Epilogue

300 Years Later

In the realm of Mistwilde, a young elvish woman by the name of Soraya stood on a hilltop overlooking the capital city of Irithyl, admiring the sweeping view.

Water flowed everywhere she looked, falling over countless surfaces, gathering in turquoise pools, winding between buildings. The air glittered with mist that caught the setting sunlight and turned to gold. A soft, sweet scent wafted up from the pale blue flowers covering most of the city's yards. The houses those yards belonged to were arranged in neat rows stacked precisely on top of one another, each one boasting countless windows of colorful glass. It somehow looked both perfectly planned and yet entirely natural—a wild city carved from the earth by precise and thoughtful hands.

Sora clutched a silver ring as she studied it all, her thumb absently tracing over the band, which was molded in the shape of two wings that held an oval centerpiece.

The hilltop was called Elleras. It was a sanctuary filled with gardens and shrines—a place the inhabitants of Irithyl often retreated to when they found themselves in need of peace. Of balance. And in the sanctuary's center stood a towering statue of the immortal being responsible for such things: the Arbiter of Realms, they called her.

Her story was one that all the children of Mistwilde learned at a young age—because it was this being who had brought a divine essence back to the elves over three hundred years ago, giving them a point to build their future upon.

A peaceful kind of magic often flowed even from mere statues of the Arbiter. The one Sora leaned against now, however, carried more than a feeling of peace; there was a wildness about this sculpture, she'd always thought—and she was not alone in that thinking.

When the sun hit it just right, some swore they saw fire rippling across the Arbiter's body. Blazing in her eyes. Burning through the scars upon her face. Flaring like wings out from her back.

This was why Sora had chosen this spot for her work.

And this was why a captive audience of villagers sat before her and the Arbiter's statue, their eyes wide, their hands clutching glass daggers with feathers tied around the hilts, modeled after the ones the Arbiter herself held. Even the youngest of the village children had ceased their bickering and tumbling, and they now sat perfectly still, eagerly awaiting what came next.

For today was Forging Day, which meant a reprieve from the chores and routine of their everyday lives. It meant food, dancing, celebration—and most importantly, it meant stories .

And Sora—though still young by elvish standards—was already regarded by many as the greatest storyteller they'd encountered in a generation.

Among her most popular tales were those she told of the love story between the Arbiter of Realms and the God of Fire. And, as Forging Day celebrated the union of these two divine beings, Sora had predictably found herself in high demand by villagers eager to get swept up in such a story.

She surveyed the eager crowd before her, still smoothing the silver ring between her fingers.

Sundown was nearly upon them, which meant it was almost time for the festivities to begin in earnest. It had been a particularly spectacular sunset thus far. A good omen—one that meant the God of Fire had been to the mortal realm recently.

He and the Arbiter shared two palaces, most of the legends claimed: one in the mortal realm, and another in the middle-heavens. A sky painted in swaths of red and gold meant the Fire God had descended into the mortal realm to stay with his divine soulmate. When the skies turned dreary and grey, however, it meant the Arbiter was gone from this mortal realm, off to the middle-heavens to stay amongst her divine family.

She always came back, of course. Any storms that rose in her absence always subsided, and they were often followed by the most spectacular displays of bright and burning skies—further proof of the Fire God's devotion to her. They followed one another across the realms, across centuries, through the rise and fall of kings and queens and all manner of other things. There was chaos in the skies between them, at times, but balance and beauty always returned.

And it was their devotion to one another—and the balance that came about because of it—that was the cause for celebration on Forging Day.

Sora had told their story for years, in this city and its surrounding villages, and nobody questioned her authority on the matter; perhaps because she spoke as though weaving together precise memories of the divine, rather than mere myths of them.

Plenty of the Mistwilde elves had claimed they were direct descendants of divine beings, or otherwise divinely-touched…

With Sora, some of the elders wondered if it might have actually been true.

No one knew where she'd truly come from, after all. Or where she went when she left Mistwilde—which was often. A handful of witnesses claimed they'd seen her disappearing into thin air, even. These disappearances were occasionally preceded by flashes of fire, or—just as often—by an icy wind so intense it could not have come from anywhere but the divine realm, from the Winter God himself.

The Marr of the Shade Court seem to have their eyes on this one, the elves whispered.

Though why she was so closely watched was a matter of friendly debate.

All anyone knew for certain was how Sora had simply emerged from the mists surrounding their capital city one day, decades ago—a young woman with bright green eyes and hair that was oddly pale compared to most elves from this region.

She'd carried little else aside from the ring she held in her hand now, but had been sitting astride a strange golden horse, and accompanied by a small griffin—creatures that were occasionally seen following her throughout Mistwilde even to this day. The horse was a rarer sight, but the griffin was fond of children, especially, and those children had quickly learned that they could summon the creature by scattering offerings of sweet cakes and shiny things—much to their parents' dismay.

Sora and her company were a curious addition to their realm, to say the least…but her appearance had ushered in a renewed sense of peace and protection for the capital city—one that perhaps surpassed their mortal understanding. And so she had been welcomed by Irithyl's leaders, and soon became a leader of the realm in her own right; a historian, a storyteller, a shining reminder of the link between the elves and the divine.

She closed her fingers over the band of that ring she'd carried for so long—a gift from her parents. One given to her, their youngest daughter, when she'd first mastered her ability to transcend realms. A promise had accompanied it: You can always come home to us.

She glanced toward the sky. After a short search, her eyes caught movement—a flash of golden scales she doubted anyone else noticed.

The Marr of the Shade Court did indeed have their eyes on her; they were eager for her to return to them, for her to finish her task and join them for their own celebration of this day.

Familiar warmth blossomed in her chest. Confidence followed, and she looked back to her captive audience and finally started to speak, the words flowing from her like a song she'd sung many times before: "Once upon a time, an elf set off to wage war against the divine…"

It always began this way.

The parts in the middle were what changed with each telling, because they were twisted, messy, occasionally wrong before they were ultimately made right—the sort of winding path all the best love stories traveled along.

The legend of these two divine beings grew bigger each time Sora told it—but it always began the same way, and it always ended the same way, too.

On and on she went with her tale, until she felt she had done justice to all the pieces, until she'd put them together in a way that resonated. Until the celebration was properly underway in the city below, and fires were burning all throughout it, throwing light onto the countless stained windows and other sculptures of colored glass, washing the sidewalks and waterways in a kaleidoscope of hues.

As music drifted up from the city center, Sora stepped away from the statue of the Arbiter, drawing the crowd's attention toward her one last time.

"Once upon a time, an elf set off to wage war against the divine," she repeated, eyes alight with a blaze that most would have sworn came from within. "But the God of Fire met her flames with his own. Together, they burned away the lies and the hatred, until all that remained was a promise. A choice. A love."

She held the ring out, letting its diamonds catch the last rays of fading sunlight, and spoke the last words of her story in a whisper, like a promise she meant to keep—

"And out of that love, reforged a world."

The End