Chapter 7 - Beneath the Grove’s Light
The forest grew quieter the deeper they walked, the birdsong thinning as the trees grew taller and more ancient. There was a hush to the air that made everything feel softer, even the sound of their boots brushing through moss and fallen leaves.
Ayda skipped ahead, clearly excited, her silver braids bouncing with each step. “We’re almost there!” she chirped, and Iris couldn’t help but smile at the child’s energy.
Elarion, however, had grown more silent as they neared the grove. He scanned the trees carefully, shoulders taut with a quiet vigilance Iris had learned to recognize. She fell into step beside him.
Soon they came to what looked like nothing more than a natural archway of vines and stone — until Iris noticed the shimmer in the air surrounding it, like the heat haze over summer cobblestone. Two tall figures emerged from either side of the gate. They wore simple, close-fitting leathers in muted greys and greens, with white moonstone clasps at their shoulders. Their hair, silver and braided, marked them as older than they appeared.
The taller of the two raised a hand. “Who comes to Selathryn?”
Elarion stepped forward, his tone clipped and respectful. “Elarion Caithor, Scout of Selathryn, returned from the outer wood. The child was hurt and required urgent healing.”
The wardens exchanged a look.
“She is an outsider,” said the second, eyes narrowing slightly towards Iris. “What business does she have here?”
Elarion’s expression did not change. “She is the healer who saved the child’s life. I would like to repay her properly by bringing her to see the elder healer.” He added, after a beat, “I thought it right that they meet.”
There was a pause, and then the first warden stepped aside.
“You may pass.”
As they walked through, Iris leaned in close to Elarion. “That sounded very… diplomatic.”
He gave a low chuckle. “It was not untrue. The elder healer is the one who looks after Ayda most of the time. You will like her.”
Ayda beamed. “I call her Grandma. She lets me help with herbs and sometimes teaches me lullabies.”
Iris laughed softly. “She sounds lovely.”
They continued down a narrow path that wound deeper into the woods. Eventually, Elarion paused and knelt beside a moss-covered stone. He placed one hand flat against the earth, fingers splayed. His lips moved silently, the words lost to Iris, who stood behind him with a curious tilt of her head.
Just as she opened her mouth to ask, the ground ahead of them began to shift. It was not violent, nor loud. More like watching mist part before a breeze. The shimmer in the air grew wider and wider, revealing what looked like a hollow in the landscape. But when they stepped through, Iris gasped.
It was called a grove, but in size and shape it resembled a small town tucked inside a living forest. Towering trees arched overhead like cathedral spires, their trunks so wide and old they seemed older than memory itself. Nestled among the roots and canopies were graceful buildings of pale stone, their surfaces covered in carved vines and elegant elvish patterns. Some were adorned with stained glass that caught the filtered light and scattered it across the mossy paths like fragments of sunlight.
She turned to Elarion, wide-eyed. “I thought you said you slept under trees and lived in the wilds? What is this?”
Elarion laughed quietly. “We still do, in a way. Most of us live simply. We wear what the forest offers, and we treat nature as the greatest gift we have. But Selathryn’s elders chose to settle here generations ago. It is one of the few permanent Lythari groves, built on land rich with natural resources, safe passage, and old elven magic. It helps us trade, stay in contact with others, and protect our young.”
“But it’s beautiful,” Iris said, her voice soft with awe. “It’s like a dream.”
“To us, nature is still the heart of it,” Elarion said. “The buildings are only there to make the quiet more comfortable.”
She looked up again at the stained glass, the soft moss-covered stone, the light dancing on still water. She could see what he meant.
“I’ll take you to the elder healer,” Elarion said gently, as Iris continued to stare in open wonder at the grove around her. “She’s the one who usually looks after Ayda. You’ll probably like her. Most people do.”
“She’s back, then?” Ayda asked, eyes widening with delight.
Elarion nodded. “She should have returned earlier today.”
Iris tilted her head. “She’s the one who was away, isn’t she? When…”
“Yes,” he said simply. “When it happened.”
They walked in silence for a short while, following one of the gently winding paths that curved past tree roots and over soft green moss. The air inside the grove was cool and sweet, filled with the scent of cedar and something floral she couldn’t quite place. There was birdsong in the distance, but quieter than before, as if the birds themselves knew to whisper here.
“She’s a proper healer, right?” Iris asked softly. “Spellcasting and all.”
“Of course,” Elarion said. “There are only a few in the grove who can channel divine magic. She is the most experienced among them. She's called the Lirael. The word means 'heartroot' in our dialect. Someone who holds the health of the pack in both body and spirit.”
“Lirael,” Iris echoed, as though tasting the word. “That’s lovely.”
“She also makes very good tea,” Ayda added brightly. “And sweet biscuits, but only if you’ve done your chores.”
Iris laughed. “Then I shall be on my best behaviour.”
Elarion cast her a sidelong glance, something soft in his expression. “That would probably be a first.”
She gasped in mock offense, and Ayda giggled behind her hand.
As they continued on, Elarion exchanged brief nods with a few passing Lythari. Some were dressed plainly, while others wore armbands or brooches that marked higher ranks among scouts and wardens. Their greetings were quiet and reserved, more glance than word, but Iris noticed the way each one acknowledged him. A few younger ones smiled faintly at Ayda and offered polite nods to Iris, though none stopped to speak.
There was a rhythm to the way the grove moved around them. The buildings, the people, even the air itself felt quietly alive.
The nearer they drew to the grove’s heart, the more the paths widened and the buildings grew taller, their pale stone walls dappled with sunlight slipping through the treetops. In the distance, the Lirael’s home came into view, its rounded arches and flowering vines unmistakable. Ayda’s eyes lit up.
“There it is!” she cried, taking off at a run.
“Careful,” Elarion called after her, though his voice held no real worry.
He and Iris continued at a steadier pace. Until he stopped short.
Ahead, a group of wardens and scouts stood gathered, all bearing the marked armbands of high rank. The badges clasped at their shoulders caught the light as they turned, their chatter quieting at the sight of the approaching pair. At their centre stood a man taller than the rest, his silver hair neatly bound, his posture straight as a blade. The crisp white of his cloak was edged with deep green, his mantle bearing a crest that marked him as High Warden.
Elarion straightened, every inch of his body snapping into practiced alignment.
“Sir,” he said, his voice low and clipped.
The High Warden regarded him with cool detachment. His gaze flicked down, then slowly rose again, eyes resting for a long, scrutinising moment on Elarion’s face. When he finally spoke, his tone was measured, yet unmistakably sharp.
“…Caithor.”
The name left his lips like something bitter.
“I see you’ve returned. And with guests, no less.”
Elarion kept his stance firm. “I brought the child to the city for healing. She required immediate care. The outsider,” he added carefully, “provided it.”
“Hm.” Kolvar’s eyes slid past him to Iris, pausing. “And now you play escort to highborn strangers. I suppose even you can manage that without failing.”
A low murmur passed between a few of the older wardens flanking him, mocking sneers barely hidden. One of them chuckled behind his hand. A few of the younger scouts, in contrast, merely glanced away, their expressions tight with discomfort.
Elarion did not move.
Kolvar continued. “It seems you have a talent, Caithor. Not for excellence, of course. But for scraping by. Though I suppose that has its uses in small, unimpressive ways. Fitting for a sorry excuse of a wolf like you.”
His gaze flicked to Iris again, and this time his lip curled faintly.
“You, however, are not small. Or unimpressive.” His voice took on a patronising edge. “It’s obvious what you are. Highborn. Noble lineage. A face like yours does not walk unnoticed through any city. And yet you choose to walk beside him?” he says, eyebrows raising.
Iris stiffened. Her voice began to rise in reply, but Elarion stepped in front of her before she could speak.
“With respect, High Warden,” he said smoothly, “I imagine your time is in great demand. We would not wish to delay your patrol.”
Kolvar studied him for a long, unblinking moment. Then he scoffed.
“You never did know when you were unwelcome,” he said, and turned. “Move out.” The other wardens fell into step behind him. As they passed, one offered a low, scornful laugh. Another shook their head.
Then the path was clear again. Elarion exhaled slowly and resumed walking. Iris said nothing for several steps. When she finally spoke, her voice was sharp with disbelief. “That man was awful.”
Elarion’s reply was curt. “He commands us wardens and scouts.”
“I don’t care if he’s the King of Evermeet,” she snapped. “What’s his problem? The way he looked at you, the way he spoke— I don’t care how high his rank is,” she muttered. “I hope he trips on a root.”
He almost smiled at that, a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. But even in the soft light, she could see it. The slight tightness around his eyes, the flicker of something wounded just beneath the surface.
“Stories and scholars like to say that we Lythari live as one,” he said quietly. “That we are a pack, bound like family, where blood matters less than belonging. But the truth is, we are like any other society. Imperfect. Sometimes fractured. Not everyone gets along, and not everyone is as kind as they ought to be. It just isn’t the kind of thing people choose to write about.”
She frowned. “Yeah, well, he didn’t have to single you out like that. That was a spectacular display of arrogance, even for someone like him.”
Elarion didn’t answer right away. His gaze remained fixed on the path, every step precise.
Iris opened her mouth again, the frustration still fresh on her face, but Elarion added, a little more firmly this time, “I’d rather not talk about it, really.”
That, at last, quieted her.
So they walked the rest of the way in silence, save for the distant sound of birds and the wind in the trees. The path ahead curved gently through the grove, soft with moss and moonlight, while neither said what lingered in their hearts. Some things, it seemed, were better left for quieter hours, when courage returned, and the right words came easier.