Song of The Wisp

The light is soft when I wake.

Not the sharp glare of streetlamps bleeding through curtains, not the cold grey of my bedroom ceiling—but a warm, dappled glow. Pale sunlight filtering through leaves.

I sit up slowly, the breath catching in my chest.

I'm back.

The grove is still and quiet, but not in the same way as before. Something's different.

Where once there was only brittle moss and lifeless soil, green has begun to return. Tiny sprouts have broken through the earth—bright and tender. A patch of soft violet blooms has curled around the base of one of the treefolk homes, and from the arch of a fallen branch, a single glowing leaf sways gently.

I stand, brushing moss from my hands, and begin to wander—barefoot, quiet. There's a sweetness in the air, like rain and something faintly floral. The wind hums, as if whispering its approval.

Then I see him.

Elandor sits by a pool at the edge of the grove, legs crossed, his robes pooled around him the color of dark ebony and emerald vines . He's reading—though there's no book, just his palm, open and still, the light of the water reflecting delicate shapes across his face. The pale sun warms the clearing, catching the silvery edges of his antlers and the vines curled gently through his hair.

He looks like he's always been here.

Like the forest grew around him.

I approach softly. "You read the water?"

His eyes lift, and the corner of his mouth curves slightly. "Not always. Sometimes it reads me."

That makes me pause. "What does it say?"

He gestures for me to sit beside him.

I take a seat next to him on the soft, fresh meadow now springing back to life.

The pool is glass-still, but as I look, ripples spread across its surface—gentle, glowing. Images flicker across the water: trees in bloom, fireflies dancing through fog, children with glowing palms running through the trees.

"Memories," he says. "Of Faethorne. It remembers what was. And what still might be."

I glance back at the grove—the new life pushing through old roots.

"Is it because of me?" I ask, unsure. "The change?"

"Yes," he says simply. "Your return stirs the forest. It feels your presence, like breath returning to sleeping lungs."

I look down at the water again. "I still don't understand any of this. Why me? Why now?"

Elandor is quiet for a long moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft—low, like wind moving through deep trees.

"Because your spirit never truly left. Even when your body was taken from this place, part of you remained. Bound through the moonstone. Tethered by love, by loss... by hope."

He turns his gaze toward me, steady and unblinking. "You are not just the Queen of Faethorne, Aurora. You are its heart."

I swallow, throat dry. "I don't feel like a queen."

"You don't have to yet," he says gently. "The forest does not need your power. It needs your truth."

Silence settles between us.
The sun glints off the pool. A soft wind stirs the leaves above.

"Did you know me?" I ask quietly. "Before?"

His expression shifts—fondness, pain, memory woven into a single look.