The rattling of wooden wheels echoed through the countryside as Ryle leaned back in the horse-drawn cart, tapping his pen against his notebook.
The road to the forbidden elven forest was long, winding through rolling hills and thickening trees. The deeper they went, the more the air changed—heavier, quieter.
The driver, an old man with a worn-out cap, gave him a cautious glance.
"You sure about this, lad?" he muttered. "They say them elves ain't friendly to outsiders."
Ryle flipped to a fresh page in his notebook.
"That's what makes a good story, old man."
The driver just shook his head, muttering something about "foolish young folk," before snapping the reins.
The trees loomed taller as the cart rolled forward.
And then—
A sharp whistle cut through the air.
Ryle's eyes flicked up.
A shadow moved.
In a blink, an arrow embedded itself in the wood beside him.
The old driver yelped in terror.
Ryle?
He just sighed.
A figure dropped from the trees, landing gracefully in front of the cart.
An elf.
Tall, lean, and clad in a mix of leather and natural armor, the warrior's emerald eyes burned with suspicion. His bow was still half-raised, another arrow already nocked.
"So they really made it legal again, huh?" the elf spat.
Ryle narrowed his eyes.
Legal?
Instead of answering, he calmly reached into his pocket.
The elf tensed—until Ryle pulled out a pen and notebook.
"…Please explain," Ryle said, flipping the cover open.
The elf hesitated.
Then, the branches rustled.
More elves appeared from the shadows.
Ryle counted five.
One moment, they were standing.
The next—they attacked.
Ryle moved.
An elf lunged—Ryle sidestepped, catching the attacker's wrist and flipping him hard into the ground.
Another swung a blade—Ryle stopped it with two fingers, then snapped the weapon in half with a flick of his wrist.
A third came from behind.
Ryle sighed. Too predictable.
He spun, grabbing the elf by the collar and tossing him into two others.
The final warrior hesitated, gripping his spear with shaking hands.
Ryle tilted his head.
"Are we done?"
The elves groaned on the ground, dazed and confused.
The first elf—the leader—pushed himself up, staring at Ryle with shock and wariness.
"…Who are you?"
Ryle adjusted his coat. "A journalist."
"Journalists can't fight like that."
"Most can't," Ryle agreed.
The elf exhaled, shaking his head before his expression darkened.
"We thought you were with them," he muttered. "Slavers."
That word made Ryle pause.
"Explain," he said.
The elf's fists clenched.
"Elves have been disappearing again. Taken. Just like before. We thought… Velbrath had reinstated the slave trade."
Ryle's grip on his pen tightened.
So this wasn't just about the past.
Someone was actively taking elves again.
Someone was engineering this chaos.
Without wasting another second, Ryle turned back toward the cart.
"Take me back," he ordered.
The driver—who had been cowering the entire time—nearly fell off his seat trying to grab the reins.
By the time they reached Elden's castle, night had fallen.
Ryle stormed inside.
He found Elden in his study, already surrounded by messengers and knights.
"They're being taken," Ryle said without preamble. "This isn't a rebellion. Someone is making it look like one."
Elden's gaze was sharp. "Who?"
"Still working on that," Ryle admitted. "But we need to act fast before this turns into a war."
Then another voice cut in—soft, yet unsettling.
"She doesn't remember anything."
Ryle turned.
The captured elf woman sat in a chair, her emerald eyes blank. The defiance from before? Gone.
"Her memories are wiped," the royal priestess said, stepping back. "Whether by magic or trauma, we don't know yet."
Ryle exhaled slowly.
The elves were being erased.
Elden wasted no time.
He called for an emergency noble assembly.
But as the council gathered in the grand hall, an unexpected guest arrived.
The King of Velbrath.
His presence alone shifted the atmosphere—a heavy weight settling over the room.
And so, under the flickering candlelight, the discussion began.
Who was behind the massacres?
Why were elves disappearing again?
And who would benefit from a war between elves and humans?
Ryle sat silently, watching noble politics at play.
He knew one thing.
This wasn't just about truth anymore.
This was a game of power.
And he had just entered the battlefield.
The meeting lasted long into the night.
By the time it ended, Ryle was ready to return to his inn and start writing.
But before he could leave, a well-dressed noble approached him.
"Astoria, correct?"
Ryle turned.
The man's smile was polished, his eyes calculating.
"A few of us are hosting a small gathering. We'd love for you to join us."
Ryle's fingers tapped against his notebook.
He knew what this was.
A trap? Possibly.
An opportunity? Definitely.
Before he could reply, a butler arrived, bowing deeply.
"The carriage is ready, sir," he said smoothly.
Ryle glanced at the noble, then at the waiting carriage.
He stepped forward.
"Lead the way."