[Leif’s POV—Elf Village—Continuation]

The panic rolled through the elves like wildfire—sharp breaths, frantic whispers, and footsteps scattering across trembling roots.

The Tree of Life... heartless.

Alvar stepped closer to me, voice low. "If the Heart is gone... the Tree won’t survive long, will it?"

"No," The head elf whispered. "Days. Maybe weeks."

A choked sob escaped Thalion as he clung to Eryndor. "Ery...what do we do?"

Eryndor patted his back. "Alright...calm down; we will come up with a solution."

Why do they seem so close?

Anyway, all the usually stoic elves looked ready to crumble like brittle leaves.

Lyrathiel—the Elf Head—forced himself to speak, though his voice trembled. "The village is shielded from humans... from monsters. But dwarves, mages, and creatures born from nature... the seal cannot hide us from them."

"So someone who understands magic," Alvar murmured, frowning. "And someone bold enough to trespass into an elven sanctuary did this."

My wings twitched with unease. "Animals wouldn’t know how to remove the Heart without killing the Tree entirely." I hesitated. "That leaves mages... or dwarves."

A heavy silence flooded the space. The kind that accused. Elves never trusted dwarves. Metal and earth vs. leaf and light—an old rivalry carved deep.

Every pair of elven eyes hardened with old wounds and deeper prejudice.

I lifted both hands. "Stop. Panic won’t fix anything. We find the Heart first—then we decide who to blame."

Eryndor wiped his face, jaw clenched. Lyrathiel—the Head Elf—stepped forward, voice trembling but resolute: "Please... tell us what must be done, Leif."

That still felt strange—elves asking me for guidance. But I forced my brain to work through the fantasy logic.

"We need information. If we know who could access the Tree, we know where to search." I looked around. "Tell me where the dwarves live. And where is the magician’s tower?"

Eryndor inhaled, composing himself before speaking:

"The Dwarven Kingdom lies beyond the Haze Mountains—two days if you fly, longer on foot. The Magicians’ Tower sits at the frozen edge of Frojnholm... far north."

"So..." I rubbed my temples. "Dwarves are closest. Magicians are a trek away."

Alvar folded his arms, skeptical. "But why would dwarves steal the Heart? What could they gain? The Tree dying hurts everyone—even underground folk."

Thalion’s voice cracked like a snapped twig: "Unless... they want a war."

. . .

I frowned. "But why would they want a war now? What could they possibly gain?"

Lyrathiel closed his eyes, shoulders sinking beneath centuries of burden. "They believe the Tree of Life should have always been theirs."

My brows rose. "...What?"

He looked up at me, gaze ancient and grief-etched.

"When the First World burned... when humans betrayed both our peoples... dwarves and elves fled together." His voice softened into a story carved in scar tissue. "We both discovered the sapling—tiny, glowing, sacred. The first promise of life after ruin."

I could almost picture it—two broken races kneeling before a single miracle.

"At first, we guarded it together," Lyrathiel continued, bitterness sharpening his words. "But then... the debate began. Who should protect the Tree? Who should remain closest to the source of life?"

Alvar nodded grimly. "Elves live through nature. The choice seems obvious."

"Yes." Lyrathiel’s jaw tightened. "But dwarves argued they, too, found the Tree. That their strength—their enduring stone and metal—was needed for protection."

Thalion murmured, "But that debate didn’t stay peaceful for long."

Lyrathiel nodded once, sorrow aging him.

"The disagreement became distrust. Distrust became a blade. Blade became war."

"And elves won?" I asked quietly.

He bowed his head. "Yes. And so we remained here, guardians of the Tree... while dwarves retreated into the mountains—carrying resentment like burning coals."

A heavy silence fell.

"So now," I finished for him, "they might see the dying Tree as a chance. To reclaim what they believe was stolen from them."

Eryndor’s fists clenched. "They would rather start another war than accept we were chosen by the Tree."

Zephyy shifted uneasily on my shoulder. ’Master... war between elves and dwarves always brings ruin. I have witnessed it. The destruction was... monstrous.’

Lovely. No pressure. My heart hammered. We weren’t just chasing a stolen relic. We were racing to stop a war.

And apparently... I was the designated peace pigeon.

I can’t believe I have to wave a white flag between two mythical species.

I rubbed my forehead and mumbled, "We need a white pigeon."

Everyone stared at me like I’d just declared myself Queen of Broccoli.

"Why... a pigeon?" Alvar asked slowly.

I gaped. "What do you mean, why ? We’re going to the dwarves’ village! They’ll probably assume we’re here to murder everyone and steal their sandwiches! If we show a white pigeon, they’ll know we come in peace!"

Thalion blinked. "But we don’t want peace, Leif."

I paused. "...What?"

And then—like someone had pressed the war button — Every elf suddenly screamed in perfect synch:

"WE SHALL ATTACK THEM IMMEDIATELY!!!"

The ground shook. Birds fled. Nature cried. I flinched so hard I nearly lost five years of lifespan.

"Elves are terrifying," I whispered to myself.

I turned to the only sane person here—my beautiful, diplomatic fiancé. "Alvar... do something."

Alvar looked at me. Then at the elves... whose eyes were sparkling with bloodthirsty joy and centuries-old resentment.

He exhaled. "They are... very motivated right now."

Thalion pumped his fist. "FOR THE TREE OF LIFE! CRUSH THE SHORT ONES!"

"Oh gods, we’re all going to die..." I muttered.

"For the love of everything," I snapped, flapping Alvar’s white kerchief, "let’s talk first , okay? We need to know why they stole the Heart before we smash anyone’s face in."

Silence—then a ripple of skeptical murmurs.

Lyrathiel lifted a hand. The elf-head’s voice was steady, the tone of someone used to being obeyed. "Leif is right. We will petition them—speak once. Give peace a chance."

Relief bloomed warm and instant in the clearing. I actually relaxed—until his expression shifted like a cloud covering the sun.

"And if they do not agree with the peace...?" he added, eyes going cold as winter water. The elves around him leaned in, teeth showing in fierce little smiles.

"THEN," Lyrathiel finished, voice low and dangerous, "LET US CRUSH THOSE SHORT LEGS."

The crowd roared approval. Leaves shivered like applause.

I stared, mouth half-open. "At least... they’re willing to talk one time," I muttered, because apparently restraint now came with a side of murder threats.

Alvar’s smile went lopsided. "Am I really going to witness Elves and Dwarves fight? What a cultural experience—"

I shot him a glare sharp enough to dent armor. He blinked, then grinned nervously. "Shall I prepare the white pigeon, my love? Or would you prefer a banner that says ’WE COME IN PEACE’ in very large letters?"

"Both," I said firmly. "We need both. And we are riding Zephyy—I’m not traveling two days on a carriage."

Zephyy hopped down, stretching like he’d just woken from a nap. "Alright... I shall come in my original form."

Alvar glanced at me, half-pleased, half-amused. "Er—original form? You mean—"

"A dragon, yes," Zephyy finished with a smug puff of smoke that smelled faintly of cinnamon. "I will ferry you all. Try not to scream on the ascent. It embarrasses me."

I crossed my arms . "Zephyy, no one can hear your ego except me."

And then— POOF!!

In a burst of bright blue magic, he expanded—wings unfurling like storm clouds, scales glinting like sapphires under sunlight. Within seconds, a colossal dragon stood where a smug lizard-kitty once sat.

I barely blinked.

... But Alvar and the elves?

Jaw. On. Floor.

"What an enormous dragon..." breathed one elf.

Another practically vibrated. "Can I touch a scale? Just one? For nature reasons?"

Thalion circled around Zephyy with the wonder of a child seeing a birthday cake the size of a house. "Is Zephyy this huge because he’s divine? Or is this... the normal size for dragons?"

I shrugged. "I don’t know. It’s not like I own a whole litter of dragons for comparison."

Zephyy puffed out both chest and ego, wings spreading dramatically. "I am rare. And absolutely magnificent. Please admire responsibly."

Elves absolutely did not admire responsibly. They squealed, petted, took mental notes, and one even fainted. Alvar slipped his hand into mine, eyes still wide with awe—but only looking at me.

"Shall we?" he murmured.

I nodded, trying to look like someone who regularly rides majestic mythic beasts on diplomatic missions.

With Thalion and Eryndor mounted and secured, Zephyy beat his wings once—air booming like thunder—and we soared upward through the canopy.

Leaves spiraled below.

Wind roared past us.

The world stretched wide and dangerous before my eyes.

We were heading straight into dwarven territory— for peaceful negotiations (hopefully), white flag secured, zero intention of war...

...and desperately hoping the dwarves understood what peace even looked like.

Because if they didn’t—

We were all doomed. That’s what I thought. But then—

WHSSHHHHHHH—!!!

AN ARROW ZOOMED STRAIGHT PAST MY FACE.

Another hit Zephyy’s scales with a metallic TING!

And then— A THIRD ONE LODGED ITSELF INTO OUR WHITE FLAG.

THEY ARE SHOOTING DAMN ARROWS AT US!!! EVEN! SEEING!! THE WHITE FLAG!!!!!!!"

So much for peace.