Chapter 12 – The Voice in Starlight
His eyes closed.
And the world — everything he had just known, everything that had screamed, burned, and bled — vanished into silence.
He felt Lilith's scream first, a cry soaked in ancient grief and unrestrained wrath, followed by the scorching roar of Valtor's flames — and then, nothing.
No light. No sound. No self.
He didn't fall.
He disappeared.
There was no darkness.
There was no weight.
Only a void so complete it felt final.
Until something — not a hand, not a voice, but a will — reached for what little remained, and pulled.
Not with force. With purpose.
And then, light.
His eyes opened.
He stood in a garden unlike anything he could have imagined — a place sculpted not by nature or magic, but by memory and starlight.
The sky above was vast and endless, neither day nor night, filled with drifting silver that shimmered like the last breath of forgotten constellations.
Soft petals floated downward, slow as thought, glowing faintly as if they too had once burned in the heavens.
And at the center of it all, a still pool of light — not liquid, not glass — pulsing like a heartbeat carved into eternity.
He didn't speak. Not yet.
He simply turned.
And there she stood.
Tall. Graceful. Silent.
Her presence was not that of a stranger, nor of a goddess, but of something… remembered.
Hair that moved like moonlight across still water.
Eyes glowing like the core of stars.
Ears shaped like his.
He didn't know her.
And yet, a part of him ached like it always had.
> He stepped forward, voice quiet, composed.
"I know you… though I should not."
"This place — it feels built from memory."
"Are you the one who's called me here?"
She smiled — not kindly, not coldly — but with the certainty of one who had waited longer than time itself.
> "Lysanthir. What you have lost was never stolen — only veiled. Not by accident. But by purpose
The name struck again — deeper this time.
Something behind his ribs pulled tight, and he turned his eyes toward her, unsure if he wanted answers or silence.
His hands clenched — not in rage, but in quiet resistance.
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His voice, when it came, was low. Cold. Controlled. But beneath it: the faintest tremor.
> "You speak that name," he said. "As if it were yours to give."
"But I never shared it. Not with Lilith. Not with Valtor. Not with anyone."
A pause. His jaw tightened.
> "So how do you know it?"
"And why… does it echo within me as if I've always borne it?"
She didn't flinch.
> "Because it does not name you," she said. "It remembers you."
> "You were not born. You were not summoned. You were sent."
She stepped closer, her voice barely above breath — yet it filled the space like ancient song.
> "Long before the gods turned inward… before silence stole the stars… the world spoke of one who would arrive unbidden.
Not born of blood, nor shaped by summoning — but woven into the design of fate itself."
He took a step back, the tension in his Shoulders no longer held by anger, but by something heavier.
> "You speak as though I should understand," he murmured.
"But this place offers only riddles — not clarity."
His breath slowed — not from strain, but from restraint.
> "why bring me here? Show me stars and fragments. Whisper of fate… but never truth."
His gaze narrowed, tired and sharp.
> "What gives you such certainty… that I was shaped for more than silence?"
She stepped forward — slow, fluid. And as she did, the petals in the air stilled, hovering, as if even time chose to listen.
> "Because even now — with memory torn and title forgotten — your questions are not born of ambition, but of doubt… that you are worthy of anything at all."
He looked down.
> "The village was not a choice. It was necessity… not desire."
The light beside him rippled.
For just a moment — a heartbeat, no more — he saw something:
a scorched field beneath a black sun; a shattered palace drowning in ash; a voice screaming his name from a thousand throats — some in awe, others in terror.
And then, it vanished.
> "What… vision was that?" he whispered, as if afraid the answer might echo.
She raised her hand. Not to silence — but to center.
> "The Duke must fall," she said, and the words struck not his ears, but the space beneath his skin.
"That is where it begins."
He turned from her, voice lower now. Hollow.
> "I did not seek a beginning," he said — more to the stars than to her.
Then, softer — almost to himself:
> "I wake in a world that bears no name I recognize.
I stand beside souls I do not yet know.
And each time I reach for what I am… I find only fragments. Shadows. Silence."
He shook his head slowly — as if trying to dislodge a weight that thought could not carry.
> "Let others chase thrones," he said. "I seek only the truth that lies buried within."
She stepped closer, her hand brushing his cheek — light, cool, still.
> "You are not lost," she said. "Only incomplete."
> "Each step forward brings back what was stolen."
He looked into her eyes — and for once, found no falsehood there.
> "I grow weary of being a question the world cannot answer," he whispered.
She smiled. Not with hope.
With truth.
> "Then become the answer."
The stars around them pulsed once — not brightly, but deeply, like the slow, certain heartbeat of something returning.
She stepped away — not with fear, but reverence.
> "He draws near. And when he arrives… this world shall either shatter or ascend."
> "You will decide which."
His gaze narrowed — not in anger, but in the weight of recognition unearned.
> "You speak as if I've walked this path before."
She did not deny it.
She simply paused — and in that stillness, the truth unfolded.
> "Because you have."
No more was said.
But something stirred inside him— not a memory, but a knowing.
A truth buried not by time, but by mercy.
And in that silence — he heard it:
> It has always been you.
Then came her final words — soft, steady, absolute:
> "Open your eyes."
And now, with doubt still echoing in his chest, and visions haunting the edges of thought, he walks forward… not with certainty, but with weight.
The Duke moves.
The stars stir.
And something buried deep begins to rise.
The Last High Elf continues to resonate with you, consider:
Dropping a comment or theory Or simply staying. The real descent — or ascension — begins now.
– H.B.
Who do you think the woman in starlight truly is?
