Chapter 79: Elves Don’t Live in Trees (Apparently)

Chapter 79: Elves Don’t Live in Trees (Apparently) [Lavinia’s Pov] [Kingdom of Nivale] We stepped out of the magic portal—and... boo— Wait. Wait, hold on. I blinked. Then blinked again. Then frowned. "Umm... where are the trees?" Instead of finding myself in an enchanted forest bursting with glowing flowers and birds that sang in harmony, I was staring at... an estate. A very large, very clean, very normal-looking estate. You know, with windows and stone walls and actual doors instead of tree bark or magical vines or floating cloud entrances or whatever it was I thought elves lived in. I whipped my head toward Grandpa Thalein, completely, utterly, tragically betrayed. "Grandpa," I said, with the seriousness of someone who had just discovered Santa wasn’t real, "where are the trees?" Grandpa tilted his head, slightly amused. "Trees?" "Yes," I said, throwing my hands up. "Weren’t you supposed to live in some majestic forest home? You know... tree houses? Wooden bridges? Owls that deliver mail?" He blinked at me, like he wasn’t quite sure if I was joking or genuinely confused. (Spoiler: I was not joking.) Then he chuckled. A deep, elegant, grandpa-with-a-secret-kind of chuckle. He reached over and gently ruffled my hair. "My, my... my precious star. Did you think we lived in trees like squirrels?" I scowled, swatting at his hand half-heartedly. "That’s not what I said. But yes. Kind of. A little." He smiled, clearly entertained. "Oh, my sweetheart... We live in buildings. Just like humans. We’re not woodland creatures." "But you could be," I muttered. He ignored me. "We’re a kingdom. A proper one. The only difference is we use magic, and we have longer ears. That’s all." I stared at the estate again. No floating lights. No tree houses. No whispering flowers. Just well-maintained courtyards, a big stone mansion, and some neatly trimmed hedges. Very civilized. Very non-magical. The only magic here was how thoroughly my expectations had been obliterated. I pouted. "I thought I’d see little fairies and leaves glowing and maybe a deer that speaks fluent Elvish." Marella placed a gentle hand on her cheek, trying—and failing—to hide her smile. "My princess... those things only exist in fairy tales." I crossed my arms and narrowed my eyes at the gravel path beneath my feet like it had personally betrayed me. "I shouldn’t have believed those fairy tales," I mumbled, deeply offended by every bedtime story ever told to me. Grandpa let out another warm, rumbling chuckle, clearly enjoying my disappointment a little too much. "My precious star," he said, crouching down to my level with a look of exaggerated sympathy, "I don’t know what exactly you were expecting—perhaps a flying squirrel serving moonberry tea—but I promise you, Nivale will still surprise you. Maybe not with floating fairies or talking trees... but with a kind of magic that’s older. Wiser. Quieter. And deeper than anything found in a storybook." I eyed him skeptically, poking his cloak with one finger. "I hope so." And then—before I could ask whether deer at least understand Elvish—a group of elves came bursting out of the estate like they’d just heard a royal inspection was happening in five minutes. Maids in flowing pastel uniforms, footmen with silver trim on their coats, and at least one poor guy who looked like he ran the whole way from the kitchen with flour still on his apron. They lined up quickly, bowed low in perfect unison, and in voices sweet and melodic enough to rival a choir, said: "Welcome to Elariondil Estate, Princess Lavinia!" I blinked. Then blinked again. Wow. That was dramatic. Just as I was still trying to process the sea of elves bowing before me like I was some ancient goddess descending from the clouds, my eyes caught a particular figure—and I shrieked. "GAHHHHH!!!" There—lurching toward us—was what could only be described as a dead walking elf. No, really. Pale as snow, eyes sunken with the kind of dark circles that could qualify as war paint, and movements so stiff he looked like a haunted marionette. If it weren’t for the subtle twitch in his eye and the faint scent of peppermint tea, I would’ve assumed we were being greeted by a literal corpse. Naturally, I latched onto Grandpa like a koala on caffeine. "Grandpaaaa!! It’s a zombie! A dead elf!" Grandpa narrowed his eyes at the poor man and sighed dramatically. "Faerlan... you’re scaring my precious granddaughter." The "zombie" straightened up—well, as much as someone who hadn’t seen a full night of sleep in what appeared to be a decade could manage—and gave a stiff but graceful bow. Oh. So that was Faerlan? Damn it. He really looked like a ghost doing cosplay. Before I could whisper another protest, Grandpa gently patted my head, his voice dripping with reassurance. "It’s alright, my precious star. He’s not undead. He’s just the butler." I squinted up at Grandpa suspiciously. "Butler?" He looked more like an ancient cursed elf who rose from the tomb. Faerlan, ever the professional, smiled—or attempted to. It came out more like a twitch. "Welcome back, my lord. And welcome to Nivale, Princess Lavinia," he said with a deep, practiced bow that looked like it required every remaining ounce of his soul. I blinked up at him and mumbled under my breath, "Are you sure he’s not dead, Grandpa?" Without missing a beat, Faerlan responded, voice hoarse but oddly elegant, "Do not worry, Princess. I am... alive. Barely. Just... exhausted." Then came the dramatic pause. "Since my lord has been away tending to royal duties in Elarion"—he glanced subtly at Grandpa—"all his work has been... rerouted to me. Entirely. For the last few months." I looked from Faerlan’s corpse-like expression to Grandpa’s very much not-guilty face. Oh. So he did Grandpa’s work. And since Grandpa had been practically living in Elarion for the past two years just to see me, that meant he’s been handling all Grandpa’s work when Grandpa runs to see me. Out of nowhere, the image of my stingy old boss from my past life popped into my head. That wrinkly gremlin who thought overtime was a "bonding opportunity." The man who once told me "Sleep is optional when you have deadlines." Ugh. PTSD activated. I gave Faerlan a solemn nod of respect. "You, sir, are a warrior. A martyr. A true legend among the oppressed working class." Faerlan gave a slight bow again. "You are too kind, Princess." Grandpa chuckled as he led me toward the estate doors. "Don’t worry, my precious. I’ll let Faerlan take a vacation... after he finishes cataloging the entire estate’s archives." Faerlan twitched. I gasped. "Grandpa! That’s elf abuse!" "Work builds character," Grandpa replied smugly. He doesn’t even feel guilty. And then Grandpa said with a gentle smile, "Let us head inside." We stepped through the large double doors, and—whoa. Okay. So maybe it wasn’t a floating castle or a glowing forest treehouse dripping with fairy lights and talking raccoons like I’d imagined... but still. The inside of the Elariondil Estate was ridiculously pretty. Warm ivory walls rose into vaulted ceilings etched with flowing elven patterns, like vines reaching for the sky. Golden chandeliers hung like sunlit droplets, casting a soft, magical glow across polished wood floors—so shiny I could see my tiny, grumpy reflection. Massive windows framed in curling leaves let in golden sunlight that bathed the hall in a dreamy warmth. Elegant plants lined the space—ferns in crystal vases, orchids in corners, and ivy spiraling down the staircase like it was dancing. And right smack in the middle of the estate? A tree. A giant, sparkly, silvery-white tree that grew straight up into the ceiling like it owned the place. Its bark shimmered like moonlight, and soft wind chimes hung from its branches, singing gentle notes that made me want to nap and eat cookies at the same time. There was even a little circular bench wrapped around its base—like some kind of sacred elf picnic zone. "Wow..." I whispered, my eyes wide. "It’s beautiful." Behind us, Faerlan murmured in his hauntingly zombie-butler voice, "The great tree in the hall is over four hundred years old. Planted by His Grace himself." Grandpa nodded proudly. "It was just a sapling when I first built this estate." I turned and blinked up at him. "You built it?" He shrugged like it was no big deal. "Well, I designed it. Had a vision. Drew a few sketches. Then left it to the architects." Oh, sure. Just casually design a magical elven palace in your spare time. Elf Grandpa things, I guess. "And I told the kitchen to prepare five kinds of cookies and three kinds of pudding," Grandpa added smoothly, like he was dropping the most important royal decree of the day. I stared up at him, jaw slightly dropped. "You are my favorite grandpa." Nanny cleared her throat from behind us, her voice as crisp as ever. "Let’s all get settled first, my princess. There will be plenty of time to explore after your meal." I pouted dramatically. "Exploring is the meal of the curious heart, Nanny." She raised one perfectly shaped brow. "And cookies are the meal of spoiled children." ...Fair point. Grandpa chuckled beside me, his deep voice like a lullaby wrapped in velvet. "Rest first, my precious. You’ll be meeting your cousins soon... and I believe one of them has been waiting very eagerly." I tilted my head suspiciously. "Cousins? I have cousins?" "You’ll see," he said with that annoyingly cryptic elf smile. Now I was both excited... and extremely nervous. What kind of elf cousin was waiting for me? Please, please don’t be another zombie.