"That is enough… for the vision to begin," the being said with a smile.
A gentle silence fell—unlike the silence before speech, it was the kind that precedes revelation. As if the room itself held its breath, waiting for what would form between the lines.
Then he spoke in a voice that did not come from his mouth, but from the walls of the trunk, from the heartwood of the tree itself:
"This continent is unlike any other, for its roots do not live in soil, but in memory. Whoever walks upon its soil becomes part of a dream yet to begin."
The saint looked at the being, her eyes echoing thousands of miles, as though she was weary of questions, yet still capable of listening.
The being continued, his voice growing closer, as if whispering inside her heart:
"You did not come seeking answers… but sensation. That first shiver you were promised before you were ever made. Your prophecy is not made of words, but of feeling—subtle, like the rustle of wind passing through the spirits of trees."
He paused, then extended his hand. It was a hand of light, yet it cast a shadow as it moved.
"I am not the answer, but the path. Not the end, but a gate. And through me… you shall walk."
The saint did not reply, but a single tear slipped from her eye. It was not sorrow, nor joy, but something unnamed between them.
The being said, his glow dimming slightly:
"Your journey did not begin here, and it will not end here. The House of the Four Winds is but a crossing point. What awaits you… is the heart of the Elven Continent. There, by the First Tree—where no shadow lingers, and no name escapes transformation."
The saint whispered:
"Why me?"
And the being replied:
"Because you are the only one who does not seek power, and yet… you shall possess it."
He paused again, and for the first time, his voice carried sorrow:
"But remember… not all who carry light know how to live within it."
Then he rose, though he had no legs. His body lifted like steam rising from a warm spring.
He opened a door that hadn't existed before, and said:
"Before you lies a long path, filled with what has yet to be written.
The wind will guide you, the shadows will watch, and the Ancient Eye… waits."
The saint walked. She did not look back.
But within her, something had begun to burn slowly—like the light in a sword before it is drawn.
It was not certainty, nor even hope. It was something deeper, as if an ancient melody were awakening in her bones—a note heard before birth, and one that would be played after her end.
And just before stepping out of the House of the Four Winds, she turned.
The being was still there—half stone, half light—but dimmer now, as if his radiance were returning to some far-off source.
He spoke to her, this time aloud, not inside the mind:
"Beware of purity that does not question, and of wisdom that does not bow. Not all trees grow toward the sky… some sprout only to bury what lies above."
Then he closed his glassy eyes, and vanished—not in a flash, but as one quietly erased from the fabric of the world.
The air grew heavy for a moment, then light—as though something vast had departed.
The saint stepped out from the tree's trunk, and dusk had begun to whisper.
The colors had dimmed, and the air now resembled the slow breathing of a land in contemplation.
Before her, there was no path—only forest.
A forest unlike any she had passed before.
Everything in it was still—beyond still. As if time itself were waiting.
As if silence were not the forest's absence of sound, but its very breath.
This… was the Forest of Silence.
No tree moved.
No leaf quivered.
No bird sang.
Even her footsteps seemed to make no sound.
But inside her, something whispered:
Go… and do not ask.
At first, nothing happened.
Then she began to see strange reflections at the edges of her vision—
Fleeting glimpses of faces that were not there,
A faint light slipping between the trees, as if searching for something.
And after walking for hours—how many, she did not know—
A shadow appeared before her.
Then another.
Then a third.
The faces of the Elves.
They stepped out from between the trees, without sound,
As if they were part of them.
They wore cloaks of bark and threads of wind,
And on their foreheads were markings, as if etched with light.
One of them stepped forward—
A young man with the nobility of something ancient in his features—and said:
"You have passed the forest's trial… without breaking its silence, and without letting it break you."
Then he bowed slightly and added:
"The royal family has learned of your arrival.
And they… invite you to meet them."
She did not answer.
But her gaze grew sharper.
On the way, the Elves accompanied her—
Stealing words from the air as if they disliked speech,
Yet knew exactly when to speak.
An Elven girl walking beside her said:
"This land does not make paths…
Those who walk upon it make them."
Then she added:
"We will take you through our villages, through the Mother Trees, across the bridges of light, until you reach our heart."
The Saint was watching.
Everything seemed beautiful… to the point of sorrow.
Trees opening their leaves like windows,
Villages built atop branches,
Children playing with the mist,
Elders telling birds their memories.
And the Elves…
They did not smile often, but neither did they hide their wonder at her.
She passed through, asking herself in silence:
Is this the dream?
But that feeling—
That thing burning inside her—did not fade.
It grew stronger.
As if her approach to the heart of the Elven Continent
Was not an approach to an answer…
But to the true question.
The one that cannot be spoken,
Nor understood with words.
A question born when all else falls silent—even the heart.
A question like the paths that are not drawn,
But are discovered only when walked by souls stripped of all certainty.
---
The Saint passed through villages with no names—or so they told her.
For the Elves did not name their dwellings as humans do.
They gave them breaths,
And each village was called by what it felt,
Not by what was said of it.
In one of the villages, described as
"The one that resembles a morning that forgot to be born,"
The group came to a halt.
There, the Saint saw something she would never forget.
An old Elven woman,
Cloaked in mist,
Sitting before a pale tree,
Speaking to it as a grandchild might speak to a grandfather who cannot hear him.
The Saint approached,
And sat beside the old woman.
The woman spoke without turning:
"Every tree here holds a memory,
And every leaf that fell in an autumn past,
Fell to tell us something."
She fell silent for a moment,
Then looked at the Saint with one eye—
For the other was veiled by a scar that looked like a charred branch.
"You are not of our leaves…
But you tremble with the same wind."
Then she reached out her trembling hand and touched the Saint's shoulder.
And something within the girl stirred,
As if an ancient call had returned.
"Be mindful, O daughter of the Grey Light…
Sometimes, the tree that shelters you—
Is the one that hides you from yourself."
---
She continued the journey, and the beauty she passed through was not always comforting.
Some villages had trees that smiled at her, and others gazed upon her coldly—
As if weighing her in an unseen balance.
Then, after uncounted days,
She reached the Bridge of Roots.
A vast bridge stretched between two valleys,
Made from the roots of a mighty tree said to be the oldest in all the forests.
There, a different Elven man awaited them.
He was neither young nor old,
And his body was so slender, it seemed made of a thread of light coiled around a bone.
Yet he stood with the steadiness of one who knows the land even in its darkness.
When he saw her, he said:
"Crossing the bridge is not a step… it is a vow."
Then he pointed to the heart of the bridge,
Where a stone circle lay carved with an ancient symbol.
"Whoever sets foot there sees what should only be seen by one who has crossed their ancient boundary."
---
She did not hesitate.
She approached, and placed her foot at the center.
And a vision opened before her:
A great tree… unlike any she had ever seen.
Its heart pulsed with a green light,
As though life itself had been poured into it.
And around it were countless eyes—
Some familiar,
Some as old as the tales whispered by souls in sleep.
Then she heard the voice—
Not from outside, but from deep within her:
"Do not enter unless you are ready to leave behind everything you thought you knew about yourself."
She trembled slightly,
But did not withdraw.
And when she opened her eyes…
She was on the other side of the bridge,
And the Elves were bowing their heads to her in silent respect.
---
One of them spoke, in a calm voice:
"Now… the path to our heart is open."
And far ahead,
Beyond a forest of green mist,
The Elven capital rose—
Not like a city,
But like a dream grown from earth, and light, and song.