The day Sumti Zas was born, the Forest of Argentine seemed to hold its breath. The ancient trees, towering and silent, bent slightly as if to witness the event. In the royal quarters, the agonizing cries of the queen in labor echoed through the air, filling it with an almost palpable tension. When the cry of a newborn finally broke through the turmoil, a strange phenomenon occurred. Wildflowers erupted from the ground, blooming in a sudden and magnificent display before withering instantly, their petals falling to dust as if they had borne a burden too heavy to carry.

Lyssiana, the queen of Argentine, was an elf of captivating beauty, a descendant of the forest's ancient bloodlines. Her silver-blond hair cascaded in long, silky waves, accentuating the delicate pallor of her skin. Her emerald green eyes, deep and luminous, seemed to hold the wisdom of ages, but on this day, they were clouded with an unease she could not conceal. She held her son in her arms, her fine features marked by exhaustion yet imbued with a quiet strength. Her posture remained upright despite her fatigue, as if she refused to yield to weakness.

"He is special," she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Beside her stood Orandel, her husband and king of the forest, an imposing figure. His tall stature, accentuated by leather armor etched with natural motifs, exuded authority and power. His dark brown hair was neatly tied into a braid that fell over his left shoulder, and his austere face, framed by a finely trimmed beard, reflected the rigor and discipline he imposed on himself and his people. His steel-gray eyes, cold and piercing, studied the newborn with an unusual wariness, as if already weighing the child he was bound to protect.

But it wasn't the newborn's peaceful demeanor that troubled Orandel. His gaze fell upon the wilted flowers at the palace's base and then on the infant's hands, which seemed strangely clenched, as if grasping for an unseen energy.

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

His voice trailed off, as though even voicing the thought was too perilous. Lyssiana, despite her fatigue, responded with a nod. She knew her son was different. But she refused to see it as a curse.

In the kingdom of Argentine, magic was not merely feared—it was abhorred. Long ago, necromancers had sown devastation across the forest, manipulating life and death to fulfill their ambitions. These fallen mages had transformed majestic creatures into grotesque monstrosities, tearing apart and reassembling their vital essences into unnatural forms. The forest itself bore the scars of their atrocities: clearings where no vegetation would grow, rivers where the water lay stagnant like congealed blood, and whispers that seemed to echo the remnants of forgotten rituals. The wood elves, deeply connected to their environment, had vowed to banish all magic, viewing even the smallest incantation as a potential harbinger of such horrors.

For Orandel, safeguarding his people meant eradicating any anomaly. It was a vow he would not take lightly, even if it meant closely monitoring his own son.

The wood elves of Argentine, though deeply entwined with nature, did not live in total isolation. From a young age, children were taught two primary languages: Elvish, their native tongue, and the Common Tongue, used to communicate with other races. Elvish, melodic and intricate, seemed to mimic the songs of birds and the whispers of the wind through the leaves. Each word was a note in a linguistic symphony, each sentence a work of art. In contrast, the Common Tongue, cruder and more direct, often sounded almost vulgar to their refined ears. Yet the elves deemed its mastery essential for dealing with other peoples. These lessons, conducted in sunlit glades where the light streamed through the foliage in dazzling rays, were as much about language as they were about immersing oneself in their culture. Children learned not just the words but the manner of speaking in harmony with their surroundings. Speaking Elvish required respecting natural pauses, listening before responding, while the Common Tongue, more straightforward, demanded brevity and precision. Zas, bright and inquisitive, excelled in these lessons, his soft, clear voice a reflection of his pride in his elven heritage.

The years that followed were marked by strict education. Zas, whose appearance reflected a blend of his parents' features, grew under a rigorous discipline. His ash-brown hair, almost black, was always carefully tied back, and his deep green eyes shone with a curiosity he often tried to suppress. His skin, slightly paler than his brother Verandel's, seemed to catch the light of the glades where he loved to wander.

At fifteen—an age equivalent to about thirty human years—Zas stood on the cusp of young adulthood. Though still considered a child by elven standards, he already possessed a certain gravitas and self-awareness typical of a mature human. His brown linen tunic, simple yet finely embroidered with traditional forest patterns, draped elegantly over his still-slender frame. His silky, slightly tousled hair framed an angular face where the early signs of wisdom were beginning to show. His bright green eyes, usually lively and curious, were now clouded with a heavy, silent fear. Clenching his fists, he stood frozen, his shoulders slumped, unable to meet his father's gaze.

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

In an isolated glade, 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 carcass bore strange claw marks, wounds that did not appear natural. But what unsettled the young prince most was the aura emanating from the creature. A pale glow hovered around its body, and Zas felt a presence, like an inaudible 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 emanated from his palms, enveloping the animal in a soothing energy. The roots of nearby trees quivered, as if responding to his call. For a moment, he believed the stag's soul was returning, that his magic was healing the creature. But then, another energy—darker and more sinister—began to surface.

Invisible runes, etched into Zas's skin, seemed to glow, burning with an icy heat. The green light was consumed by a black aura. The stag's eyes opened suddenly, glowing with an unhealthy, malevolent radiance. Its movements were stiff, mechanical.

The animal rose slowly, its limbs moving like dead branches animated by some unnatural force. Its legs seemed pulled by invisible strings, its antlers emitting a dark glow. Zas stepped back, his hands shaking.

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

But it wasn't life he had restored. The stag, transformed into a silent abomination, limped into the shadows of the glade, its cursed aura seeping into every corner.

Zas was left alone, his knees on the ground, unable to comprehend what he had done. A heavy guilt and visceral fear awakened within him. The forest's whispers seemed to fall silent, as though it too held its breath at what it had just witnessed.

That evening, Zas returned to the palace, trembling and disturbed. His hesitant steps echoed faintly through the carved wooden halls. The living walls seemed to murmur, their intricate engravings of intertwined vines and leaves capturing the weight of his unease. He spoke to no one about what he had seen, but Lyssiana, ever attentive and perceptive, sensed that something within him had changed.

The queen, dressed in a gown woven from plant-based silk with silver accents, stood in the shadow of the columns. Her regal bearing, characteristic of the sylvan elves, had lost none of its grace, but her delicate features betrayed a growing concern. Her emerald eyes studied her son, but he avoided her gaze. She tried to question him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, but he remained silent, his expression tense and withdrawn.

It was not until weeks later, when Zas, driven by his growing fascination with this mysterious magic, attempted to replicate the experience with another animal he had found in the forest, that his secret was revealed.

Verandel, his elder brother, caught him in the act. The heir to the throne had the typical appearance of an elven warrior: tall and slender, with light chestnut hair held back by a fine leather band. His angular features carried a hardness that seemed almost innate, accentuated by his piercing gray eyes. His garments, crafted from supple leather adorned with floral engravings, reflected his status as both prince and warrior.

"So, this is your little secret?" Verandel sneered, a sarcastic smirk curling 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 seen, saw only a threat, an abomination. Despite their mother's desperate pleas for him to keep the secret, Verandel, torn between fear and unconscious jealousy, reported his brother to the king.

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

The great hall, immense and imposing, was a masterpiece of elven architecture. Its columns, carved from the living wood of the ancient mother-trees, soared so high they seemed to vanish into a dome of intertwined foliage. Torches imbued with natural magic cast a warm, flickering light, sending dancing shadows across walls adorned with frescoes depicting the kingdom's great battles.

The tension in the room was almost tangible. The people of Argentine, elves clad in simple robes and light capes made from plant fibers, had gathered in an atmosphere of mingled curiosity and fear. Their murmurs rose like a low wind, only to break when King Orandel, seated on a throne sculpted from the roots of a mighty oak, raised his hand to command silence.

Orandel, clad in ceremonial armor adorned with motifs of trees and ancient runes etched into the metal, dominated the room with his imposing presence. His steel-gray eyes, typically cold, now carried an almost unbearable gravity. Beside him stood Lyssiana, her posture upright and her green-and-gold gown accentuating her elegant figure. Her cascading hair fell over her shoulders, yet her delicate features were marked by visible tension.

Verandel stood apart, slightly behind the throne. His usual arrogance had given way to an expression darkened by the weight of remorse. He kept his head bowed, carefully avoiding his brother's gaze. He had never imagined that his impulsive act of fear would lead to his brother standing here, facing such a grim judgment.

Orandel broke the silence, his voice echoing through the hall like a thunderclap:

"Sumti Zas, tell your people what you have done."

The boy, caught between adolescence and adulthood, not yet mature by elven standards, stood there, frail yet slightly poised. His brown tunic, too large for his slender frame, accentuated his youthful silhouette. His dark brown hair, slightly disheveled, fell across his forehead, partially obscuring his brilliant green eyes, now clouded with fear. Clenching his fists, his shoulders slumped, he stared at the floor, unable to meet his father's gaze.

His voice trembled as he spoke:

"I… I used… magic."

A murmur of astonishment rippled through the room, followed by cries of outrage.

"Magic is forbidden!"

"He broke our sacred laws!"

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

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

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

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

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

Verandel, weighed down by guilt, hesitated before stepping forward. His reluctant gaze met his mother's. His voice, cracked with regret, rose faintly.

"Father… I didn't want this. I thought he would be… punished, maybe reeducated, but not… not exiled."

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

"This is not a question of punishment, Verandel. It is a question of survival. If we tolerate such an anomaly, we risk awakening the evils of the past."

The royal druid, a figure bowed with age, stepped forward then. His braided beard, adorned with wooden beads, reached down to his belt, and his staff, carved with ancient runes, seemed to vibrate with a 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 on mere suspicion. But neither can we ignore what he might represent. I propose a trial."

Orandel narrowed his eyes, intrigued.

"What trial?"

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

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

The king nodded curtly. A heavy stone, etched with shimmering runes, was brought to the center of the hall. It pulsed with a gentle, soothing light, though an almost unbearable tension emanated from it, as though the stone itself feared what it was about to reveal.

Lyssiana, her eyes brimming with tears, knelt before Zas. Her trembling hands gently cupped his face.

"My son, no matter what 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 Soul Stone, massive and ancient, seemed alive. Its engraved runes, intertwined like roots, pulsed with a soft, almost reassuring glow. With cautious deliberation, Zas placed his palms on the cold, smooth surface.

The moment his hands made contact, a familiar warmth coursed through his body. A soft green light radiated from the runes, filling the hall with a benevolent glow. This initial display brought a fleeting moment of hope. Lyssiana, her delicate face etched with anguish, allowed herself a trembling smile. Her emerald-green eyes, reminiscent of the dense foliage of the forest, filled with a mixture of relief and maternal love.

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

The royal druid, frozen near the stone, stared at the scene with an expression of pure shock. His braided beard, adorned with wooden beads, seemed to quiver under the malevolent energy emanating from the artifact. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible, yet it tolled like a funeral bell:

"Necromancy…"

Orandel rose slowly from his throne. His imposing stature, magnified by his armor inscribed with protective runes, projected an overwhelming sense of authority. His face, usually composed and austere, was now frozen in cold fury. His voice thundered through the hall, unyielding:

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

"No!" Lyssiana cried, breaking the silence. She rushed toward her son, her arms outstretched to protect him. Her delicate sandals, made from woven plant fibers, slipped slightly on the smooth floor, but she steadied herself and wrapped Zas in a protective embrace. Her face, marked by timeless elven beauty, was contorted with an indescribable anguish.

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

Orandel averted his gaze, his hardened features betraying an internal struggle. His voice, however, remained firm and cold.

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

Desperate, Lyssiana turned to Verandel. Her hands trembled as she gripped her eldest son's arm, her eyes searching for a glimmer of support in his gray gaze.

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

Verandel, tall and slender, lowered his eyes, unable to meet his mother's gaze. His shoulders slumped as though the weight of his guilt was crushing him. His voice, when he finally spoke, was barely more than a whisper.

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

The king raised a hand, commanding silence. His eyes, shining with cold determination, swept across the gathered crowd. The elves' faces, sharp and graceful, were contorted with fear and uncertainty. Some murmured 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 cries of approval. The people of Argentine, torn between relief and terror, accepted the decision as a way to preserve their fragile equilibrium.

Zas, still standing near the stone, stared at his father with eyes filled with pain and incomprehension. Tears streamed down his cheeks, but he remained silent. Lyssiana, kneeling beside him, tried to hold onto him, but two guards, clad in light armor reinforced with bark, approached and gently surrounded him.

The royal druid, his face deeply marked by what he had just witnessed, placed a gnarled hand on the child's frail shoulder. His gaze, usually sharp and stern, now carried a blend of sadness and resignation.

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

Lyssiana tried to follow, but the guards, respectful yet firm, held her back. Her broken voice echoed one last time in the hall:

"My son!"

Zas wandered for days, his bare and battered feet treading the rough forest floor. The dappled light of the undergrowth, filtering through the intertwined branches of the ancient trees, painted shifting patterns of shadow on his face. His mind, burdened by solitude and betrayal, oscillated between despair and a simmering anger.

But deep within this inner darkness, a presence seemed to call to him. An imperceptible voice, a dark and familiar energy, had never left his side. Each step took him further from the kingdom of Argentine and closer to another place.

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

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

As he moved among the tangled roots, an arrow whistled through the air, embedding itself just inches from his foot. He froze, raising his hands in a gesture of submission.

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

"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" she demanded in a firm tone.

Zas, exhausted but resolute, answered simply:

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

The woman studied him closely, her sharp eyes scrutinizing every detail of this 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 took him in was nestled deep in the heart of the forest, where the trees formed a natural dome, a sanctuary isolated from the outside world. The outcasts who lived there had transformed the place into an ingenious refuge. Wooden huts on stilts rose among the trees, connected by hanging bridges. Every corner of this forest seemed imbued with an ancient, protective, and discreet magic.

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

"Protect your clan, and your clan will protect you," often repeated by Nymira, the woman who had welcomed Zas.

The young man earned their trust by proving his worth. He helped build a hut for a newly arrived family and used his magical talents to heal the injured and fertilize crops. Under Nymira's guidance, who became a maternal figure to him, he learned to channel his pain and anger into strength. He developed not only his magical abilities but also a resilience that made him a key 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 gaze met that of a new arrival. Her dark features, proud posture, and eyes burning with defiance betrayed her origin. A tiefling. Nilsha.