Elves did not grow the same way humans did. While humans spent many years as helpless infants, elves grew according to their connection with mana. Mana flowed through the world – through the air, the land, and living beings – and elves were born able to sense it.
An elf with low mana sensitivity grew slowly, almost like a human. But those born with strong sensitivity developed far faster. Their bodies matured quickly, their senses sharpened early, and their minds awakened sooner than expected. Sometimes, their bodies grew faster than their emotions could follow, making young elves restless and difficult to control. Most elves reached adulthood around fifty years of age and lived for hundreds more. Only after a thousand years did age truly begin to claim them.
Mana sensitivity defined everything. Common elves could barely feel it. Mages learned to guide it. And legends – like King Charlatan – commanded it as if it were part of their will. When a baby was born leaking mana, it was a sign of overwhelming potential. Such children required strong protection, for their unconscious power could cause destruction without meaning to.
***
[Atop Thalia's Sun Palace]
At the peak of Great Thalia stood the Sun Palace, home of the high elves. White marble towers shone beneath eternal light, their golden veins glowing softly. Enchanted flames burned without fuel, and powerful wards surrounded every hall. No enemy could step inside without being sensed.
At the heart of the palace lay Shira Silvers.
He rested in an ivory cradle suspended by golden chains. Though only a week old, mana flowed steadily from his small body, glowing faintly blue as it drifted toward the ceiling. The air trembled with each pulse. Enchanted runes carved into the chamber walls absorbed the excess mana, preventing it from causing harm. Without these protections, the palace itself might have been damaged.
Priestesses watched him constantly, whispering spells to calm the flow. Shira slept peacefully, unaware of the attention and expectations surrounding him. His unconscious control of mana was extraordinary already rivaling powerful mages. King Charlatan's blood ran strong in him.
Luxury surrounded Shira from the moment of his birth. Everything he needed was provided, and nothing was denied. But with such protection came distance. He would grow without knowing struggle, surrounded by power and praise, shaped by destiny before choice.
Whispers spread through the palace. Some spoke of a golden future, others of danger. Power like this never went unnoticed, and envy grew easily among nobles. Still, for now, Shira remained safe within the palace walls.
***
[Forest - Dark Elf Village]
Far from Thalia, deep within the forest where dark elves and wood elves lived, another child grew under very different skies.
The Whispering Glades were wild and quiet. Ancient trees blocked most sunlight, leaving the forest in constant twilight. Vines hung low, glowing faintly at night. Small villages made of wood, mud, and thorned branches dotted the land. The forest still carried scars from old wars – burned earth, broken trees – but peace had returned, fragile and uncertain.
Elrohir Chariot was only weeks old, yet his body already resembled that of a much older child. His legs were strong, his movements quick and sure. He crawled, climbed, and explored endlessly. Mana flowed freely through him, drawn from the forest itself. Wherever he touched, the world reacted – leaves rustled, shadows shifted, water curved slightly from its path.
Curiosity ruled him. Nothing stayed hidden for long.
Granny, the village elder, struggled to keep up. Her body was old, her movements slow, but her heart was steady. She lived in a small hut filled with herbs, charms, and old tools. She had cared for Elrohir since his birth, healing his scrapes and calming his restless nights. Though she complained often, she loved the boy deeply.
But Elrohir grew too fast.
One evening, Granny called for Sky Jewellers.
He arrived quietly, armor worn but clean, sword at his side. His face bore scars from many battles, his eyes sharp and tired. War had shaped him from youth, leaving little room for softness. Children were foreign to him.
Granny placed Elrohir in his arms.
"His mother died giving birth," she said. "His father – your closest friend – is gone. You know that better than anyone."
Sky stiffened. He had been summoned to human lands for political duties. He knew nothing about raising a child. His life had always been battle and discipline.
"I can't," he said quietly.
Granny shook her head. "You must. This boy has no one else."
Sky looked down at Elrohir. The child stared back without fear, small fingers gripping his braid. Mana stirred between them, faint but real.
Sky exhaled slowly.
Honor left him no choice.
Without another word, he turned and carried Elrohir into the forest night. Granny watched them go, knowing this decision would change more than just one life.
And so, in the shadows of ancient trees, a warrior and a child began their path together – unaware of the storm their bond would one day bring.