The Envoy of Fanzan had already left Laurel Terrace three months ago. The smell of something burned lingered in the air, while leaves danced through the sky with the night wind. But in the end, the wind had changed direction.
The Elven Court's guards dispersed everyone on the terrace.
Only Saint Osore, the Wind Empress, and her knights remained, along with the two hunter siblings.
The elven beauty removed the Wind Queen Ring from her fair index finger. Everyone present made the same movement in unspoken agreement, and the sky above the Wind Spirit Palace sank slightly.
The rings in their hands began to shine, one after another.
No one knew who had begun mourning the dead. The elves' sorrowful, distant chanting drifted in from far beyond the palace--
Born of the wind,
Sheltered by the wind,
Descendants of Osomir,
Why not return?
Return to the wind,
Cherished by the wind,
Heroic Souls, return,
And sleep forever in silence.
Saint Osore listened to the song.
She seemed to recall her childhood--when the bright moon had shone over the valley and the elders had told myths and legends of the ancient age in the forest. Unlike the indifference of many elves, what she had yearned for in her youth had been a life like a hero's.
But at some point, even heroes had to submit to fate--
"Gilth, Fanzan, are you all right...?"
A thousand years later, the moonlight remained as pure and bright as ever, but the stories told beneath it had long since been overturned by a thousand years of change. After the passage of time, everything in the past could only fade away.
They were things remembered by only a handful of people.
When even those few people passed away, the time belonging to the past would