Ërna caught her breath. The voice sounded softer than she expected, but, in her mind, there was no mistaking it—that voice belonged to Valýría. Trembling, she looked down at her hands. She couldn’t muster the courage to turn around and look into those eyes again. Not yet. Not so soon.

“Heh.”

All that effort to convince herself to stay and try connecting with the land-spirits here again.

What a waste.

What a cruel twist of fate.

She should have run, after all.

“To end up here of all places,” the voice chuckled.

Ërna still couldn’t bring herself to turn around. Her entire body tensed as she gripped her hands together in a tight knot. It was a hopeless prayer.

“This is where my mother came to sing, long ago,” the voice continued. “Her songs were inspirational, but I loved her lullabies the most. Nothing in this world was more soothing, not even Lua’s light. My sister and I miss her dearly.”

Ah, so that’s it. Ërna thought. Her mother must have been killed by an Eldásr. That would explain why Valýría’s rage felt so personal. But if that’s true…why does her voice seem so fragile now? Shouldn’t she be seething that I’ve sullied their sacred place? She’s too calm.

That seemed more dangerous than anything.

A calm rage. Nothing is more perilous. Just that realization caused every instinct within Ërna to scream run. But that tension continued to build without release. She was frozen with fear.

Her foe took a step forward.

Ërna winced.

“You poor flower.”

There was no trace of mockery there. Surprised by the sudden sympathy, Ërna almost turned around. But it took all her strength just to look to the side and mutter.

“…f-flower?”

“Is it so strange to be called a flower? That is what you look like to me, wilting in this meadow.”

“I’m…just a cinder. I can’t be compared to—”

“If you came here to start a fire, you wouldn’t be reaching out such a pleading, desperate hand to the spirits of this land.”

“—?!”

Ërna whipped around.

Standing before her was not Valýría, but a gentle Luálr in a plain, gray dress. Her lavender eyes glistened with empathetic tears. She held something in her hands, but it was hidden behind her back as she looked straight into Ërna’s widened eyes.

“My sister was too harsh on you.”

Her voice was even softer than before as she knelt down among the flowers, putting herself on the same level as Ërna, who recoiled slightly.

“I’m sorry to frighten you so, but I had to find you—not to harm you or capture you, but to meet you.”

Ërna blinked and furrowed her brows.

“I wanted to judge your wind for myself.”

“…”

“My sister thinks we’re naive, and perhaps she’s right. Her instincts are sharp, but she lost faith in Gylthra’s winds long ago. I prefer to give people a chance, no matter where they come from. That may indeed expose us to greater hardship, but I don’t want to water a seed that I regret seeing take root in others. I just can’t bring myself to blindly distrust others simply because of their birthplace or blessings.”

Ërna remained silent and uneasy.

“As a token of my goodwill, I brought this.”

From behind her back, she revealed a satchel—the very same that Ërna had dropped as she fled.

“M-my satchel?”

The strange Luálr bowed her head and handed the satchel over to Ërna, who carefully grabbed it.

“Let’s begin anew, shall we? My name is Gylda. I’m the elder daughter of Lëra. Valýría is my younger sister. We have different fathers.”

As she introduced herself, she humbly bowed and placed a hand over her breast in a gesture of respect and sincerity. Ërna was taken aback by this unexpected yet familiar etiquette.

“I-I’m Ërna, the eldest daughter of…”

She hesitated.

“…of Elëa.”

“Elëa,” Gylda repeated. “The name seems familiar to me, but I’d have to ask Rëálnos to remind me.”

“Rëálnos?” Ërna wondered. “Do you mean Rëálnás, the Ánor-blind owl?”

“Ah, that’s right,” she replied with a smile. “I forgot your folk use slightly different honorifics for the ëolfëánorí. Yes, I believe he’s the same. He used to dwell both here and in the gilded, birch-filled grove of Älthranor, so perhaps you’ve even met him?”

“Oh no, I’ve never had that pleasure. My mother has, though…”

That piqued Gylda’s curiosity, but, out of consideration for Ërna’s growing discomfort, she decided not to pry any further.

“Well, Ërna…you can probably guess that your arrival has caused quite a stir in this land.”

Ërna’s eyes cast downward.

“But for now, Valýría has been ordered not to harm you.”

“—?!”

“She would have ignored that command,  though, had it not been for the news that came from the west yesterday evening. Indeed, on the same day you revealed yourself, more wind from your land rustled the leaves and needles of our trees.”

Ërna’s eyes widened once more, but it was clear that fear and confusion filled them—that much Gylda could glean.

“Your position here is therefore perilous. You are, by orders of our chosen lord, a prisoner under parole. Valýría may be away, but many others will be watching in her stead. Now that your presence is known to this Grove, it will prove difficult to hide. The mercy that stays their hands is temporary and fragile. Tensions are quite high, as you likely know.”

Ërna looked down and nodded grimly.

“I don’t want anyone else to find you until judgement is passed, lest they force you to speak before the entire assembly. That would be too great a risk for your life, for it would kindle too much hatred, regardless of what you say.”

“Th-then…what can I do?” Ërna pleaded.

Gylda studied her carefully before replying.

“I’m going to ask the land-spirits to help you.”

A short gasp escaped Ërna.

“They may only do so reluctantly, but perhaps it can also be a chance for you to court their favor. But you must be content with dwelling in a den and relying upon small animals to bring you food. You mustn’t move. Will you be able to trust our land with your life?”

Ërna hesitated, for she was afraid and still unsure that Gylda could actually be trusted. But…what choice did she have?

“It’s very selfish of me to expect so much from strangers, but please…”

Ërna bowed low, putting her forehead and hands upon the earth below.

“…I humbly ask that you treat me well, for my life is in your hands. This and all else I give to your care.”

Her words were well-woven, sewn together as her upbringing instructed. But that hardly mattered, for words were often false and filled with fake flattery. This the spirits of old knew better than any other.

Hence they knew Ërna truly meant them.

Responding to her plea (at the request of their beloved Lady Gylda), land-spirits gradually appeared around Ërna as dewy drops of golden light.

“They shall guide you to a safe place until our assembly ends. But I should warn you now that little warmth awaits your name there. Only one person, I fear, will speak up for you.”

“Will that one be…you?”

Her voice was desperate, as one deeply wounded from despair. But, even so…

“That role is for another.”

Her fragile hope was swiftly crushed.

Poor flower, indeed, Gylda sympathized.

“For some reason, Fëor hasn’t stopped worrying about you.”

“—!”

“I’ve urged his friends to go speak with him, but I have a feeling, after meeting you, that they won’t be able to change his heart.”

She smiled again and began to turn away.

“I’m sure we’ll meet again, sweet flower.”