An elf soldier burst into Elrond's study, breathless and wide-eyed. "Lord Elrond! There's… there's someone near the barrier!" he stammered, panic lacing his voice.
Elrond's quill stilled midair, his gaze sharp. "Someone?" he repeated, rising from his seat, his voice calm but betraying the tension that gripped him.
The soldier nodded frantically. "The barrier… it's broken."
The weight of those words struck Elrond like a physical blow. The barrier—crafted from ancient magic, sealed by generations of Elven wisdom—had been impenetrable for centuries. Or so they had believed.
"Where?" Elrond's voice was low, dangerous. "Is he still there?"
"Yes, Lord Elrond. We've sent soldiers to investigate, but we believe he might still be near the weakened boundary," the soldier responded, his breath still shallow with fear.
Elrond quickly turned to gather several of the Elders, their faces grave as they followed him through the village and toward the barrier. The closer they got, the more the air grew thick with residual energy, a palpable disturbance that even the trees seemed to react to. The ancient forest groaned and shifted, its leaves rustling in chaotic patterns, as if protesting the disruption of the magic that had kept them safe for generations.
Faint scorch marks marred the once pristine forest floor, traces of where the barrier had once stood strong, now shattered like fragile glass. The ground itself seemed to throb, the lingering hum of fading magic still resonating in the very air.
Amid the chaos of the disintegrating magic, they found him—sprawled on the ground like a broken doll, blood staining his torn clothes, his body twitching as though the very life force within him struggled to hold on. His silver hair gleamed faintly under the dappled sunlight, a striking contrast against the dark soil, while remnants of golden light flickered around his body as though trying to stitch him back together.
Elrond knelt beside the figure, his hand glowing with soft green magic, the light of his spell casting eerie shadows over the scene. He scanned the young man's body with quick precision, his brow furrowing deeper as he felt the unstable aura surrounding the stranger. "Strange..." he muttered, unsettled. "His aura is mixed, unstable. Dragon magic, yet... something ancient. What is this?"
The Elders exchanged uneasy glances, the air around them thick with uncertainty. "He reeks of danger," one Elder muttered under his breath, eyes wide with fear.
"We should leave him here," another suggested, voice taut with unease. "We do not know what he brings with him."
"No," Elrond said firmly, his tone brokering no argument. "Whatever magic courses through him, it is barely keeping him alive. We must help him, if only to understand what has brought him here."
The Elders fell silent, but they made no move to question Elrond's authority. Soldiers carefully lifted the unconscious figure, their hands steady but cautious as they carried him through the village. As they moved through the forest, the ancient trees seemed to groan, their boughs swaying restlessly, almost as though the woods themselves were protesting the stranger's presence.
The procession continued through the village, but a hushed murmur followed them. Elves gathered along the path, their faces filled with curiosity, wariness, and confusion. "A human?" one whispered. "How did he get past the barrier?"
"He reeks of dragon magic," another muttered under her breath, her eyes wide with unease. "What does this mean?"
At the edge of the gathering crowd, Mekeala paused in the middle of her training with Maya, her sharp eyes narrowing as she spotted the group. There was something about the air, a strange energy that felt different from the usual calm of the village. She felt an inexplicable pull in her chest, a sense of urgency that she couldn't quite explain. "What's going on?" she asked, pushing through the crowd with purpose.
Her breath hitched when her gaze landed on the unconscious young man being carried by the soldiers. His ash-grey hair gleamed faintly in the sunlight, and she caught a glimpse of faint golden markings on his ring finger—markings that shimmered like an ancient, forgotten power. A wave of unease rippled through her chest, but there was also something else, something uncomfortably familiar about him.
"Who is he?" she whispered to Maya, her voice barely above a breath. "I don't know... but he feels... different," Maya replied, her wide eyes filled with the same confusion that clouded Mekeala's mind. "But look at those markings... they're like nothing I've seen before."
Unable to suppress the curiosity burning in her, Mekeala followed the procession to the infirmary. The scent of medicinal herbs filled the air as she pushed open the door. Inside, Esme, her grandmother, was already tending to the stranger with her usual calm precision. Her hands worked skillfully, mixing potions and applying salves to stabilize his condition.
Esme's voice, sharp and firm, broke the silence. "Mekeala, don't just stand there. This stranger isn't going to heal himself."
Mekeala hesitated at the doorway, her gaze fixated on the faint golden markings on the man's hand, her chest tightening inexplicably. The warmth that stirred deep within her only grew stronger as she stood there, her mind racing with unanswered questions. Who was this stranger? Why did he feel so... familiar?
The stranger's shallow breaths echoed in the quiet room, the faint glow on his hand refusing to fade. Mekeala couldn't shake the feeling that this man was no ordinary outsider—and that his arrival marked the beginning of something far greater than any of them could yet comprehend.