her sword through the air.

“Act?! Fine! But is ‘acting’ interfering while I cleanse my house? I purge filth for the future of Elvenfolk—is that wrong?!”

She jabbed the blade toward Lacres, still tied to the tree.

“This… *thing*! After the Battle of Lupolicos, Father ordered him to lead the rear guard. But this traitor abandoned my mother—*his own mother’s* troops—to save his own skin!”

She glared at Lacres.

“And afterward? He was hailed a savior for ‘covering the retreat’! Shameless! It makes me sick!”

Hilwen leveled her sword again, voice dropping to a venomous whisper.

“I will never forgive him. And no one—not even you, meddlesome old dragon—will stop me.”

She began turning the blade—

*Snikt.*

A crisp voice cut through the night:

“From a traitor’s perspective, sister, we’re fifty-fifty.”

Before Hilwen could react, a dagger was yanked from her belt. Lacres pressed its edge to her throat, pinning her arms.

“Oh, and your knot-tying skills still suck.”

*Well, I couldn’t agree more,* Oren thought wryly, recalling his own rope-bound past. He raised his sword.

“Lacres!”

He stepped forward—but Lacres flicked the dagger warningly.

“Nuh-uh, Dragon Slayer. Stand down. This doesn’t concern you.”

Lacres backed away slowly, dragging Hilwen with him.

“Let me be clear: I mourned Mother’s death. But war is war. Some must fall.”

“Shut your lying mouth!”

Ignoring her shout, he continued softly:

“Though… when you sold my position to humans during my scouting mission? That wasn’t ‘war.’ That was pure betrayal.”

“I only regret they burned your face instead of mounting your head for study!”

*Ah, these two…* Oren sighed inwardly. They’d never reconcile.

Lacres chuckled, adjusting the dagger.

“Regardless—I *will* inherit Father’s throne. Only then can I lead the Elves to glorious revival. And I’ve found a far more reliable ally than Crimson Dragon Elaer.”

He nodded toward Dysaia.

“Your Majesty, Princess Silver Dragon. A bargain: Stand aside while I kill Hilwen. Do nothing. In return, as King of the Kante Elves, I’ll pledge our entire race to your cause. You’ll gain unimaginable power.”

Oren saw Dysaia’s crystalline eyes flicker. Lacres pressed on, grinning:

“You’ve made countless pacts with humans. Surely you won’t refuse an Elf? I’ve heard Silver Dragons always aid those in need.”

“You’re right, Lacres.”

Dysaia’s voice was calm.

“I aid those *truly* in need. And you… are not one of them.”

She lowered her head, those gem-like eyes locking onto his.

“You may not realize it—but for all your pride in your race, you’ve become no different from humans.”

…

Lacres fell silent for a long moment. Then he lifted his chin, defiant.

“Then our talk ends here, Silver Dragon. Let me go—or Hilwen loses her head.”

“Your Highness, I’m tired of your family’s private wars.”

*Twang!*

Yamwen’s bow snapped up, an arrow aimed at Lacres’s skull.

“Move an inch, and I’ll put this through your brain. Release Lady Hilwen. Now.”

“Yamwen… you’re not even Kante Elf—”

Lacres bared his teeth.

“You half-breed Cuya Elf! This is none of your—”

*Thwip!*

A feathered arrow pierced his arm mid-rant.

Just as he yelped and stumbled back, Hilwen broke free from Lacres’s grip. She raised her longsword to behead him—when suddenly a whip snaked tightly around her blade.

“What’s this!”

Hilwen roared. But in that moment, Oren spotted figures emerging from the distant grassland. A host of knights in golden armor appeared, riding reindeer. At their forefront stood an elderly elf gripping the whip, yanking the sword clean from Hilwen’s hand.

Hilwen froze at the sight of him. After a soft scoff, she bowed slowly. “Father.”

*Father?*

Oren studied the elf elder. Clad in a stern white robe, the man’s face was etched with such severity Oren had never seen its equal. Past sixty, frosted temples peeked beneath his hood, his bearing radiating unspoken authority. Hands clasped behind his back like a soldier’s, his eyes held smoldering embers beneath heavy lids.

Lacres yanked the feathered arrow from his arm and bowed deeply. The elder strode forward, arm snapping up—

*Slap! Slap!*

Silent but seething, the slaps echoed his fury. Heaving a heavy sigh, he turned to his knights. “Take them away.”

“Yes, sir!”

Reindeer-mounted knights closed in. Hilwen and Lacres surrendered reluctantly, escorted off under guard. The elder then approached Dysaia, bowing slightly. “Long have I awaited this reunion, Your Highness. Forgive my children’s disgrace.”

“No disgrace at all. I’m glad to see you too, Edwin.”

*So it is Edwin. Chieftain of the Kante Elves. The Elvenking.*

Oren and Yamwen bowed respectfully. Edwin returned their gesture curtly before addressing Dysaia again. “When both vanished from the palace, I sensed trouble. Yet my response came too late. Without your intervention, disaster would have struck.” He sighed again, shoulders slumping. “I rode hard from our garrison to reach here. Forgive my haste—I must return. Affairs of state await, and the other Elvenfolk tribes grow restless in my absence.”

He bowed once more, voice dropping low. “May the gods’ blessings shield you, Princess. The gates of the Sacred Grove stand open for you always.”

“Safe travels, Edwin,” Dysaia murmured, inclining her head.

Edwin mounted his reindeer, then paused, eyes locking onto Yamwen.

“A Cuya Elf…”

Oren couldn’t tell how he recognized her lineage, but impatience flickered across Edwin’s face.

“May the gods watch over you too… descendant of Cuya.”

With obvious reluctance, he nudged his reindeer’s flank. Under Oren and Yamwen’s gaze, Edwin and his knights vanished into the grassland’s horizon.