The day Sumti Zas was born, the Forest of Argentine seemed to hold its breath. The ancient, towering trees bent ever so slightly, as if to witness the event. In the royal chambers, the queen's piercing cries echoed, filling the air with an almost tangible tension. When the newborn's wail finally broke the tumult, something strange occurred. Wildflowers burst from the ground, blooming in a sudden and magnificent display, only to wither instantly, their petals falling to dust as if they had borne a burden too great to bear.

Lyssiana, the queen of Argentine, was an elf of captivating beauty, a descendant of the forest's ancient bloodlines. Her silvery-blond hair cascaded in soft waves, accentuating the delicate pallor of her skin. Her emerald-green eyes, seemingly imbued with the wisdom of the ages, betrayed a worry she could barely conceal that day. Despite the exhaustion of childbirth, she cradled her son with a blend of tenderness and determination. Her face, marked by fatigue, was illuminated by an inner strength.

"He is special," she murmured, her voice almost inaudible.

Beside her stood Orandel, her husband and king of the forest, an imposing figure. His tall stature, emphasized by leather armor engraved with natural motifs, exuded authority and power. His dark brown hair, tied neatly in a braid that draped over his left shoulder, framed his austere face, complemented by a finely trimmed beard. His steely gray eyes, cold and piercing, fixated on the infant with an unusual caution, as if he were already weighing the child he was meant to protect.

But it wasn't the newborn's peaceful demeanor that troubled Orandel. His gaze shifted to the withered flowers at the palace's base and then to the infant's hands, which seemed oddly clenched, as if grasping at an invisible energy.

"This omen cannot be ignored," Orandel murmured, his brows furrowing deeply. "Lyssiana, we must hide him. If anyone learns…"

His voice trailed off, as if even uttering the thought was too dangerous. Lyssiana, though weary, nodded in agreement. She knew her son was different. Yet she refused to see it as a curse.

In the kingdom of Argentine, magic wasn't merely feared—it was despised. Long ago, necromancers had brought desolation to the forest, twisting life and death to satisfy their ambitions. These fallen mages had transformed majestic creatures into grotesque monsters, their vital essences torn apart and reassembled into unnatural forms. The forest still bore the scars: clearings where vegetation refused to grow, rivers where water stagnated like congealed blood, and whispers that seemed to echo forgotten rituals. The wood elves, deeply connected to their environment, had sworn to banish all magic, believing even the smallest incantation risked awakening those horrors.

The royal druid, a revered figure within the kingdom, often recounted these harrowing tales during equinox ceremonies, reminding everyone of the price they had paid. He described with chilling precision the era when the Forest of Argentine had nearly been lost to oblivion.

"Centuries ago," he would say, "necromancers, consumed by their thirst for power, summoned forces they did not understand. Malevolent entities answered their call, but these pacts came at a terrifying cost. The souls of the living were torn from their bodies to fuel shadowy abominations. The dead found no peace, and every incantation left an indelible scar on the forest. Ancient trees twisted, becoming ghostly sentinels. Rivers, once crystal-clear, ran red like blood, and even the animals turned on one another, driven mad by the corruption."

He would pause, sweeping the assembly with his sharp observation before continuing.

"When the last necromancer was defeated, we did not celebrate victory. Instead, we mourned the destruction left in their wake. Entire clearings died. Families were shattered. Even the survivors were haunted by the voices of the dead, by the cries of souls trapped between worlds. These horrors are etched into the collective memory of our people. So yes, we reject magic. Yes, we banish those who dare to practice it. It is not a choice—it is a necessity."

His voice would then fade into a heavy silence, each word imprinting itself on the hearts of his listeners as an undeniable truth.

To Orandel, protecting his people meant eliminating all anomalies. It was an oath he would uphold without hesitation, even if it meant keeping a vigilant watch over his own son.

The wood elves of Argentine, though deeply intertwined with nature, did not live in total isolation. From an early age, children were taught two primary languages: Elvish, their native tongue, and Common, used to communicate with other peoples. Elvish, melodic and intricate, mimicked the songs of birds and the whispers of wind through the leaves. Each word was a note in a linguistic symphony, each sentence a work of art. In contrast, Common, more blunt and direct, seemed almost crude to their refined ears. Yet the elves considered its mastery essential for interacting with other races. These lessons, held in sunlit clearings where rays pierced the canopy in dazzling beams, were as much about language as they were about immersion in their culture. Children were taught not just the words, but how to speak in harmony with their surroundings. To speak Elvish was to honor natural pauses, to listen before replying, while Common required brevity and precision. Zas, bright and curious, excelled in these lessons, his soft, clear voice reflecting the pride of his Elvish heritage.

The years that followed were marked by strict discipline. Zas grew under a rigorous regimen, his father demanding perfection and mastery in all things. His dark brown hair, always neatly tied, seemed to reflect the seriousness expected of him. His deep green eyes, inherited from his mother, gleamed with a curiosity he carefully concealed, knowing that too much imagination could be perceived as weakness. Yet, despite the austerity of his upbringing, he sometimes found solace in sunlit clearings, where nature seemed to welcome him with quiet warmth.

At fifteen years old—an age that, for an elf, marked the dawn of adolescence—Zas stood there, frail but slightly wiry. Though still considered a child by elven standards, he carried an unusual gravity within him, forged by the crushing expectations of his father. His brown linen tunic, finely embroidered with forest motifs, draped elegantly over his slim frame. Yet, on that day, he had none of the confidence his attire seemed to suggest. His slumped shoulders betrayed his unease. His eyes, usually bright and curious, were clouded by a heavy and silent fear. His hands, clenched tightly at his sides, reflected a tension he struggled to suppress. Despite all his efforts to maintain composure, his focus drifted toward the ground, instinctively avoiding the oppressive presence of his father.

It was during one of these solitary escapes, far from watchful eyes, that Zas made a discovery that would change his life.

In an isolated clearing, a stag lay motionless on the ground. Its majestic brown coat was stained with blood, and its golden antlers, usually proud and imposing, seemed weighed down by an invisible force. The corpse bore strange claw marks, scratches that did not appear natural. But what unsettled the young prince most was the aura surrounding the animal. A pale glow hovered around its body, and Zas felt a presence, like a silent whisper calling to him.

He knelt, his knees sinking into the damp moss, and reached out his hands toward the stag.

"Come back… please," he murmured, his voice trembling with emotion.

A soft green light burst from his palms, enveloping the animal in a soothing energy. The roots of nearby trees quivered, as if responding to this call. For a moment, he believed the stag's soul was returning, that his magic was healing the creature. But another, darker energy began to surface.

Invisible runes etched into Zas's skin seemed to ignite, burning with an icy heat. The green light was swallowed by a black aura. The stag's eyes suddenly snapped open, glowing with an unnatural brilliance.

The animal rose slowly, its limbs moving like dead branches animated by an unnatural force. Its movements were stiff, mechanical. Its legs appeared to be manipulated by invisible strings, its antlers emitting a dark glow. Zas stumbled back, his hands trembling.

"I saved you…" he whispered, a tear rolling down his cheek.

But it was not life he had restored. The stag, now a silent abomination, limped into the shadows of the clearing, its cursed aura staining every corner.

Zas remained alone, knees pressed to the ground, unable to comprehend what he had done. A heavy guilt and a visceral fear stirred within him. The whispers of the forest seemed to have fallen silent, as though it, too, was holding its breath at what it had just witnessed.

That night, Zas returned to the palace, trembling and disturbed. His hesitant steps echoed faintly in the corridors of sculpted wood. The living walls seemed to murmur through the carvings of intertwined vines and leaves, as if they sensed his turmoil. He spoke to no one of what he had seen, but Lyssiana, ever perceptive and attuned, sensed that something within him had changed.

The queen stood in the shadows of the palace's massive columns, her delicate and elegant features veiled by a worry she could not hide. Dressed in a gown woven from plant silk, its silvery hues catching the light like morning mist, she observed her son with silent intensity. She studied Zas, searching for a crack in his resolute silence. Every gesture her son made weighed heavily on her motherly heart, yet Lyssiana let none of it show. Her hand gently rested on the frail shoulder of the adolescent—a gesture that was both protective and desperate.

"Zas," she murmured, her voice trembling with an emotion she could barely contain. "Talk to me. What troubles you so deeply?"

But Zas averted his focus, his lips sealed and his shoulders slumped. Faced with his silence, Lyssiana felt a pang of fear creep into her. It was a fear she could not name, but it whispered in the shadows of the columns, foretelling an irreversible change.

It wasn't until weeks later, when Zas, consumed by his growing fascination with this mysterious magic, attempted to replicate the experience with another animal found in the forest, that his secret was uncovered.

Verandel, his elder brother, caught him in the act. The eldest prince, heir to the throne, bore the archetypal appearance of elven warriors: tall and lean, with light chestnut hair held back by a thin leather band. His features were angular, but his face carried a natural sternness, accentuated by his piercing gray eyes. His attire, crafted from supple leather adorned with floral engravings, spoke of his status as both a prince and a warrior.

"So, this is your little secret?" Verandel jeered, a sarcastic sneer on his face. "Playing with death?"

Zas, panicked, tried to defend himself. "I'm not doing anything wrong. I can… help our people."

But Verandel, terrified by what he had witnessed, saw only a threat, an abomination. Despite their mother's desperate pleas for him to keep the secret, Verandel—caught between fear and an unconscious jealousy—reported his brother to the king.

The next day, Zas was summoned before the royal court.

The great hall, vast and oppressive, was a masterpiece of elven architecture. Its columns, carved from the living wood of ancient trees, stretched so high they seemed to vanish into a dome of interwoven foliage. Torches imbued with natural magic cast a warm, flickering light, projecting dancing shadows on walls adorned with frescoes depicting the kingdom's great battles.

The tension in the hall was almost palpable. The people of Argentina, elves clad in simple robes and lightweight capes woven from plant fibers, had gathered in an atmosphere mixed with curiosity and fear. Murmurs rose like a muted wind, breaking only when King Orandel, seated on a throne carved from the roots of a giant oak, raised a hand to command silence.

Orandel, clad in ceremonial armor where patterns of trees and ancient runes seemed etched into the metal, dominated the hall with his imposing stature. His steel-gray eyes, typically cold, were burdened with an almost unbearable gravity. Beside him, Lyssiana stood tall, wearing a gown of green and gold hues that complemented her graceful form. Her hair, loose, cascaded over her shoulders, but her face was visibly strained.

Verandel stood apart, slightly behind the throne. His expression, usually arrogant, was darkened by the weight of remorse. He kept his head bowed, carefully avoiding the sight of his brother. He had never imagined that his actions, driven by a moment of fear, would lead his sibling here, facing such a grim judgment.

Orandel broke the silence, his voice booming through the hall like thunder: "Sumti Zas, tell your people what you have done."

The child, standing on the threshold between adolescence and adulthood, faced his father, frozen in an almost painful stillness. His brown linen tunic, slightly too loose for his slender frame, emphasized his youth and fragility. His dark brown hair, slightly disheveled, fell across his forehead, partially obscuring his vivid green eyes. That day, however, their usual brightness was dimmed, replaced by a faint glimmer of fear. His tense posture betrayed his unease, and he avoided meeting the heavy scrutiny that bore down on him. The room, bathed in dim light, seemed to close in around him, amplifying the overwhelming authority of his father, whose silence was more oppressive than any reprimand could be.

His voice trembled as he spoke:

"I… used… magic."

A murmur of astonishment rippled through the hall, followed by cries of indignation.

"Magic is forbidden!"

"He has broken our sacred laws!"

"What do we do with a child who summons the dead?"

Lyssiana, standing near the throne, stepped forward, defying the tumult.

"My son is a child, not a monster," she interjected, her voice firm yet tinged with emotion. "His magic has never been used to harm anyone."

Orandel slowly turned his head toward her. His face remained impassive, but his eyes glinted with an icy coldness.

"And what will we do when this magic you defend today returns to haunt our kingdom?"

Verandel, burdened with guilt, timidly stepped forward. His hesitant expression met his mother's. His voice, strained with regret, barely rose above a whisper.

"Father… I didn't mean for this to happen. I thought he would be… punished, maybe reformed, but not… not cast out."

Orandel shot him a hard look, as if weighing his words.

"This isn't about punishment, Verandel. It's about survival. If we tolerate such an anomaly, we risk awakening the evils of the past."

The royal druid, an aged figure bent by the weight of countless years, stepped forward. His braided beard, adorned with wooden beads, reached down to his belt, and his staff, carved with ancient runes, seemed to hum with subtle energy. Despite his frail appearance, his voice, though soft, resonated with the authority of millennia of wisdom.

"Your Majesty, if I may. We must not condemn this child based on mere suspicions. But we cannot ignore what he might represent either. I propose a trial."

Orandel narrowed his eyes, intrigued.

"What trial?"

The druid turned toward Zas, his gaze softened by a glimmer of understanding.

"A trial that will reveal the truth. The child must place his hands on the Soulstone. If dark magic resides within him, it will manifest for all to see."

The king nodded in agreement. A massive stone, engraved with shimmering runes, was brought to the center of the hall. It pulsed with a soft, soothing light, but an almost unbearable tension radiated from it, as if the stone itself dreaded what it might unveil.

Lyssiana, her cheeks wet with tears, knelt before Zas. Her trembling hands gently cradled her son's face.

"My son, whatever happens, know that I love you," she whispered, her voice breaking on the final words.

Shaking, Zas allowed himself to be guided toward the stone. His hesitant steps echoed faintly in the oppressive silence of the hall. The Soulstone, massive and ancient, seemed almost alive. Its runic carvings, intertwined like roots, pulsed with a soft light, almost reassuring. The child placed his palms on it with cautious slowness, his slender, delicate fingers pressing against the stone's cold, smooth surface.

As soon as he made contact, a familiar warmth coursed through his body. A gentle green light, soothing and serene, emanated from the runes, bathing the hall in a benevolent glow. This first flash of light brought a fleeting moment of hope. Lyssiana, her delicate features marked by anguish, managed a trembling smile. Her expression reflected a mix of relief and maternal love, as if this fragile moment offered a reprieve from her deepest fears.

But the moment of serenity was abruptly shattered. A voracious, menacing black light erupted, swallowing the green glow. The runes contorted, casting shifting shadows across the hall's walls. A chilling gust swept through the room, silencing the murmurs of the assembly and replacing them with cries of terror.

The royal druid, frozen near the stone, observed the scene with an expression of pure astonishment. His wrinkled hands, clutching the staff engraved with ancient runes, trembled faintly under the malevolent energy radiating from the object. When he finally spoke, his voice, barely a whisper, resonated through the silence like a death knell:

"Necromancy…"

Orandel rose slowly from his throne. His imposing stature seemed to fill the entire hall, each movement imbued with an overwhelming gravity. The runic engravings on his attire glimmered faintly under the flickering light, amplifying the aura of his authority. His face, usually stern and austere, was frozen in cold fury. His voice thundered through the hall, unyielding:

"The proof is here. This power cannot be tolerated."

"No!" cried Lyssiana, shattering the silence. She rushed toward her son, her arms outstretched to shield him. Her feet, shod in delicate sandals made of plant fibers, slipped slightly on the smooth floor, but she caught herself and enveloped Zas in a protective embrace. Her face, marked by timeless elven beauty, was twisted with indescribable pain.

"He's just a child, Orandel. He doesn't even understand what he is!"

Orandel turned his head away, his hardened features betraying an internal struggle. His voice, however, remained firm and icy.

"And that is precisely the problem. Allowing such power to grow is to condemn our people."

Lyssiana turned desperately toward Verandel. Her trembling hands clutched her eldest son's arm, seeking a flicker of support in his expression, which was clouded with uncertainty.

"Verandel, help me! You didn't want this, did you?"

Verandel, tall and slender, lowered his head, unable to endure his mother's commanding presence. His slumped shoulders seemed crushed under the weight of his guilt. When he spoke, his voice was barely a murmur.

"No… I didn't want this. I thought… I thought he'd be punished, not exiled."

The king raised a hand, imposing silence. The cold glint of his resolve swept over the hall, where the assembled people stood frozen. The elves' slender, graceful faces were distorted by fear and uncertainty. Some whispered ancient prayers, while others exchanged terrified glances.

"Let his name be erased from our history," Orandel declared solemnly. "Let him leave this forest and never return."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the hall, followed by hesitant applause, then shouts of approval. The people of Argentina, torn between relief and terror, accepted this decision as a means to preserve their fragile balance.

Zas, still standing near the stone, stared at his father with palpable pain and incomprehension. Tears streamed down his cheeks, but he remained silent. Lyssiana, kneeling at his side, tried to hold him, but two guards, dressed in light armor reinforced with bark, approached and gently encircled him.

The royal druid, his face deeply etched with what he had just witnessed, placed a gnarled hand on the child's frail shoulder. His gaze, usually piercing and severe, now carried a mix of sorrow and resignation.

"May you find peace elsewhere," he murmured, guiding Zas out of the hall.

Lyssiana tried to follow, but the guards, though respectful, firmly held her back. Her broken voice echoed through the hall one last time:

"My son!"

Zas wandered for days, his bare and bruised feet treading over the rough forest floor. The dappled light of the undergrowth, filtered through the interwoven branches of ancient trees, painted shifting patterns of shadow across his face. His mind, weighed down by solitude and betrayal, teetered between despair and a smoldering anger.

But deep within that inner darkness, a presence seemed to call to him. An imperceptible voice, a dark and familiar energy, had never truly left him. Each step carried him further from the kingdom of Argentina but closer to another place.

At the end of his harrowing journey, he reached the edge of the Forest of the Lost. The air changed, heavy with an oppressive weight. The trees, more gnarled and twisted, seemed to guard their secrets jealously. Legends spoke of this place as cursed, haunted by shadows and malevolent spirits.

To Zas, this place was not a danger. It was a refuge. Beneath the dense canopy and the forest's unsettling whispers, he felt a strange sense of peace for the first time. Yet he did not know that his past, like his power, would never stop haunting him.

As he walked among the knotted roots, an arrow suddenly whistled through the air, embedding itself inches from his foot. He froze, raising his hands in surrender.

A figure emerged from the shadows, followed by several others. A commanding woman, her hair tied in a wild braid and her arms marked with scars, approached. She held a sword in one hand and a cold determination in the other. Her slightly pointed ears betrayed her half-elven heritage.

"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" she demanded, her tone harsh.

Zas, exhausted but resolute, replied simply:

"I'm looking for a place to stay. I mean no harm."

The woman studied him intently, scrutinizing every detail of the lost child. Finally, she lowered her weapon.

"Follow me. But know this—if you betray our trust, you won't leave here alive."

The community that welcomed him was nestled deep within the forest, where the trees formed a natural dome, like a sanctuary cut off from the rest of the world. The outcasts who lived there had turned it into an ingenious refuge. Wooden huts on stilts rose between the trees, connected by suspended bridges. Every corner of the forest seemed to pulse with an ancient, protective magic.

Zas quickly discovered that every member of the clan carried a story marked by rejection and pain. There was Rukan, the half-orc exiled for refusing to partake in a bloody raid. Alarielle, a fallen priestess who had lost her faith and been cast out by her order. Duvann, a gnome inventor whose experiments had accidentally destroyed his village. And so many others, all different but united by one simple rule:

"Protect your clan, and your clan will protect you," Nymira, the woman who had taken Zas in, often reminded them.

The young man earned their trust by proving his worth. He helped build a hut for a newly arrived family and used his magical abilities to heal injuries and fertilize crops. Under the guidance of Nymira, who became a maternal figure to him, he learned to channel his pain and anger into strength. He not only honed his magical talents but also developed a resilience that made him a vital member of the clan.

The Forest of the Lost became a home, a place where Zas found peace for the first time. But this sanctuary also marked the beginning of encounters that would change the course of his life. One day, while working to fortify a hut, his focus was drawn to a new arrival. Her sharp features, proud posture, and burning eyes betrayed her origins. A tiefling. Nilsha.