Chapter 17 - Elarion Silvarien
Long before the pain, there was laughter. Selathryn was still quiet in those days, untouched by the creeping whispers of the Moonbound. In the heart of the Silvarien household, joy moved like music, carried in the rhythm of three pairs of feet: one steady and strong, one light and fierce, and one just a little too fast for its own good.
Elarion had always wanted to be like them.
From the time he could walk, he would trail behind Corvellen and Serelune through the winding paths of the grove, mimicking their every move. If Corvellen leapt across a stream, Elarion would try the same, usually with less grace and a lot more bruises. If Serelune trained with a blade, he would sneak out behind her, copying her stances with sticks he found by the river. They never pushed him away.
Corvellen, the eldest, was everything a scout could aspire to be. Reliable, charismatic, calm under pressure. Even the way he walked carried a kind of quiet authority. The wardens called him a rising star. The elders called him the future of Selathryn. And when he smiled, people listened.
Serelune, the middle child, had a fire in her that matched the silver in her hair. Beautiful and sharp-witted, she was the kind of fighter who moved like a dance, elegant and deadly. Elarion had always been closer to her. She was the one who stayed up with him when he couldn’t sleep, the one who listened to his complaints about training, the one who ruffled his hair when he felt small. She had a way of making him feel seen, like he didn’t have to be perfect to be loved.
They were proud of him. Even when he couldn’t quite keep up.
But then something shifted. Around his eighteenth year, the gap began to close. He had grown tall, his body lean and fast. Faster than anyone. He could outrun the other trainees, transform into his wolf form quicker than the seasoned scouts, and read the wind better than most who had been at it for years. Kolvar, the new High Warden, noticed. So did Corvellen. And when Elarion passed his final trial, officially becoming a scout of Selathryn, it was Corvellen who clasped his shoulder and said with a grin, “Took you long enough, pup.”
Their father, Eirik, had been forced into retirement just a few years prior, after a brutal battle left him permanently disabled. He watched the ceremony from a wooden chair near the edge of the grove, pride shining in his eyes. Corvellen was the breadwinner now, carrying the family’s honour with quiet strength. And with Elarion joining the scouts, Serelune teased that the Silvariens were back in full force.
It was the happiest they had been in a long while.
A month later, the family gathered again, this time for Serelune. Under the canopy of moonlit trees, she exchanged quiet vows with Kolvar, now officially her betrothed. It was a small celebration, but a meaningful one. Kolvar was not an easy man to read, but that night, he smiled more than usual. Serelune looked radiant, and Elarion, though reluctant to see her belong to someone else, had never seen her happier.
They danced, drank, laughed. For once, it felt like nothing could touch them.
The Moonbound* had always been a nuisance. Nothing more than shadows on the edge of Selathryn’s peace. They vandalized the outposts, taunted scouts with crude symbols carved into trees, and sometimes stole small supplies left unattended. But there had never been blood. Never real violence. At least, not yet.
Kolvar approached Elarion before the duty roster was finalized.
“Could you swap shifts with me tomorrow?” he asked. “Something personal’s come up.”
Elarion agreed without hesitation. “Of course,” he said. “Corvellen and Serelune will be on duty too, right?”
Kolvar nodded. “Routine patrol. Shouldn’t be more than half a day.”
“Don’t be late,” Serelune teased, nudging his shoulder. “We’re counting on you, you little speed demon.”
Elarion smirked, tossing a lazy salute. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The next day arrived hot and heavy with stillness. The sky was cloudless. The sun, a burning white coin. Elarion stirred late, the air thick in his lungs. He blinked against the light pouring through his window and lay still for a moment. There would be five scouts out today. Nothing unusual. No emergencies. Just another patrol. He told himself one day off couldn’t hurt.
He had been perfect so far. Punctual. Diligent. A single missed shift — just one — wouldn’t make a difference.
He rose slowly, pulled on his clothes, and stretched. Guilt gnawed at him in a lazy sort of way, but not enough to stop him. He decided he’d head to the office anyway. Help with admin. Be useful, even in his absence from the field. There might be paperwork, or someone needing backup at base.
But before he reached the barracks, a sharp whistle cut through the air. Then a flare, brilliant white, burst in the sky.
Elarion’s heart stopped.
White.
A signal reserved for only one thing.
A losing battle. Life-threatening danger. Desperation.
Kolvar appeared in the courtyard, cloak billowing behind him. His face was tight with alarm, eyes scanning the sky, and then landing on Elarion.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Kolvar barked. “You’re supposed to be with your unit!”
Elarion’s breath caught. “What happened?”
Kolvar didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The white flare still hung faintly in the sky.
Without another word, Elarion shifted. His body folded into light, fur and limbs taking form mid-stride, and then he was gone, a streak of white through the trees. He ran like he was made for it. His paws barely touched the earth as he darted through the forest, each heartbeat loud and frantic in his chest. Branches whipped past, sunlight broke in flickers, but nothing mattered except that smell of iron. Blood.
And her.
Then he saw her. A blur of white fur, stumbling. Serelune shifted mid-run and collapsed into her elven form, her knees hitting the dirt.
“Serelune!”
He shifted back instantly and dropped to her side. His stomach lurched.
Her right arm was gone. Where it should have been was only ruin — torn flesh, ragged edges, blood soaking through her tunic. He barely registered the scream building in his throat as he dropped to his knees, fumbling with his belt, trying to bind the wound.
“I’ve got you,” he breathed. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
Her lips were pale, her voice thready.
“They came out of nowhere. The Moonbound. With their leader. A direwolf, Elarion. Bigger than anything I’ve ever seen. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
He couldn’t speak. He only tightened the tourniquet and pulled her close.
“Corvellen fought him,” she continued, her voice cracking. “He told me to run. I tried, but he found me. Picked me up like I was nothing and—” Her body trembled. “Corvellen got him off me. He told me to keep going.”
Elarion crouched lower, lifted her carefully onto his back, then took off his cloak and tied it across his chest, securing her to him. Her body slumped forward against him, and he steadied her legs with his arms.
“You’re gonna be alright,” he whispered. “Just stay with me.”
He ran like the gods themselves were behind him. The edge of the grove came into view. Guards stood watch, confused, until they saw the red. Then the shouting began.
“I need a healer!” Elarion cried out, the words tearing from his throat. “Please!”
But Serelune’s grip had loosened.
“I’m tired, Elarion...” she murmured. “So tired.”
His throat tightened. “I know. Just hold on. We’re almost there.”
“I’m scared...” she whimpered. “I don’t want to die...”
Her tears soaked into his shoulder. He pulled her onto his back, knotting his cloak tightly across her body to keep her from slipping. Her weight was light. Too light. He dropped to his knees at the border, carefully loosening the cloak and lowering her to the grass.
“Serelune?”
But her eyes were closed. Her lips parted.
Kolvar arrived in a blur, stumbling to a halt before them.
“No...” he breathed. “No, no, no—”
He dropped beside her, pushing Elarion out of the way. “Serelune,” he pleaded, cupping her face in shaking hands. “Stay with me. Please.”
But she was still. The light already gone.
He shouted for a healer, voice raw and broken.
“Come on,” he pleaded, his voice hoarse. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t leave me.”
She didn’t move. There were no healers fast enough.
Kolvar clutched her lifeless body against his chest, his face buried in her hair. Elarion could hear Kolvar’s voice break into a cry of anguish. For the first and last time in his life, Elarion saw the man cry.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Later that evening, they tracked the flare’s trail. Elarion was with them. Kolvar too. They found Corvellen first, in his elven form, lying facedown in the dirt. Blood covered half his chest. His sword was still in hand. He had clearly fought until the end.
His body was still warm.
Kolvar knelt beside him, silent.
“If help had come sooner...” one of the scouts whispered.
Kolvar stood slowly. In his hand was something stained and unspeakably cruel. A severed arm. Small. Slender. Still bearing a silver ring on the fourth finger. A twin to the one he wore on the hand that held it.
Then he turned to Elarion.
“You should’ve been there.”
Elarion couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.
“You could have run for help. You could’ve made it. You were the fastest in the entire grove.”
Kolvar stepped closer, voice low and cold.
“They trusted you,” he said. “I trusted you.”
He stepped closer, and for the first time in Elarion’s life, there was no warmth in his eyes.
“You should’ve been the one to die.”
The Silvarien home stood in mourning stillness, its stone walls heavy with grief. Twilight had just begun to creep in, the sky casting long shadows across the doorstep where Elarion lingered. The scent of blood had long left his hands, but not his memory. Through the cracked door, he could hear Kolvar’s voice inside, low, grave, and quiet with restraint. He was speaking to Nerys.
And then, the sound that would haunt Elarion for the rest of his life: his mother’s scream.
Nerys collapsed to her knees, hands clawing at Kolvar’s coat as if doing so could change the truth he had just delivered. Her cries tore through the house like a storm, unfiltered and unbearable. Kolvar knelt to catch her before she hit the floor, his arms folding around her in grief. His expression twisted as he held her. Whatever anger he had for Elarion, he shared this heartbreak. He had lost Serelune too.
Elarion stood frozen in the doorway. His hand gripped the frame, knuckles pale, but he couldn’t bring himself to enter. Until he saw his father. Eirik sat in silence at the dining table, staring at nothing, his face stricken with a grief that knew no words. His hands trembled as he reached for the table’s edge. Then, in a moment of helpless rage, he slammed his fist against the wood. The sound cracked through the house. A second later, the room fell eerily silent.
Elarion took a breath. And stepped inside. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The air changed the moment he crossed the threshold.
Nerys lifted her head, and when she saw him, she flinched like she’d seen a ghost. Her lips trembled.
“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no…”
She scrambled backward, away from Kolvar’s arms, pointing a shaking finger at Elarion. “You— why are you here?”
He stood still, too shocked to move. “Mother—”
“DON’T CALL ME THAT!” she shrieked. “Don’t you dare call me that!”
She sobbed uncontrollably; her hands pressed against her ears as if his voice was poison. Kolvar moved to steady her, but her gaze remained locked on Elarion’s face.
“You look just like him,” she wept. “Just like my Corvellen.”
Elarion’s stomach dropped. Her eyes, once the safest place he knew, now held only fear. Revulsion. Grief that had turned against him.
Eirik said nothing. He simply stared at the floor, his face crumpled with restraint. Then, in a hollow voice, he finally spoke.
“I think it’s time you left.”
Elarion turned toward him, stunned.
“What…?”
“I said,” Eirik repeated, more firmly this time, “you need to leave this house.”
“But I… I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
“You should’ve thought of that before.”
He wanted to cry. To plead. “Please,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I— I was just tired. It was just one day—”
“Your one day cost me two children.”
Elarion flinched like he’d been struck. Eirik stood, limping to brace himself on the wall as he turned his back to Elarion.
“You tarnish this home with your presence. With your failure.”
“I’m sorry,” Elarion begged. “Please… just give me a chance to make it right—”
“There is no making this right.”
The finality in his voice cut deep.
“You are no longer my son.”
Silence followed, louder than any scream.
“I want you gone by nightfall.”
Elarion stood there, tears blurring his vision, until his legs finally moved on their own. He walked back out the door. And the home that once embraced him shut behind him like a tomb.
That night, he slept under the trees. Then the next. Then the one after that. He stopped counting after the first month. He stopped speaking unless necessary. He avoided the main roads. He hid his face when he could. Word spread fast. People pitied him. Others whispered. He withdrew deeper into the woods.
One morning, nearly a year later, he awoke in the soft light of dawn beneath a willow tree, barely stirring from the cold. His cloak, once Kolvar’s gift for his official duty, was tattered, its edges ragged.
He heard footsteps.
Then a voice, warm but firm. “What is your name, child?”
He looked up, blinking sleep from his eyes.
The woman was older, but beautiful. Poised. A halo of white hair framed her face.
He sat up slowly. “Elarion,” he said. Then added, after a pause, “Elarion Caithor.”
She studied him for a long moment. Then nodded.
“Come with me, Elarion Caithor.”
She didn’t ask about his past. She never brought up the name Silvarien, even if she knew who he was.
Nymeris gave him a room. A warm meal. A bed to sleep in and a door that locked. And when he wept that night, for the first time in months, she said nothing. Just placed a cup of tea on the table and left the door open.
Not long after, word came that Nerys Silvarien had been moved into temple care. Her mind unravelled day by day, her sanity too frayed to continue living unassisted. Eirik Silvarien left not long after. Some say he left for the southern shores. Others say he wandered into the wilds and never returned. No one ever confirmed either story. Eventually, they stopped trying.
And Elarion, no longer a sibling, no longer a son, no longer anyone, began the long, slow task of becoming someone else. The day Corvellen and Serelune died, so did Elarion Silvarien.
The memories faded like the last light slipping beneath the horizon.
When Iris blinked, they were no longer standing in the shadow of ghosts. The garden around them was quiet again, birdsong distant, the flowers swaying in the breeze as if nothing had changed.
But everything had.
Elarion stood in front of her, the weight of the past still clinging to his shoulders. His eyes, once so steady, now held a sorrow so vast it seemed to stretch beyond time. He had said nothing for a while. Just let the silence settle between them, like fresh snow on old graves.
And then, finally, he spoke. “I was only 18, Iris…”
“But maybe Kolvar was right.”
His voice was soft, but the words cut clean.
“I don’t know what I was thinking, Iris. Believing that maybe—” he stopped himself, a bitter breath catching in his throat, “—that something good could come of this. Of me.”
He looked at her. Really looked.
“I could put you in danger. Just by being near me. Maybe I already have.”
She opened her mouth, but no words came out. There was too much. Too many things she hadn’t said. Too many things she didn’t know how to.
He offered her a weak smile. Not bitter. Not angry. Just tired.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “For dragging you into all of this.”
“I need some time alone.”
And then he turned and walked away.
She didn’t stop him. She couldn’t.
Iris stood there in the garden, surrounded by sun-dappled leaves and the scent of summer bloom. But nothing felt bright. Nothing felt alive. Her mind reeled, struggling to hold all the pieces of what she had just heard. Her chest ached, knotted tight with sadness, pity, and something she couldn’t quite name. Regret, maybe. Or something even deeper.
Elarion was gone.
And she was alone again.
But this time, the silence felt like her own doing.
Author’s Note: The Moonbound are a rogue faction of Lythari who, through unknown means, succumbed to a dark transformation into werewolf-like beings no longer bound to the moon’s rhythm. Their leader, the only known Direwolf among them, once led a devastating ambush that left a lasting scar on Selathryn’s history. How they changed remains a mystery. Some say it was a curse, while others believe it was a choice. Their current whereabouts are unknown, but the Moonbound remain the grove’s most dangerous threat.