The carriage rolled to a slow stop as they neared the towering white castle, its spires clawing the sky like frozen fingers of a dying god.
"Look to your right," Aelar said, gesturing out the window. "That's the training ground of our soldiers—my warriors. I train them myself, and they live there."
Icariel turned his gaze. A bit far, he saw a vast, open structure made of white stone and carved crystal. The building stood wide like an arena, with smooth terraces and elevated walkways spiraling upward like woven branches. Elven runes shimmered across its outer walls, and open-roof sections revealed warriors mid-practice—blades flashing, mana pulsing in synchronized drills that moved like wind through tall grass.
"Amazing…" Icariel muttered.
Soon, the carriage came to a complete halt before the castle's front gates.
"We've arrived, Warleader," one of the armored guards announced, opening the carriage door with a respectful bow.
"Thank you," Aelar said, stepping out first. He strode forward along a polished stone path inlaid with glowing white stars—each one a silent echo of history.
"Come," he called to Elena, Elif, and Icariel, who followed in a quiet, reverent line.
At the gigantic castle doors stood two more guards, clad in ornate silver armor that shone with an ethereal sheen. As they opened the towering gates, they lowered their heads with deep reverence.
"Welcome, Warleader. They are waiting for you."
Aelar gave a nod, and together they stepped into the castle.
Icariel's breath caught.
The entrance hall opened like the heart of an ancient forest—vast, majestic. A blend of white and green marble shimmered like snow laced with sunlight. The walls curved like the trunks of sacred trees, carved with ancient runes and lifelike reliefs of elven history. The floor bore swirling leaf patterns in silver and gold, painted as if the wind itself had swept across it. Floating high above them, a grand crystal chandelier glowed with a warm, golden light—not fire, but fairies, fluttering within like caged starlight.
"Amazing…" Icariel whispered.
Elena and Elif smiled, catching the awe etched across his expression. The boy from the mountain—who had lived his whole life locked away in silence and survival—was seeing something unscarred for the first time. His heart beat faster, caught between wonder and disbelief, like a bird fluttering against the ribs of a too-small cage.
"Voice," he thought, "are you seeing this through me? Awesome, right?"
"Yes… truly a piece of art. The elves do what they do best."
"Right? And… the mana here. It's so much denser than normal. It's thick, like mist."
"Of course. The castle is close to the Tree of Life. That's part of why…"
Before Icariel could respond, footsteps echoed from deeper within the hall—soft, deliberate, like whispers laced in bone.
A group emerged, led by Princess Virethiel herself.
She looked nothing like the fierce figure he'd seen before in black combat leathers. Today, she was draped in a flowing white dress woven from silk and starlight, etched with pale gold leaves and symbols of the Tree. It hugged her form gracefully and trailed behind like a ripple of moonlight gliding over still water.
Behind her came several others—an entourage of noble-looking elves.
"Welcome, Warleader," Virethiel said formally, her voice smooth, commanding, honed like a blade carved from moonlight.
She greeted Elena and Elif, who respectfully lowered their heads.
Icariel, however, remained upright.
He had asked Aelar the night before, "Should I lower my head to her?"
Aelar had replied, "If you don't recognize her as your ruler—and since you're human, not an elf—it's not necessary."
"Then I won't," Icariel had said. "I didn't like the way she approached me that day. I'll lower it if you ask, but now that I know—no."
Aelar had glanced at him with a soft smirk. "Look at you… how considerate. But it's okay—no offense taken."
Virethiel, of course, noticed. Her lips curled into that same teasing smirk, her emerald eyes meeting his like two vipers circling the same heat.
Four others stepped forward beside her, each radiating presence like wolves in silk.
"Since we're all here," Aelar said, "allow me to introduce you to my precious student, Icariel."
He stepped forward, lifting a hand toward the first.
"This is Valandor Thorne. Adviser. Strategist. Scholar. He crafts our battle plans, deciphers lore older than kings, and guides the princess in matters of war and diplomacy. Probably the smartest elf in the tribe."
Valandor stepped forward—a middle-aged elf with short brown hair, rectangular glasses, and calm, unblinking eyes. His robe was deep green trimmed in gold, scrolls tucked beneath one arm. His face was unmarred, his aura precise—refined, like a sword meant for thought, not blood.
"The second—Tessara Shadow."
Aelar gestured to a tall figure cloaked in black. She wore skin-tight garments made for movement, a long hooded cloak draped across her shoulders, and a silver mask that obscured the lower half of her face. Her long green hair fell like water, and her silver eyes gleamed like knives catching starlight.
"She's our eyes and ears," Aelar explained. "Master of stealth, intelligence, and subterfuge. She deals with spies, secrets, and shadows—protecting the princess from the unseen."
Tessara inclined her head slightly, her gaze unreadable as a blade left in ice.
"Third," Aelar continued, "Eldrin Ironshield—Shield of the Princess."
The elf beside him stepped forward, tall and imposing. He wore golden armor that shimmered like dawn over a battlefield. His long dark hair was tied back, and a massive spear rested across his back like a silent warning.
"Captain of the Royal Guard. Protector of Virethiel. Fierce, loyal, unbreakable."
"Also, the Royal Guards are elite elves who defend Her Highness and this castle."
Eldrin offered a small nod—more soldier than diplomat.
"And last," Aelar said with a warm smile, "Lonor the Beast."
Icariel raised an eyebrow as a muscular figure stepped forward.
"He's not an elf. Not a human either. A shapeshifter. My friend—and Virethiel's right hand."
The man—Lonor—wore simple dark pants and a fitted black shirt bearing the edgeless, handleless sword symbol. His skin was tanned, his jawline sharp, his green eyes burning with quiet intensity. He had short dark hair and a small X-shaped scar on his forehead. He looked the most human among them—taller than the rest, broader in frame—but there was something in his silence that felt animal.
"Meet those who move the strings behind our tribe."
Icariel nodded slowly. They didn't just look powerful. They felt dangerous. Like history would bend around them if it dared resist.
Aelar raised his hand again.
"And this one is Icariel," he said. "My student."
Icariel stepped forward, facing the elite elves of the castle. Their gazes were sharp, dissecting—but none of it cowed him.
"Nice to meet you all," he said simply, offering a short nod.
With White Sense mana was everywhere in his vision—like breathing silk soaked in fire.
Valandor's was dense and tight, a core of scroll-bound storms. Eldrin's pulsed like a bastion, a fortress made of runes and law. Tessara—
The moment his gaze swept over her, her silver eyes snapped toward him, cold and precise.
She had noticed.
Not just that he was observing—but how deeply.
He turned away quickly, masking the flicker of tension behind calm indifference.
You took too long with the introductions, Aelar. I would've introduced myself anyway, Valandor said, adjusting his glasses with a faint smile.
Aelar grinned. "I thought I'd glaze over you all a bit."
Soft laughter broke the frost. Tessara didn't blink.
Then Eldrin stepped forward and spoke to Icariel, voice firm.
"Nice to meet you. I expect you truly have the spirit of a warrior to have been chosen by our Warleader."
Aelar heard that and smiled faintly—though inwardly he thought, "I'm not too sure about that yet."
Virethiel's emerald eyes flicked toward Icariel, that ghost-smirk curling again.
"Spirit of a warrior? The bastard called for help the second he realized he couldn't take me. Hmph."
Then the last, Lonor, stepped forward.
He didn't judge. Didn't analyze. Just extended a firm hand and said, "Nice to meet you, Icariel. I'm Lonor. Aelar told me about you. I feel at ease now that I'm not the only non-elf here."
Icariel took his hand, shook it firmly.
"Me too," he said. "It's good to meet you."
With that, the introductions concluded.
Aelar turned toward Elena, Elif, and Icariel.
"You three can explore the castle for a while. We need to speak in private."
They nodded without question.
As Virethiel, Aelar, and the others disappeared into the golden halls, Elena turned to Icariel with a smile.
"Let's show you around. You'll love it here."
"Yeah," Icariel said, following—but his thoughts drifted elsewhere.
"Lonor."
That name rooted deep.
"Voice," he thought,"I understood the others—Valandor's mana, Eldrin's layers, Tessara's stealth—but Lonor… he's different. What exactly is a shapeshifter?"
"A rare race. Believed extinct. Not mages, swordmasters, or superhumans. Something else. Born from harsh worlds. Humans whose blood merged with beasts. They don't possess much mana—just enough to fuel their shift—but physically… they're monsters."
"So that's why I barely sensed mana from him… just a small core, no circles…"
"Exactly. But don't be fooled. That small core lets them transform. Once they do, even a swordmaster could be torn apart if caught off guard. Only mages can reliably counter them."
"Got it, Icariel replied. "No wonder I couldn't read him. But they're strong. Really strong. All of them. Except maybe Valandor. He had no circles..."
"He's a scholar. His mind cuts sharper than most blades."
Suddenly, Elif's voice yanked him back.
"Look!" she said, pointing to a corridor lined with ancient relics and crystal-glass displays. "This way—these are the artifacts of the Founders!"
Snapping out of his thoughts, Icariel followed.
"Still…" he thought, "with all this strength around, no wonder the elven tribe has stood so long. As long as people like them protect it… this place is safe."
He glanced toward Elif and smiled slightly.
"All right."
[End of Chapter 41]