At first dawn, when the light is pale as if hesitant to stay, the ship whispered to the sea waves, carving its path in silence, while the mist coiled around it like a soft shroud.
She stood at the bow, a still specter known to no one.
Her dress was gray, simple, indistinguishable from any woman among the sailors or the fugitives. A shawl covered her hair, and her face bore no adornment, no crown. But the sea, which is more honest than men, knew she was not ordinary.
She is the Saint… whose name is no longer spoken.
She was not hiding in fear, but disguised to hear what is not said in the light of temples. Since she left the City of Light, she had not looked back. No desire to cry, no regret. The sacred ring was still on her finger, beneath the cloth, touching her skin like a sleeping ember. She hadn't thought of removing it. Hadn't thought of selling it. Because it was not just a ring—it was a question.
She was searching for something she hadn't yet named. A feeling? A path? Or perhaps truth… that word which vanished beneath the noise of crowds and the chants of priests.
The wind was gentle, and the water whispered, and the vessel flowed like a dream over an old wound.
On the horizon, black birds appeared watching the ship. They didn't draw near, but they didn't leave either. And beneath the surface, on quiet nights, she felt things passing beneath her, as if the sea itself confessed to her passage.
One night, she sat alone on the deck and raised her hand to the sky. For a moment, the ring seemed to shine on its own. It wasn't a bright light, but a gleam—as if something inside it had awakened to the sea's whisper.
She then remembered the words of her grandmother in the Temple of the Sun:
"Who wears the ring does not walk toward the prophecy, but calls it forth."
She closed her eyes. And her heart—which had long feared the path—began to feel itself drawn, not walking. As if the path itself were seeking her, not the other way around.
And in her dream that night, she saw herself walking on black ice, held by the roots of a tree that does not grow. And the wind whispered:
"Who are you without the light?"
But she did not answer.
And when she opened her eyes, the Continent of the Elves had begun to appear in the distance, draped in green clouds and a dense forest spilling into the sea like a dream seeping from the mind.
And she whispered, to herself alone:
"I am not the runaway… I am the one who walks."
She whispered it softly, not as one who answers, but as one who reminds the sea itself not to swallow her.
The ship's captain stood behind her, his cloak fluttering in the salty wind, and his eyes—despite their hardness—tried to soften the tone of his warning. He said:
"The Continent of the Elves… is not as it appears, my lady. Let not the beauty of its ports deceive you, nor the elegance of its markets. They… do not love outsiders. And none do they hate more than humans.
They deal only when trade dictates its terms, and beyond that? No hearts are open, no arms welcome. And if you go deep… if you walk where they do not walk, know that the forest does not forget."
She did not reply.
Her eyes remained fixed on the horizon, as if she saw not the land, but something older than the land… something within her.
The captain yanked a nearby rope nervously, then muttered as he walked away:
"Your saint… is unlike any saint I've seen."
**
At the port, where the scent of trees mingles with the bones of salt, the city began to reveal itself like a faint tattoo on the skin of mist.
It was the port of Eltharin—the elves' gateway to the other continents—built from living wood that never dies, its towers growing with time, and its rooftops gleaming in a green armor of rare leaves that do not fall.
The air there was strange… neither of land nor sea, but as if the breath of trees had mingled with the voice of the waves and the memory of the wind.
Inside, majestic silence prevailed. No clamor of craftsmen, no cries of merchants.
Everything moved slowly, with grace, as though the city were speaking to its visitors in an unspoken language: "You are a guest… do not be a burden."
The Saint disembarked. She looked at no one. And no one looked at her.
She carried nothing but a gray cloak, and a hidden ring on her finger, seen only by those who know what to seek.
Her footsteps on the wooden bridge made no sound, as if the sea itself hushed not to disturb her presence.
And in her eyes…
that distance, seen only by those who have crossed thousands of miles without arriving, yet still walk.
Because she does not flee.
She walks.
And the city of the Elves, as the captain had predicted, did not wait for her.
There was no one to welcome her.
No bouquet of forest flowers, no band playing, no elder chanting, not even a word cast casually into the air.
The city lived for itself, like the forest, like the night, like the Elves themselves.
From afar, eyes watched without seeing.
And up close, bodies moved without sound, like trees walking upon the earth, leaving no shadow.
The guards at the gate were closer to statues than to living beings.
Taller than humans, their skin smooth and bark-colored, they wore polished armor made from the bones of forest insects.
They did not speak as she passed, but their eyes glanced at her once—long, cold—a gaze that carved into the soul.
As if they saw all she was hiding, even without knowing her name.
**
The saint did not stop.
Inside, she knew she was a stranger here, an intruder upon a land that does not welcome, and that this silence... was a form of refusal.
But she walked, slowly, steadily, as if her steps did not yield to time, but conversed with it.
**
The city seemed to her like an old dream.
Homes rose without pillars, as if the trees had adopted architecture.
Lights were not lit nor extinguished—they breathed with the night.
And balconies overlooked not the streets, but the wind.
In the great square, there was a market... but it was silent.
The Elves sold with their eyes, not their tongues, gestured more than they spoke, and the goods themselves were strange:
Masks made from sunset light, herbs that sang when touched, small bottles holding shadows that would not return once freed, and swords that did not shine but wept.
**
She passed among them like a specter.
They avoided her with studied gentleness, as one might avoid a creature not belonging to this world.
And in a corner of the market, a small Elf boy looked at her for a long time.
He did not smile, but neither was he afraid.
He approached, then spoke in a low voice, as if the forest itself were translating his words:
"Your face looks like the rain... but it does not fall.
Why don't you cry?"
She did not answer.
She knelt before him, passed her hand over his brow, then rose and walked on.
**
And inside her, she knew...
That the forest was watching her,
That the city had not yet accepted her,
But the path had opened,
And the vision had not lied.
And for the first time since she left her continent, she felt something stir within her...
Something without a name, but that knew the way.
**
She walked through alleys that bore no names, as if the city concealed its identity as it did its secrets.
The wind blew from a direction that came not from the sky, but from the earth,
And with it carried the scent of ancient moss growing upon stones untouched for centuries.
She passed beneath arches of living trees, which shed no leaves, but blossomed for each passerby—
And withered a moment after.
The Elves did not smile, did not glance at her, but they felt her...
As if the air itself carried news of her presence.
**
She stopped at a small pool, the water within it silent, reflecting nothing.
She looked into it... and did not see her face.
But another face... without features, without eyes,
Yet it resembled her in a painful way.
She whispered to herself:
"Am I the shadow?
Or am I the light that was exiled?"
**
Behind her, an Elven woman walked silently—tall as a tree, wearing a robe made of living leaves that do not wither.
She spoke, with a voice like the first rain in autumn:
"You are not one of us... but you are not entirely a stranger."
The saint turned, a question in her eyes not yet asked.
The woman said:
"There is someone waiting for you in the House of the Four Winds… No one knows his name, but he said: he will recognize you if you come."
**
The saint did not answer—she walked.
Her feeling guided her, as if the earth were sending its pulses through the soles of her feet.
And on her way, she saw:
An Elven child trying to feed a bird of fire, laughing when it did not burn him, and weeping when it flew away and never returned.
A blind woman playing an instrument made of bone, playing for a memory that no longer belonged to her.
A shadow trying to follow its owner, but always walking ahead—as if it knew the fate.
**
Then she arrived.
The "House of the Four Winds" was not a house.
It was the trunk of a giant tree, opened like an ancient mouth, emanating a strange warmth—as if within it a heart still beat.
She stood before it.
She did not knock, and she did not hesitate.
She entered.
Inside was vast beyond logic, as if the room rained light from within, and rocked itself with a song unsung.
And in the corner, sat a being unlike anything she had ever seen.
Half light, half stone, and his eyes were made of sea-glass.
He spoke to her without opening his mouth:
"You are late, Daughter of the Vision."
She approached, and sat on the ground before him.
For the first time, she seemed small, as if her journey had suddenly fallen off her shoulders.
She said, with a voice that sprouted from her depths:
"I don't know who I am yet…
But I know that I'm here…
Because something inside me can no longer bear to remain there."
The being smiled, and said:
"That is enough... for the vision to begin."