At the farthest reaches of the world's maps, in a place where day never changes, stretches Elyanor—the continent untouched by night, where shadows dare not rest upon its soil. There, light does not emerge from the sun alone, but from the earth, the breeze, even the very grasses themselves. The land pulses with a different rhythm, as if time there does not pass... but blossoms.
At its beginnings, the plains are bathed in a pale honey hue, and the grasses ripple as if swimming in praise of something unseen. The winds in those plains carry a gentle tune—not a familiar sound, but like the remembrance of an ancient dream.
Among those plains lies "Savril Land," where homes are built from glowing clay that smells of dew, and their roofs are made from wood that neither burns nor decays—taken from a tree that the plains alone sprout with each full moon's birth.
Here, people are known only by their first names, for those who live in the light need nothing more.
Each morning, the windows open not only for fresh air but for a sound that comes from afar—said to be the earth itself singing.
Then there are the "Valinor Farms," where sunlight breaks upon leaves as white as silver, and water flows through channels of green stone carved with precision worthy of legend.
Men in cotton robes plow the earth with plows made of crystal wood, pulled by a four-legged creature with half-transparent wings. It is neither struck nor led, but follows the farmer if it loves him.
In the corners of the fields, children play with spheres of light, tossing them into the sky where they glow and then fall as if created to amaze.
Mothers sing lullabies that are never taught, said to be passed from womb to womb.
To the north rise the "Myral Forests," whose trees never shed leaves but dissolve them into the air when their age is complete, releasing a scent that makes travelers forget all pain endured.
Those who spend the night beneath their shade dream of their beloved, no matter how far or long gone.
Among their trunks, round houses stand, inhabited by a people called "The Children of Glow"—not superior beings nor myths, but pure-blooded humans who know no lies, their foreheads lighting up when they laugh.
In the south, where light meets mist, the "White Mist Cities" float—cities built not on land but on solid clouds tethered by crystalline stakes to mountain peaks.
There, people walk on bridges of glowing glass and weave clothes from threads extracted from transparent eggs laid by silent birds that light up when saddened.
There is also the "Air Market," opened once every ten seasons, where artisans sell things visible only if loved: a box containing a memory, a bottle holding the sound of a first cry, gloves warming hands not by heat but by the scent of your mother in winter.
At the far west, near Elyanor's watery edges, lie the "Six Colors Harbors," where seas meet sails made of fire silk, and ships that do not sail but glide on the moonlight trapped in the waves.
The captains there do not navigate by compass, but by a small mirror reflecting the direction of the heart, not north.
At the center, where nothing repeats, the light pauses to stare. The land there is called the "Mirror Lands," its soil polished like solid water.
Whoever steps upon it sees themselves very small, or gigantic… or sees nothing at all, only hears: their voice as a child, their first mother's cry, and the name fate called them at creation.
Every corner of Elyanor holds an unwritten memory, and every land in it shines by its qualities, not by location. Nothing is fully said, but felt. People do not rush, nor fear danger, but they fear forgetting.
For Elyanor, with all its light, is not engraved on maps… but kept in the heart.
---
Loriniel – The City of Glowing Mist
Dawn prepared to spill—not from the east, but from every direction—as if light no longer satisfied itself with a single path. In Loriniel, where walls are not built of stone but compressed dew, mist rose from valley bottoms like the breath of a creature asleep for centuries.
The clouds that carried the city were dense but revealed everything unseen before. Round balconies jutted from house edges, like glass chrysanthemums, opening onto an endless scene: a sky without a roof, and a soft mint-flavored breeze.
An old man named "Alyan," wearing a light cloak whose edges glowed like the edges of a dream, carried a small cage holding a creature like a bird, but with wings of crystal threads trembling with morning light. He passed a girl sitting on the doorstep of a house made from a frozen cloud trunk, singing a wordless song to life. When he smiled at her, a flower blossomed in her hand without being planted.
Across the invisible bridge between two towers, a group of women passed carrying baskets filled with "fruits of light"—a fruit growing on cloud peaks, tasting only when eaten in silence. Their feet made no sound, as if walking on echoes of a distant past.
In "Oryn Fall" square, the central plaza, craftsmen gathered as every morning, spreading out their tools: brushes of golden hair, stakes of leaning breeze, and small pieces of the previous day's sun frozen in glass jars.
One painted a picture showing nothing unless looked at after crying, another sculpted a statue from the shadow of someone no longer here.
The air was warm but not like fire's warmth—like the warmth of the first memory, unforgettable and unspoken.
Above them all, air birds passed as if they were pieces of a celestial ribbon, each emitting a different note, forming no melody except when flying together.
At the city's edge, by the cloud wall, three elders sat on seats of soft glass, watching with closed eyes. They spoke no words, but anyone passing by felt questioned… and answered.
Suddenly, the mist parted in a gap in the sky, and a slanting beam fell—not from the sun, but from something older.
Movement stopped. Songs froze. Even the birds fell silent.
Everyone in Loriniel lifted their heads, and no one spoke. No explanations were given or received.
But everyone understood.
---
Sailiura — The City of Embodied Light
In Sailiura, there was no dawn or dusk. Time was not divided by the sun, but by the colors of light that changed like the notes of music in an old lover's ear.
Walking its alleys, you feel the ground listening to your feet. The tiles beneath you are not stone but shiny pages of a nameless material, reflecting your image not as you are, but as you once were… or might become.
In "Elyn Mira" market, vendors did not shout but whispered, for whispers in Sailiura could be heard clearly even across two walls.
A woman named "Naryl" sold baskets of solid dew, said to be collected at the first drop of the perfect season—when there is no wind or fog, only the first touch of dawn.
Nearby sat a blind man, drawing tiny carvings on a navy cloth. When asked, "How do you draw what you cannot see?" he replied calmly:
"Here, eyes are not needed… light passes through the heart first."
Through the square passed a young woman carrying a vessel full of "old sounds"—small glass bottles containing echoes of past laughter, forgotten prayers, or the flap of a wing never seen before.
A child followed, asking if he could buy "the first joyful cry from his mother." She stopped, searched among the bottles, and handed him one—without charge.
In the city center stood a tree that neither grew nor withered, but remembered. Its trunk was shiny black, and its long branches twisted like dreams at night.
People came to place their hands upon it, seeing what they had forgotten, hearing what they had lost, silently crying, then leaving… quieter than when they came.
At the "Alwain River," where water does not flow but floats on a layer of glowing pebbles, lovers sat holding hands, releasing sighs that turned the water into floating shards of gold.
It is said that whoever tastes this river sees their true face in the moon's reflection—not their current face, but the one chosen by stars at birth.
At the city's edge, under interwoven arches of light, children chased a small featureless creature called "Argwyn," a being that cannot be caught or told, but whose laughter makes anyone who hears it forget a moment of sadness.
When shadows fall—if shadows can be called that in a continent without darkness—the city returns to its stillness, not the stillness of sleep but the stillness of understanding.
The inhabitants of Sailiura do not stay awake because they are tired, nor do they sleep because they crave dreams, but because the light itself needs to close its eyes.
---
The Villages of Halindar — Where Silence Speaks
Outside the great cities, among hills covered with soft grass that glows when touched, lie small villages known as "Halindar."
There, no paved roads exist—only paths opening to footsteps of pure intent. The houses are made of crystalline straw, reflecting sunset colors as if beating hearts.
An elder named "Morlan" sat before his hut, blowing into a silent musical instrument, yet the flowers danced and bees paused in midair, listening.
In the small square, a woman washed clothes that never got dirty but said:
"Washing here does not clean the fabric, but the memories stuck to it."
Children played without words, making circles of light around themselves and jumping inside. Each jump produced a faint humming, as if the air itself smiled.
---
The Elmay Forest — Where Longing Dwells
In southern Elyanor lies a forest not dense with trees, but dense with memories. Known as "Elmay," it is said whoever enters does not return as they came, but laden with what they forgot.
The trees are not green but white as fog, with trunks resembling open books. Each leaf tells a story of those who passed through: a lost lover, a wizard who forgot his name, or a mother who lost her child before birth.
A girl named "Asilia" walked alone, but her steps were accompanied by other footsteps. No one was seen, but a presence was felt.
When she reached a hollow tree, she took out a small mirror and looked inside—her mother appeared as she was when Asilia was six.
She smiled, and all the light around bowed, as if the forest bowed in respect for this reunion.
---
The Lorfin Lakes — Where Light Drinks Itself
In the heart of Elyanor lie lakes called "Lorfin," still and calm, but when you look into them, you see your face as it will be in a thousand years—or as it was before you were born.
A woman sat at the water's edge holding a small bottle. She dipped some lake water and whispered:
"I want to keep this tomorrow."
A child beside her asked:
"Can tomorrow be kept?"
She replied without turning:
"In Elyanor, everything is kept… because light never forgets."
Small boats made of shining leaves floated on the water's surface, with no passengers but candles. Each candle represents an unspoken wish, and each boat carries light from a heart still believing.
---
Valindar Town — The City of Artisans Who Sculpt Light
Valindar is not a large city, but one of the rarest places in Elyanor. Here, nothing is bought or sold except if made of light itself.
The sculptors do not carve stone but shapes of light—they freeze it, color it, and make tools that glow only for those who deserve them.
A stranger wearing an ancient cloak entered the town. He stood before a craftsman and asked:
"Can you make a lantern that glows when I feel guilt?"
The craftsman looked at him without answering, took a lump of pure light, placed it on a crystal anvil, and began tapping it with a hammer of whispers.
When finished, he held a small lantern that pulsed whenever a feeling unspoken stirred in its owner's heart.
---
Epilogue to Today's Scenes — Elianor Breathes
Elianor cannot be confined to a city, nor told in a single language. It is an ancient breath within the breast of the cosmos, lighting up when the world's lamps are extinguished.
Every patch tells a story, every shadow carries light, and every inhabitant does not merely live in it — they dwell within the light.
Thus, we move from scene to scene… not as mere spectators, but as those trying to grasp a language no longer written, only felt.
---
Temple of Elianor — The Sanctuary of Silent Lights
In the stillness of the dense forest, where the sound of falling leaves scarcely breaks the silence of eternity, a faint glow emanates from afar — like the flicker of a faint star sneaking through the ancient translucent branches. The trees, tall and slender, resemble guardians of time; their nearly transparent leaves capture moonlight echoes and scatter them in ever-shifting hues dancing gently upon the ground.
The temple appears as a living entity, breathing with nature itself; its white stones sparkle softly under the glow of night stars, each stone carved with precision like breaths frozen in time. Between every engraving and decoration, secrets of light and shadow emerge, threads of an endless ancient tale.
On the floor, a vast mosaic unfolds, narrating tales of light and water, flowing beneath the temple's feet like a river of tranquil light, holding secrets of old continents and vanished stars. The more you gaze upon it, the more the stories seem to move slowly, whispering names long lost to memory.
The silence here is not emptiness, but a heavy presence, a different flavor almost audible among the stones. A gentle breeze strokes the edges of sheer curtains hanging between pillars, curtains that do not block the light but shape it into a quiet song.
Each temple pillar stands like a giant of light, tattooed with indecipherable verses that shimmer when touched by the first rays of dawn — symbols of life and light preserved on the threshold of eternity.
Here and there, shadows of a slender tree sway through a narrow window, painting mysterious and calm shapes on the floor, like drawings embodying life that never fades, memories breathing with every breath of the old wood mingled with the scent of rare flowers filling the air, spreading a serenity beyond words. Upon the cold floor, the first sunlight leaves a light dance shimmering through stained-glass windows, their colors entwined in a mosaic of light reflecting the earliest hues of dawn, as if telling stories of day's birth and life's pulse.
In the temple's corners, golden leaves from sacred trees scatter gently, like messages from the past whispered by the winds. No sound rises except the murmur of a small river flowing through a carefully carved stone channel, emitting an ancient watery melody embracing the place's ear, telling the tale of water that flows endlessly — cleansing, restoring, healing, and awakening dormant souls.
On one wall, an exquisitely carved relief depicts a colossal tree with roots plunging deep into the earth and branches embracing the sky, above which a dove of light soars — a symbol of peace and purity. This tree is not merely a symbol, but the very soul of the continent, alive within the temple's heart, weaving hope into the spirits of all who pass.
The air, where light meets shadow, flows softly, carrying a faint sound of old songs whispered by guardian spirits — singing tales of vanished heroes, unfulfilled dreams, and promises folded in time's folds.
In this sacred silence, the temple stands firm, witness to successive eras, a sanctuary for undying light, and a home for the secret waiting to be discovered between its shadows and the stone's breath.
---
At the Temple's Heart
Where light and shadow meet in endless dance, a vast hall stretches beneath a high dome that kisses the blue sky as if mirroring eternity itself. Its walls are covered with delicate engravings telling legends of light — from its first birth until its fading on the horizon of the unknown. Sunbeams filter through colored windows, scattering a mosaic of hues on the white marble floor, where the lights ripple in gentle waves.
At the center stands a polished wooden platform, surrounded by ten finely carved seats, each adorned with symbols glittering like tiny stars. Around the platform, the Saint of Light moves with calm grace, wearing a simple translucent robe reflecting the surrounding colors, as if part of the light itself. Her eyes, carrying the silence of the sky, follow intently the flickering candle flames circling the platform.
Soft murmurs fill the hall, whispers repeating ancient prayers and gentle notes played on a harp's strings, flowing between walls and fading into the air like a blessing. Around the Saint sit the wise elders and her closest kin, their faces steeped in dignity, reflecting the cunning of years and the wisdom of ages.
When she gently raises her hand, deep silence falls, and her words begin to weave thin threads of light, narrating a new era — a sun rising anew on the distant horizon. Her voice merges with the hall's echo, bearing hope but also shadows of mystery, as if what is to come will not be easy.
The session ends with exchanged looks, the attendees feeling the weight of responsibility clasping their hearts, and knowing that the light, despite its strength, needs guardians with unyielding hearts and unbroken will — even if winds of doubt and clouds of despair sweep over them. In that hall, where ancient fragrance blends with the light of the future, the Saint weaves threads of resolve in their hearts, sowing seeds of patience and steadfastness.
With quiet steps, she leaves the platform and walks toward a large window overlooking Elianor's enchanting gardens, where leaves dance under the first sun rays. There, in the silence of the moment, her face catches an invincible gleam of hope, a gaze holding a promise of a shared fate from which none can escape.
At that moment, the winds whisper ancient secrets, and the trees hum songs of peace, while the continent prepares for a new transition, where the destiny of light intertwines with the mysteries of shadow, leaving every soul on Elianor's soil a chance to be part of this eternal tale.
---
In the Shadows of the Vast Gardens
Where nature quietly and gently weaves its stories, dawn flowers scatter among leaves, covering the ground with a colorful carpet embracing bare feet. The breeze carries the scent of jasmine and roses, gently caressing swaying leaves as if dancing to the oldest melodies.
Along a narrow stone path winding between trees, walks an old grandfather, his hair white as the highest snow peaks, his eyes glowing with a calm golden light, holding the wisdom of years that still quietly spins its tales inside him. He suddenly stops, gazing at the temple towering proudly above the hills, its rays spreading corridors of light and shadow.
The Saint approaches with quiet steps, her soft robe flowing like a delicate light around her body, her eyes shining with hope and trust despite the burden she carries in her heart. She stands beside her grandfather, sharing the silence of the moment, breathing the air filled with birdsong and whispers of trees.
He looks at her, his voice calm but heavy with wisdom:
"The light you carry is not merely an external glow, but an inner flame, you who walk fate's paths as if light slipping through shadows… But do not forget, light alone is not enough. You must have a strong heart and an unbreakable will, for the path you have chosen is full of mysteries and challenges."
The Saint smiles gently, replying in a soft voice:
"And you, grandfather, taught me to listen to the stone's silence, to read between the breaths of the wind… I am ready to face whatever comes, for light never disappears, even on the darkest nights."
He pats her shoulder kindly, then gestures to the sky where the first sun rays begin to break, as if heralding a new day:
"Go, carry that light in every step, and make the shadows an opportunity to grow, not a fear of falling."
As their steps part among the leaves, life's sounds begin to awaken again; children's laughter echoes from nearby villages, the roar of a river flowing down mountain slopes, and birds' chirping announcing the dawn of a new day.
Golden leaves scatter in the air, dancing as if guarding this moment that unites past and future, wise men and saints, in the heart of the continent where the sun never sets.
---
In the Lower Hall of the Temple
Where the high arches curve like the forgotten sky, and shadows ripple on the walls as if listening, the ten wise elders gathered in an unbroken circle, broken only by the hiss of burning candles in silence.
The old man with white hair and golden eyes sat on a chair slightly elevated above the others — not because he was a ruler, but because he was the eldest, and the heaviest bearer of secrets. In his hands was a staff made from "Alindor" wood, a tree that grows only in the heart of the white forest, its veins glowing faintly as if alive.
To his right sat Armas, chief guardian of the light, whose armor gleams not with gold but with an unbroken oath. To his left was Miria, Lady of the High Waters, her eyes like two clear mirrors in which the future can be seen if gazed upon long enough. The rest of the leaders came from the seven cities of light, each with dignity and grandeur, each bearing the ring of oath — a symbol of their office and their bond to the temple.
The old man spoke in a tone that did not rise but pierced the hearts:
"This meeting is unlike those of past years, when we congratulated each other on the abundance of light and the balance held steady... This time, disorder came first, then silence."
---
The hall was engulfed in silence, except for the slow melting sound of the candle.
"Three nights in a row, the sun of Elianor has not appeared at its time. It has not been extinguished, but it is delayed. And the water of the Heavenly Eye was an hour late in flowing. These are unmistakable signs."
Armas, with a deep yet polished voice like the edge of a sword, said:
"Perhaps passing clouds... or a curse from the lands of shadows... or a movement of a star unknown to us."
But Miria looked at him with a long gaze and said calmly:
"What we see is nothing but a reflection of what we dare not name... The light trembles when fate is held by trembling hands."
The old man raised his eyes, his voice like wind passing through the grasses of memory:
"The saint left the temple four days ago. She told no one, brought no guards. She simply vanished... as if she received a call only heard by those in whom light is engraved in their bones."
One of the leaders, a young man from the city of Glass Palms, asked:
"Do you think she is afraid?"
The old man answered, staring at the candle before him:
"On the contrary, she dared to walk where even the light itself does not dare cast its shadow."
A new silence prevailed, this time charged with anxiety and contemplation. Then Armas said:
"So, do we search for her? Or keep the temple a headless center?"
The old man said:
"Her quest is a search for light within the heart of shadows... As for us, we must prove that the light still stands here. If the earth trembles, let the root remain steadfast."
Then he scanned their faces and said:
"But we shall not close the doors... Send your messengers to the edges of the continent, gather dreams and visions, watch the signs of sky and water... and report to me any whisper of the wind that seems strange."
At that moment, the flame of a single candle flickered as if a strange breeze passed through the closed hall. The leaders exchanged glances, then began to leave one by one, carrying in their hearts a heaviness unseen but felt, like the storm sensed before it strikes — unseen, yet the air grows heavier, birds suddenly fall silent, and tree shadows lengthen beyond what they should be.
---
In the city of Seraphine de Valora, one of the most splendid cities of the Continent of Light, known for its crystalline ceilings and waterways flowing like veins of light between houses, the day felt different. The light, which its inhabitants were accustomed to waking up to — gentle, warm as a mother's touch — was pale this morning, as if their sun aged overnight and lost some of its radiance.
On the banks of the Great Canal, Elinyar, the flower seller, sat before her cart made of almond wood inlaid with celestial glass. She carefully arranged her flowers but suddenly stopped, looked at the sky, and murmured to herself:
"The light is faint today... No, not just faint... it seems unsure of what it illuminates."
In the opposite corner, by the white marble stairs leading to the Hall of the Three Prayers, the Watcher Priest, a short-statured elder, was writing on a long scroll the visions of the past night reported by the city's inhabitants. His eyes, though weak, widened slightly each time he repeated the phrase:
"I dreamed of a river drying, and the sun looking from behind a black wall."
The people in the market said nothing outright, but spoke with their eyes. The weavers began weaving slowly, children's songs diminished to whispers, and the birds that used to perch on the mashrabiya of the houses had fled the city since dawn.
Above a tall tower of solid crystal, Aliar, one of the Seven Companions of the Light, stood watching the clouds forming where clouds should not be.
"This is no weather... this is a warning."
He said softly, then turned his head westward, toward the edge of the forests, and whispered:
The saint has left her place. The Light searches for her just as we do. But who will find the other first?"
In a hidden corner of the city, an elderly woman was reading tea leaves. She stared long at their tangled circles, then whispered:
"The shadow... does not walk alone this time."
From afar, through the window of the Star Banner Palace, Lady Elorina, the ruler of Seraphine, saw a small darkness forming on the sun—a mere dark spot perceived by no one but her. She looked to her maid and said:
"Write to the High Council, and tell them… the march has begun, and if we are not the next step, then we are the very path."
Thus, between a flower folding its petals before sunset, a priest recording a strange vision, and a watchful eye observing the darkness from a distance, the entire city bore silent witness that something in the heart of the Light... had begun to crack.
---
In the Hall of Silence inside the temple, where candles are lit only at the spirit's request, the old man with white hair and golden eyes returned to his place, alone after the leaders had departed. The walls around him still held the echoes of their footsteps, but emptiness now prevailed—a void heavy with questions.
He sat on the same chair, but this time without his staff. He placed his hands on his thighs and closed his eyes, as if listening to a call not from outside, but from deep within, inside his chest or the earth itself.
He whispered:
"O daughter of the Light… why did you not tell me anything?"
A gentle breeze passed through the hall, as if someone had walked near and then vanished. He opened his eyes slowly and found himself staring at the circle of light the moon cast upon the floor. From that circle emerged a faint image of a small girl standing beneath a tree—a tree he knew well... the Tree of the First Light.
He sighed, as if a thousand years of memories poured into his heart in a moment. Then he said softly:
"When I was your age, I thought the Light was enough. That the temple alone, with its structure, its rituals, its wisdom... was enough. But you... stubborn as you are... saw what I did not, and heard the whisper I ignored, even as it knocked on my door every evening."
He stood up and slowly walked to the southern wall, where a massive dark crystal statue embodied the first founder—a man whose face no one knows, but whose hand they know, the one that raised the first stone of the temple's foundation. The old man ran his palm over the engravings and said:
"You knew, didn't you? The Light alone is not enough. It must have an eye that sees, an ear that hears, and a heart... that fears not the shadows."
Then he turned toward a small opening in the wall, revealing only a patch of sky.
"You are there, in a place I cannot reach, and I have nothing but trust. And if doubt betrays me, I will not let it find its way to the temple."
Outside, the winds began to blow over the Transparency trees. Their leaves, shining under the moon, swayed and whispered again—a whisper like an old song, sung only when the shadow begins to walk.
The old man finally said:
"For a long time, the temple has never tested patience, but now... it shall know it."
He then returned to his place, closed his eyes again, as if his heart stretched beyond where feet could reach.
---
In the open space between cities and mountains, where the sounds of civilization fade and silence begins to write its own language, the saint walked alone—no servant, no guard, no guide, only her white cloak, now gray from road dust, and her eyes... carrying no fear, but something else, something like longing without a clear destination.
The sky above her was unsettlingly clear, and the sun moved slowly, as if watching her without guiding. Beneath her feet, the path was not paved but faint, as if the earth itself had not yet decided whether to allow her passage.
The previous night, she did not sleep like others. She entered the dream, not as a visitor, but as one summoned.
She saw herself standing before a boundless sea, in which stars danced—not reflected, but emanating from the depths. She heard a female voice, soft and deep, as if singing from the mouth of oblivion:
"O you born in the heart of the Light, the Light is not the end of the road, but its beginning... Follow what is unseen, and trust not what illuminates, for the wind will guide you—not to strength, but to the bleeding branch."
Then the sea fell silent, the dream turned to shadow, the shadow to a question, and the question to a silence that has stayed with her since she awoke.
Now, walking among hills dozing beneath spectral trees, she whispered to herself:
"The bleeding branch... is it a place? A person? Or me?"
The wind was light, yet it seemed drawn as if breathing with her. In a moment, as if someone placed an invisible map within her heart, she looked toward the horizon, to the west, where the land stretches in blue and green lines, and said without hesitation:
"The land of the Elves... there dwells the dream without a name."
She walked without knowing the way, but she felt the path knew her. Every stone, every branch, every faint-voiced bird seemed to make way—not because she was a saint, but because she was a stranger on a journey that began without a name and will end without a prize.
°°°
Above her, a strange bird passed by, half light and half shadow, fluttering with asymmetrical wings. These were not signs, but travel companions she did not yet know. Silence, the wind, and some sorrow would walk with her until she arrived.
And in the temple, where the old man sat, one of the wall's torches suddenly went out—only he noticed, only he understood.
"She has begun walking the path that no one is guided on."
Thus, the Sacred Continent closes its first chapter—not with certainty, but with an unspoken promise, waiting for the strange dreamer to arrive—to the land of the Elves, where other chapters of the tale will begin.