Years passed on the island. Alarion, once a frightened boy, had become something more. He had grown strong not just in body, but in will. The knowledge granted by the crown still echoed within him, and though he kept it sealed away, its presence never left his thoughts.
He studied the world around him. The stars. The tides. The shifting seasons. The ruins scattered across the island, half-buried in moss and stone, whispered that the world had once been greater… and might be again.
Then, one day, as he stood atop the island's tallest cliff, he felt it. A strange pull faint, distant, yet undeniable. The mainland was calling. It was time.
He spent days building a raft from sturdy driftwood and binding it with rope woven from thick island vines. He packed what little he needed: dried food, tools, and the crate containing the crown still sealed, untouched since the day he locked it away.
When the winds finally turned, he pushed off the shore. Alone. Silent. Steady.
The ocean was not kind, Waves rose like walls, and winds screamed in his ears. But Alarion never feared. He understood the sea, just as he understood the silence of the stars and the weight of destiny.
After nearly three weeks adrift, his raft struck land.
It was not the world he remembered. The skies were gray. The land was quiet. Trees twisted in strange, sorrowful shapes. The air felt… heavier somehow, as though the earth itself remembered pain.
No voices. No cities. No fires in the distance. Just silence.
Alarion stepped onto the mainland, barefoot and cloaked in mist. And for the first time in years, he breathed the air of the world that had nearly abandoned his kind.
There were no humans in sight. No signs of life. Only the promise of what he would soon uncover.
He continued on his journey with nothing but his legs… and his will.
Each step across the quiet, scarred land echoed like a question: Was he the last?
By day, Alarion walked through broken hills, forgotten paths, and overgrown ruins swallowed by time. His eyes scanned endlessly, hoping to catch a glimpse of another soul… a fire… a voice… anything.
By night, he climbed high into the trees, far above the reach of whatever beasts still roamed the earth. There, nestled in branches beneath the stars, he slept lightly his mind always alert, one hand resting near the sealed crate that never left his side.
The world was strange, quiet, and heavy with a feeling he couldn't explain. Not death… not yet. But something like a silence waiting to break
---
Late in the night, as Alarion lay hidden in the trees, he listened.
The rustling of leaves in the wind.
The soft chirps of grasshoppers in the distance.
The gentle hum of the cold night air beneath a sky so breathtaking it felt like the stars themselves were watching him.
It was peaceful but also cruel.
The beauty of the night stood in stark contrast to the lifeless world below.
The next morning, as the first rays of dawn pierced through the trees, he set off once more.
Almost a full month had passed since he arrived on the mainland.
Not a single sign of human life.
But still, he did not give up.
He walked with steady steps and quiet determination… until,
A sudden rustle behind him.
He froze.
Something was moving in the bushes light, but quick.
Alarion turned his head sharply, heart quickening.
"Who's there?" he called, one hand near his side, prepared for the worst... but quietly praying for the best.
The bushes parted.
Out stepped a small elven girl.
She looked no older than ten, with silver-blonde hair that shimmered in the morning light and wide green eyes filled with confusion… and fear.
Alarion blinked then let out a long, relieved breath.
Thank the heavens, he thought. At least she's not from one of the hostile races.
.
The elven girl, though small in stature, was nothing like Alarion had expected.
Back when he lived with his mother, he'd heard stories tales passed quietly among the last human settlements, of the races that had once existed in harmony or, at the very least, without hatred.
The Elves, along with the Virellans and the Aetherials, were said to be the only ones who never waged war on humanity.
The Virellans and Aetherials were considered the most powerful of all known races, revered not for conquest, but for their wisdom and detachment from mortal conflict.
They had long since secluded themselves in distant, hidden realms far from the bloodshed, far from the noise of the world.
Alarion stared at the girl, unsure of what to do. She was real. Alive. Intelligent. The first person he'd seen in what felt like an eternity.
And then she spoke.
"What is your name, human?"
Her voice was soft, but laced with a subtle sharpness the kind of tone that suggested she saw herself as above him.
Alarion didn't flinch. He felt no need to protect his pride.
"I am Alarion," he replied calmly, bowing his head slightly. "A lone traveler, searching for what remains of my people."
He paused, then added with quiet courtesy, "If I may be so bold… may I know your name as well?"