Chapter 52: The Myth at Our Door

Chapter 52: The Myth at Our Door [Theon’s Pov] "It was too late. When... can I see my granddaughter?" The green-haired man from the elven kingdom paced back and forth, his steps unusually silent despite the polished marble floors. Lord Gregor sighed, rubbing his temples before stepping in. "Please have some patience. The princess is three. His Majesty needs to explain everything in a way she can understand." The elf let out another deep breath, his brows furrowing, and now his pacing had turned into a brisk march. I watched him go back and forth like a caged animal. The tension in the room was thick—restless. I sighed quietly. Elves. Beings from fairy tales, whispered about in history books and bedtime stories. No one knew where they lived anymore. They’d disappeared from the human world long ago—vanished into myth, into mystery. And that’s exactly how they liked it. Hidden. Untouched. Distant. And they expected humans to keep their distance, too. Elves weren’t meant to care. That’s what the stories always said. They were prideful, long-lived creatures, untouched by the passage of time and human sentiment. And yet—there he was. That elf. Anxious. Restless. Repeating the same five steps like they were the only thing keeping him grounded. I leaned against the wall, arms crossed loosely. Watching. And now here he is, standing in the heart of our empire, proving they exist. The maternal grandfather of our princess—the man pacing like the wind couldn’t hold him still—was Thailen Elariondil of Nivale. A full-blooded elf. A healer from Nivale, the hidden kingdom nestled deep within the frost-laced woods beyond the eastern sea. A month ago, His Majesty ordered a search for the princess’s birth mother. He’d said it quietly, firmly: "She deserves to be known as the mother of a princess. Even if the answer is difficult." At first, there was nothing—no record, no family, not even a surname. Just a maid who had come and gone like a shadow. I mean—Lady Sylvaine. That’s what she went by. All we had was a name and a faint trail. A letter of recommendation. Old parchment, foreign seal, which Turns out, she came from the Kingdom of Veldenza, carrying a document that granted her passage and temporary work in the Elarion court. It seemed normal at first—until we traced it further. According to what we uncovered, Thalien had once been revered among his people—respected for his healing magic and quiet wisdom. But decades ago, he made a choice no elf was supposed to make. He fell in love with a human. A woman from Veldenza, a foreign empire to the west. A knight. Strong, honorable, foolishly brave. No one knew her name at first—just that she had been injured during a border skirmish and somehow ended up near the Nivale forests. Thalien found her. Treated her. Fell for her. And in doing so, broke a hundred sacred elven laws. Elves weren’t allowed to love humans. Not officially. Not openly. Not ever. So they ran. They abandoned everything—her sword, his title—and made a life in a northern village far from both of their homelands. Quiet. Hidden. Forgotten. And from that love, they had a daughter. Sylvaine. The woman we once called a mere maid. Years passed. Peaceful. Fragile. But the world does not let forbidden things rest for long. When a plague swept through the outer villages of Nivale, they sent word to Thalien—pleading for their lost healer to return. He went, thinking he’d be back in a few weeks. But he was gone for three years. And when he returned... His beloved was already buried beneath snow and stone. And Sylvaine—his daughter—was gone. Vanished with no trace. He searched for her for years. Quietly. Patiently. But he never found her. Elves live long lives, but even so, time can bleed you dry. When His Majesty ordered Lady Sylvaine’s background to be investigated—determined to honor her as the mother of Princess Lavinia—Lord Gregor led the search. No one expected the trail to lead beyond maps and mortal lands. According to him, when their party stumbled into Nivale territory, they were attacked on sight. I wasn’t surprised. Elves weren’t known for their hospitality. But Lord Gregor, ever the stubborn ox, held his ground. He told them he was searching for the grandfather of their empire’s sole princess. Of course, they thought he was mad. Until he spoke one name. Thailen Elariondil. Even then, it wasn’t easy. According to Lord Gregor, Thailen refused to believe him. Stoic. Silent. Wrapped in the cold stillness of someone who’d lost hope too many times before. Not until Gregor pulled out the picture of Sylvaine—one we had as her profile. That was when the great Thailen Elariondil broke. Not loudly. Not with tears. But something shifted. A crack in the frost. And now...he’s here. Pacing. Waiting. Clutching the only thread of his daughter that remains—Lavinia. He doesn’t look like how I imagined an elf would. There’s no shimmering glow. No crown of light. No floating above the ground. Just a tall, tired man with long green hair tied behind him, sharp features weathered by grief, and a gaze that’s seen centuries. His hands are steady, but his steps are not. "She’ll be scared," I murmured aloud, surprising myself. Ex-Lord Gregor turned toward me. "She’s not the type to scare easily." I shrugged, eyes never leaving Thailen. "Even so. That man isn’t just a stranger. He’s a myth walking through our doors." A moment of silence passed. The elf paused mid-step, eyes flicking toward the closed doors of the meeting room like he could will them open through sheer longing. "But I wonder, will she understand?" Ex-Lord Gregor asked quietly. No. Probably not. She’s only three. But still, she’s Princess Lavinia. "I think," I said slowly, "she’ll surprise us. She always does." And then the doors opened. Out walked His Majesty. Not with the imposing steps of a ruler, but the quiet tread of a father carrying the whole world on his shoulder—literally. Princess Lavinia’s head rested against him, her golden hair like sunlight spilling across his dark coat. She was fast asleep, small lips parted in a quiet sigh, her hand still clutching a button on his collar. Marshmallow trailed behind him like a cotton-tailed bodyguard. Thailen stepped forward, eyes locked on the sleeping child. "Did you tell her?" he asked, voice strained. Cassius nodded, his eyes cold, calculating even in fatherhood. "I did." "And?" The elf’s voice trembled—not from fear, but anticipation. "She said," Cassius replied coolly, "’I guess I have a cool-looking grandpa now.’" Thailen blinked. Hope flashed in his expression. "So... she accepts me?" Cassius didn’t answer directly, but the faint flicker of a nod was enough. Then—"Can I carry her?" Thailen asked, stepping forward. Cassius’s eyes sharpened into slits of crimson steel. He took one precise step back, shielding princess Lavinia’s sleeping form. "No." "Why not?" Thailen asked, tension creeping into his voice. "She is my granddaughter." "And she is my daughter," Cassius said, the chill in his voice enough to frost the windows. "You’ve only just found her. I raised her." "I searched for Sylvaine for years. I have that right." "You have nothing until I say otherwise." The room dropped into silence. Lord Gregor tensed beside me. I held my breath. Even Marshmallow stopped chewing on air. Thailen squared his shoulders. "I may be an outsider to your empire, Your Majesty. But I am not a stranger to blood." And now the staring contest began. I watched the two of them lock eyes like two territorial stags sizing each other up. The air between them practically crackled. Grand Duke Regis leaned over and whispered to me, "Should we... do something?" "No," I muttered. "This is oddly entertaining." Cassius’s sighs and eyes narrowed. "She’s asleep. If you wake her, you deal with the consequences." Thailen glared—sharp and frost-edged—but then he sighed, long and slow, as if he were melting into resignation. "Fine," he murmured. "But you won’t stop me from meeting her." Cassius tilted his head, just slightly. "Don’t worry. I don’t take anyone’s rights." It sounded civil. Almost polite. But everyone in the room heard what he didn’t say: But I won’t give them up easily, either. And that... That was how we got involved with the elves. A healer-turned-grandfather. A tyrant-turned-father. And a toddler who could probably bring the whole empire to its knees with a well-timed sneeze. God help us. Because soon, the courts will find out. Soon, the empire will know that the Princess of Elarion is no ordinary child—she’s the granddaughter of Thailen Elariondil of Nivale, one of the oldest elven bloodlines still breathing. We could try to hide it. Keep him tucked away, disguise his features, and change his name. But when a tall, ethereal, green-haired man starts wandering the palace gardens talking to the flowers and being annoyingly graceful, someone is bound to ask questions. And when they do— Well. That’s a problem for future us. "We should probably find the right time to reveal his identity," I muttered, already bracing for the bureaucratic landslide and emotional fallout heading straight for me.