The trees of Elandor, once lush and shining, now looked like barren skeletons. The branches, once full of shimmering leaves and ethereal flowers, were dry, withered, as if life itself had been sucked from the heart of the forest. The fairyland, so famous for its pristine beauty, now resembled a pale shadow of its former self. Elysiel walked through the castle gardens, her steps slow and hesitant, as if each movement was a fight against the growing hopelessness in her chest.

She raised her hand, touching one of the trees. Its withered leaves disintegrated at the slightest touch of her fingers. A crushing weight squeezed her chest. The surrounding air was heavy, saturated with a sadness that seemed to envelop every living thing in Elandor. She felt it in her wings, which used to beat light and graceful, now weakened, almost opaque. She felt it in her heart, which was beating irregularly, threatened by the same disease that was slowly devouring her people.

Elysiel looked toward the horizon, where the rolling hills unfolded like a vast blanket of desolation. The weeping of dying fairies echoed in the distance, a low, melancholy sound that made their wings tremble with sadness. The fairies, who had always been creatures of light, were now withering away. There was no cure for the plague that sucked the life essence from her people, draining them to death. Every day, more bodies were taken to the funeral pyre, and the flames, which once served to warm hearts, now seemed to fuel despair itself.

She closed her eyes and clenched her hands, trying to contain the helpless anger that was rising inside her. As princess of Elandor, Elysiel felt the weight of her legacy on her shoulders. Her family had ruled the kingdom for centuries, maintaining peace and prosperity. Now, at a time when people needed it most, all attempts to contain the plague had failed. The kingdom's best healers exhausted all spells and herbs, but nothing seemed to stop the disease from progressing.

Her father, the king, was already too weak to rule. Locked in his quarters, he could barely breathe, while her mother refused to leave his side, harboring false hope that he could recover. Elysiel knew that the cure would not come. Not through conventional means.

She sighed, walking back to the castle. Her eyes caught the movement of a young fairy lying on the ground, her skin pale and translucent, her wings still. Elysiel ran to her, kneeling beside the girl. She recognized that face—one of her ladies-in-waiting, a childhood friend. Elysiel took her hand, cold as the death that was already beginning to claim her.

— No… not you too, Ilara… — she whispered, holding the fairy's hand as the light in the young woman's eyes went out.

Tears burned in Elysiel's eyes, but she refused to shed them. Ilara was the tenth fairy in her inner circle to die in the past weeks. Each loss was a blow that left her more isolated, more desperate. Her heart screamed for a solution, for a way to save the kingdom… But what was left to do when all hope seemed lost?

In the distance, Arabella, her faithful friend and warrior, watched in silence. Arabella kept her expression hard and impenetrable, but Elysiel knew that, inside, she was also breaking. There was a silent understanding between them, a bitter acceptance that the days of the kingdom were numbered. The question was no longer if they would fall, but when.

Entering the castle, Elysiel passed through the great halls, now desolate and cold, where the tapestries that once depicted glorious scenes from Elandor's history seemed distorted, like memories of a past impossible to recover. The silence of the great throne room was heavy, and she felt the echo of her footsteps resound off the marble walls. She no longer knew who else to turn to. Her father's advisors were dead, and the few who remained were running away from their responsibilities.

Elysiel knew time was running out. If she wanted to save her people, she would have to decide. Something risky. Something no one would even dare to think about.

She went down to the rooms in the castle's old library. It was an underground room, where only the rulers of Elandor were allowed to enter. The books and scrolls kept there were old, some written in forgotten languages, containing ancient secrets that had not been read for generations. The air was thick with the smell of aged paper and dust. The flame of the torch she held flickered, casting shadows on the walls.

As she scanned the crowded shelves, she searched for any hint of ancient magic, anything that could combat the plague. It was then that she spotted a hidden scroll, rolled up carelessly in a dark corner. Her fingers hesitated for a moment before picking it up. The parchment looked older than any other, and when Elysiel unrolled it, a chill ran down her spine.

The Song of the Soulless.

She had already heard of this legend. Whispers in the corners of taverns, stories told to young people to scare them. It was an ancient, forbidden melody, a song that, if sung, could summon forces beyond the fairies' understanding. Demonic forces. That scroll warned of the danger that the song brought. Those who sang it were doomed to lose their souls, becoming prey to the dark beings that were invoked. It was the last magic any being of light should touch.

But as she read the warnings, something inside Elysiel changed. A spark of hope, even if dark, was lit. It was dangerous, but so what? Her life was already destined for failure if she didn't find a way out. Elandor was on the brink of extinction, and she could not afford to reject what could be her only solution. Desperation rose within her like an uncontrollable wave. What could be worse than seeing your kingdom die?

With trembling hands, Elysiel held the scroll, fixing her eyes on the words that seemed to shine in the soft light of the torch. Each verse of the song seemed to whisper to her, like a forbidden promise of power and salvation. A part of her screamed at her to throw it into the fire and forget about it. But the other, the desperate part, the part that wanted to save her people at any cost, knew that this might be her only chance.

The Song of the Soulless. Maybe that was it. Perhaps it was the only thing that could still save Elandor.

Elysiel, holding tight the scroll, looked at the torch's flickering flame and made her decision. If the price was her soul, then she would pay.