The thorned sky above him cracked with pale light. And Celeblas walked on.

…is named whole.* Not victorious. Not unbroken. Whole. He stood and turned east, toward the mountains, toward silence. War might never leave him. But in the fire that burned in his veins, he felt a different truth—one not carved by blood, but by belonging.

He touched the earth, pressing his palm into the dirt. This land remembers. It had held his laughter once. His mother’s hand guiding his through springtime branches. His father’s quiet strength, now ash upon the wind. Celeblas, for me and the whisper…

He walked alone, no peace afar… The glade lay silent again. Blood seeped into the roots. He stood over one fallen form, eyes dim with shock. Not fear. Not hate. Just the end. Celeblas knelt. "No more," he whispered. Not for the orcs. Not for himself.

Celeblas loosed the arrow. It sang. One orc fell, a gurgling thud in the hush. The others barked and turned, too slow. Celeblas vanished into the underbrush, already circling. Another arrow, another fall. They never saw him. Padan aian, law thîr palan…

Scouts, perhaps, or remnants. His tattoos, faded lines of sunrays and curling snow, warmed faintly beneath his sleeves. Symbols of Heliandor and Winter’s Claw. Of a boy who’d chosen both paths. He drew his weapon. The silver inlays caught a shaft of light.

…without a sound, his leathers whispering against bark and fur catching the breeze. He moved like a shadow over snow, his lean frame a blade between branches. The green of his eyes, muted like moss after rain, scanned the clearing where the orcs gathered.

…their songs rising like mist to the stars. That was before the Thorned War, before Celeblas took up the bow and the name Silverleaf, leaving behind the child who once danced among sunlit vines. A flicker below, movement. Celeblas slid down the tree…

A memory stirred. Ar Neldor, i vi adab rûth... In the house of sorrow, my Neldor... His father’s voice echoed faintly in his mind, an old cadence full of grief and prophecy. Once, the elven halls of Neldor stood strong, their gardens blooming even in winter…

…where footprints marred the soft loam. Orc tracks, fresh and heavy. The war had long ended, they said, but war did not end for those who carried its breath in their lungs. Celeblas inhaled sharply. The air was cold with the scent of damp earth and smoke.