The great trees of Sylvarean Woods still stood tall under the soft gold light, their leaves whispering in slow waves as if nothing in the world had changed.
The faint glow of the barrier shimmered above the land like a thin skin of light, steady and calm, the same as it had been for thousands of years.
Yet beneath that calm, blood soaked into the roots of the forest. Broken armor lay scattered among crushed flowers.
Slender elven bodies lay twisted where they fell, eyes wide open, mouths frozen in silent screams.
Some still clutched their bows as if they had tried to fight even while dying. And then the dead ones moved.
Bones cracked as bodies rose again with stiff, wrong motions, hollow eyes burning with cold blue fire.
They lifted broken blades and turned them toward the living, toward the home they had once sworn to protect.
At the edge of the ruined path, a line of rangers forced themselves to stand steady even as their hands shook on their bows. In front of them stood their commander.
Her long golden hair was tied back, stained with dust and blood, yet it still caught the light like living fire. Her armor was scarred, her breathing heavy, but her back remained straight.
When she spoke, her voice cut through the panic like a drawn blade. "Hold the line. Do not let them pass." Her sharp gaze swept across the ranks and fixed on a one-eyed ranger. "Aeltharion, take your men and guard the village. Do not let them take more of our people."
He answered without delay and pulled his squad away at a run. Only when he was gone did the commander lift her eyes toward the dark mass moving through the trees.
This was the Ranger General of Sasa Allanor, Sylvandria, the arrowhead of her people's defense, the name whispered in pride by every ranger who had ever drawn a bow.
The Windrunner blood had guarded this forest since the first sun banner was raised, since the ancient king crossed the sea and claimed this land as home.
Her fingers brushed the small necklace hidden beneath her armor, the metal warm from her skin. Her lips moved in a silent plea meant only for the wind. Then she lowered her hand and raised her bow.
"Draw," she said.
The sound of bowstrings stretching answered her. A young ranger near the front hesitated, his arrow trembling as he stared at the figures dragging themselves forward. One of them wore the face he had laughed with as a child.
His voice cracked. "General… those are our people." Sylvandria did not turn to look at him. Her eyes stayed on the enemy. "They are dead," she said. "If we fall, more will join them. Loose." The word rang out, hard and final. "For Sasa Allanor." The ranger swallowed, lifted his bow, and joined the cry.
The forest exploded with the sound of released strings.
Arrows tore through rotting flesh and pinned the front ranks to the ground. Bodies fell in crooked heaps, only to be trampled by those behind them.
Sylvandria moved through the chaos like a ghost of the wind, her arrows flashing so fast the eye could barely catch them.
Each shot found a target deep in the enemy line, tearing spellcasters from their feet before they could raise another curse.
For a moment, hope flared along the elven line.
Then the dead answered in full.
From behind their ranks stepped a man in heavy armor, silver hair bound back, a cold smile carved into his face.
He lifted his sword and pointed it toward the defenders. "Send them all," he said calmly. "The king must have her." The tide surged forward again, endless and uncaring. The ground vanished beneath a flood of corpses. Rangers were dragged down, crushed, overwhelmed. The line bent, then broke.
When Sylvandria fell to one knee, her breath came in sharp, burning gasps. She forced herself upright, only to be struck down again.
Her bow skidded across the dirt, out of reach. Through blurred vision, she saw another figure step forward beside the armored man, an elf dressed in fine robes untouched by battle. She laughed weakly, bitterness thick in her voice. "So it was you. That is how the barrier fell." The traitor only smiled and dipped his head. "I chose life, General. You chose honor. We both got what we wanted."
The armored man stepped closer, the rune blade in his hand humming with dark power. "You fight well," he said. "You will serve well, too."
The sword then pierced her chest. Pain like fire tore through her body as something was ripped from deep within her.
Sylvandria screamed as her soul was dragged toward the waiting blade, her vision breaking into shards of light and shadow. In the last moment before everything tore away, two names echoed through her fading mind like distant bells.
Fenraya. Elanora.
Then the forest went silent.
*
"No!"
The shout tore out of his chest as if dragged by claws, and the battlefield vanished in the same breath. The dead forest, the blue fire in empty eyes, the scream trapped in his own throat, all of it broke apart like ash in the wind.
Aerondor lurched upright with a sharp gasp, his whole body soaked in cold sweat, hands clawing at the soft grass beneath him as if he had just crawled back from a grave. His silver hair hung loose over his shoulders, stuck to his face and neck, his chest rising and falling fast as his heart hammered like a war drum.
The sky above him was clear. The trees still stood tall.
The air still carried the scent of leaves and sunlight. Yet his eyes were still filled with dread, as if the dream had burned itself into his sight.
This place was near Windrunner Village, at the southern edge of Sylvarean Woods.
In his dream, this land had already fallen. Fire had eaten the trees. The ground had turned black with rot.
From here, the scar of death had spread all the way to Silvermoon like a wound that never healed. Long after, people would whisper another name for this place. A land for ghosts. That future clung to his chest even now, heavy and cold.
"Aerondor," a soft voice said beside him. "You had the dream again."
A gentle hand brushed the sweat from his forehead.
He turned his head and met worried eyes the same blue as the summer sky, set in a face too kind for the horrors he had just seen. She looked so much like the woman from his dream that his breath caught for a moment. The same golden hair. The same features. Only the air around her was different. One was steel and storm. This one was calm water and quiet light.
Fenraya Windrunner.
The name settled in his heart with a strange mix of warmth and sorrow. Sister of Sylvandria. Hero of the future.
A woman who would vanish into distant wars and return only years later, walking at the side of a human paladin, as if fate itself had taken a long road to circle back. None of that had happened yet. Here, she was the only girl who knelt beside him with fear written on her face.
He let out a long breath and forced a smile as he reached for her hand. "I'm fine," he said. "It was just a dream." The lie tasted bitter even as he spoke it.