The Sylvar Estate

The forest seems to have no end.

For some time now, the paths have followed one another without ever leading to an edge. Where a passage opens for a few moments, ferns and intertwined roots now occupy the ground. The millennial trees raise their immense trunks beneath a canopy of foliage so dense that light barely penetrates it.

Now and then a breeze makes the branches shiver. Elsewhere the silence is total.

Then, at a bend in a narrow path, the forest seems to open up.

Beyond a vast expanse of carefully tended gardens rises a monumental manor, built of dark stone with silvery reflections. Its tall ogival windows, its delicately sculpted arches and its slender towers testify to an ancient elven architecture. Ivy climbs along certain facades, while immense trees extend their branches above the rooftops without ever seeming to threaten the building.

Despite its evident age, the residence is impeccably maintained. A warm light shines behind several windows.

A paved path crosses the gardens to an imposing door of black wood, surmounted by a finely engraved coat of arms: an interlacing of silver branches surrounding an eight-pointed star.

This is plainly an inhabited place. A place to ask directions.

A few moments after the knocker had rung against the wood, the door opens.

An elf — whose silver hair and the few fine wrinkles gracing his face easily betray his advanced age — dressed in dark attire of irreproachable elegance, appears on the threshold.

His gaze sweeps over your silhouette. A flicker of surprise crosses his face and vanishes behind perfect control.

At the explanation of a wandering in the forest and a request for directions to get out, the elf remains silent one second too long.

His gaze turns for a moment toward the trees, beyond the gardens.

He steps aside to let you enter.

The vestibule opens onto a vast and refined interior. Light stone columns support high vaults adorned with plant motifs. A majestic staircase rises toward the upper floors, while thick carpets muffle the sounds of footsteps. Delicate hanging lanterns cast a golden light on the old woodwork and the artworks tastefully arranged.

The elf leads you to a parlor where a quiet fire burns. Deep armchairs surround a low table, and large windows look out onto the gardens plunged in darkness.

He bows before withdrawing, closing the door gently behind him.

At the far end of the manor, three quiet knocks on a heavy wooden door.

In a library of impressive proportions, a man is seated behind a vast desk cluttered with manuscripts. Galleries laden with ancient works run along the walls up to the ceiling.

The elf with long black hair does not raise his eyes from the text he is studying.

Naerion's quill continues its course on the parchment.

The quill stops.

Silence.

Naerion finally raises his head. In his almost black eyes, faint violet reflections appear in the candlelight.

Naerion slowly sets his quill down.

Naerion's gaze turns toward the tall windows of the library, beyond which the old forest stretches away.

His features harden.

Caelor waits without a word.

Then Naerion closes the manuscript in front of him with a snap.

Naerion stands.