The room fell into silence the moment Captain Finn spoke.

Even the wind outside the ship seemed to pause, like the world was waiting to hear what came next.

"They say the Enfi Crystals were made by the Elves themselves," Finn said, his rough voice carrying over the table, "before they vanished."

Liliana's blank expression hardly shifted, but her tone cut the air like a knife. "Vanished? You mean extinct."

Finn shook his head, slow and deliberate, the lamplight glinting off the scar that ran across his cheek. "That's what the history books claim, Countess. But I've been around the border... men who swear they've heard whispers in the woods, singing that isn't wind. You don't just vanish without a trace. Not a race that once shaped the forests to breathe."

Luther set down his cup, gold eyes narrowing slightly, the steam from the tea rising between them like a thin veil.

Extinct, huh? So either the historians are idiots… or someone's lying.

Beside him, the demonic sword, currently in its compact laziness form as it lean beside luther let out a low, lazy hum.

"Ah, elves," it drawled, voice smooth and irritatingly self-satisfied. "Pointy-eared gardeners with superiority complexes. I miss them, actually. They made good wine, and a good cell"

Luther raised a brow. "You'd drink blood if it came in a goblet."

"I have standards," the sword replied. "I prefer vintage."

Liliana's lip twitched; it might've been a smile. Aithur, seated neatly across from them, sighed and wiped an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. Again? What us wrong with this clean freak!

Finn, clearly unsure how to process the fact that he was having a diplomatic conversation with a talking weapon, continued hesitantly, "The king doesn't take kindly to talk of their return. The court calls it heresy. Stirring fear, they say, especially after the last war."

"Fear of what?" Luther asked, leaning back, tone dry. "Pointy ears?"

Finn's jaw tightened. "Fear of the truth, Saint. Because if the Elves still live… it means the gods lied."

That silenced the cabin again.

Even the sword stopped humming.

Luther stared at the captain, eyes unreadable, though a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Wouldn't be the first time the gods lied, he thought bitterly. And it sure as hell won't be the last.

Silence rained as the scene shift.

The morning sun broke gray and heavy, the horizon smeared in fog. Seabirds wheeled overhead as sailors shouted orders and ropes slapped against wet wood. Two ships rocked side by side: The Maiden's Wake, bound for the sea of gan dock, and The North Gale, heading toward the Enferi Forest.

Captain Finn stood at the dock, bellowing commands. "Those returning to the dock, board the Wake! Those for Enferi—gods help your miserable souls—get on the Gale! Don't make me chase you off my pier!"

Aithur adjusted his immaculate gloves and clapped Luther on the shoulder. "Well, brat, adventure calls again."

Luther grunted. "I was hoping it'd lose my number."

Liliana checked the edge of her sword, her blank face betraying only mild amusement. "Don't tell me the 'Saint' is afraid of a little forest."

Luther gave her a flat stare. "If by 'little forest' you mean a cursed, man-eating woodland with glowing rocks and whispering ghosts, then yes. I'm terrified."

"Especially since that's what I've read in books"

The sword—now strapped across his back—snickered. "At least you're honest for once."

"And you're still talking," Luther shot back.

The weapon spun slightly, the crimson etchings along its blade flickering. "Admit it—you'd miss me if I stopped."

"I'd celebrate," Luther muttered.

Several nearby guards burst out laughing. Even Captain Finn smirked, though his next words were low and serious.

"Jokes aside, watch yourselves in Enferi. The forest doesn't like intruders. If you see lights moving where they shouldn't… don't follow."

Luther tilted his head. "And here I thought you wanted us to come back alive."

Finn gave a crooked grin. "I do. But I'd rather not have to fish your corpses out of the roots."

By midday, the final crates were loaded and the sea breeze carried the scent of salt and pine. Luther leaned against the rail, the wind tossing strands of his sliver hair across his face.

Elves. Crystals. Gods lying again.

Every answer just gives me five new questions.

The sword broke into his thoughts. "If you're thinking that hard, I can smell the smoke from here."

Luther didn't miss a beat. "Remind me again why I haven't sold you for scrap?"

"Because no one's rich enough to afford me," it said smugly.

He almost smiled. Almost.

Behind them, Aithur and Liliana were in their usual disagreement over the supplies.

The six soldiers plus jio had actually made it out alive, but right now they were standing like statues.

"Why three barrels of apples?" Aithur demanded. "Are we feeding an army?"

Liliana's tone was as flat as ever. "You ate one already."

"That's not an argument—that's an accusation!"

"It's a fact."

Luther groaned under his breath. "Children."

The sword whispered, "You're one to talk."

As the gangplank rose, Finn waved them off. "Safe travels! And if you find any elves—don't mention my name!"

"Wouldn't dream of it," Luther called dryly.

The North Gale creaked and lurched forward, sails unfurling like the wings of a great bird. The mist ahead was thick, swallowing the sea in shades of silver and blue.

Aithur stood at the bow, arms crossed. "You'd think the gods would grant us a little sun."

Luther leaned beside him. "You really want the gods involved?"

Aithur grimaced. "Good point."

Liliana said nothing, simply adjusting her gloves as she gazed toward the horizon, her face unreadable. The demonic sword hummed quietly, muttering to itself in a forgotten tongue that made the ship's planks vibrate faintly.

Hours passed before the ship docked at a lonely stretch of coast. The Enferi Dock was barely more than a skeleton of wood, half-swallowed by moss and shadow. The air here was thick—not in smell, but in presence. Every breath felt watched.

Is this really were the village resides or better yet?

Is this where the elves lived?

It looks like a cursed forest.

Liliana stepped off first, boots creaking on the warped planks. "Feels… alive," she murmured.

Their carriage. Which actually survived the Lraken attack was being wheeled down by the knights.

Luther followed, looking around. The trees were impossibly tall, their branches woven together like ribs forming a cage.

"If it starts talking," he said, "I'm leaving."

"You mean you'll run screaming," the sword teased.

"I mean," Luther said evenly, "I'll throw you into the ocean and let the fishes decide if there misses you."

"Blasphemy!" the sword gasped, voice dripping with mock horror. "You wound me, Saint."

"Not yet," he muttered.

Aithur carefully stepped off the ship last, dusting imaginary dirt from his coat. "Charming place," he said dryly. "Truly screams vacation."

Liliana looked at him with that same neutral expression. "You can stay behind."

"And let the brat and the Countess get eaten by trees? Perish the thought."

Luther smirked. "You really are a masochist, Duke."

"Prefer the term refined adventurer," Aithur said. "Also, you smell like seawater and poor decisions."

"Keep talking," Luther said, "and I'll help you join the elves."

Aithur chuckled. "Idle threats. How saintly of you."

The sword hummed, clearly enjoying the exchange. "You three are a walking comedy act. Add a few demons and we could sell tickets."

Luther sighed. "Remind me to drown you later."

The group started down the dock toward the overgrown path leading inland. The fog thickened, swirling like a living thing around their legs. The planks beneath their feet creaked with every step.

Then a voice called out behind them.

"Excuse me!"

They turned.

A man was approaching from the shadows of the pier—a noble by the look of him. His coat, though travel-worn, was finely stitched, silver thread catching the dying light of the sun. His hair was white-silver, his eyes sharp and too calm.

He stopped a few paces away and bowed lightly. "Forgive the intrusion," he said in a pleasant, cultured voice. "I couldn't help overhearing that you're headed toward the village near the forest's edge. Would you mind if I accompany you? Traveling alone these days is… unwise."

Aithur eyed him suspiciously. "And who exactly are you?"

The noble's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Just a humble scholar. The name's Eldric."

Liliana said nothing. Her gaze lingered on him a little too long. The air around her shifted—just slightly—but enough to make the sword hum in warning.

Luther's silence stretched before he finally said, tone calm but edged with something dry and dangerous:

"Fine. But if you start glowing or chanting in tongues, I'm throwing you overboard."

Eldric chuckled, the sound like velvet hiding steel. "Understood, Sir."

The sword whispered low in Luther's ear. "You feel that?"

Luther didn't answer at first. His ocean blue eyes flicked briefly to the faint sigil half-hidden under the man's glove. "Yeah," he murmured. "He smells like magic."

"Not the good kind," the sword said.

Luther looked toward the dark forest ahead—the trees shifting as if breathing.

Peace really isn't my thing.

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