The Girl of the Forgotten Bloodline

The forest was still again.

The last of the bandits had either fled into the dark or lay unconscious and groaning on the forest floor. Broken weapons, torn cloaks, and shattered pride littered the clearing like fallen leaves after a storm.

Sylvanor stood at the center of it all, breath ragged, fists still wrapped in thorn-covered gauntlets pulsing with fading green light.

The golems loomed silently behind him, their task complete. Rakshak watched from the edge of the clearing, spear lowered but still alert, his eyes narrowing toward the girl they had saved.

Sylvanor turned to her, expecting tears, perhaps even thanks.

But what he saw instead made him freeze.

The girl sat quietly in the grass, staring at him—not with fear, but with deep, unnerving stillness.

Her skin shimmered faintly in the moonlight—a soft lavender hue, smooth and unblemished.

Pointed ears peeked through her tangled hair. Her small, round nose twitched slightly, and her wide, luminous eyes glowed with an unnatural pink—elegant, alien, ancient.

Not human.

Not entirely.

Sylvanor's heart began to pound again—but this time, not from battle.

"She's been cursed… poisoned… corrupted?" The thoughts tumbled over one another.

He stepped forward, voice sharp with panic. "Hold still!"

She flinched.

"Life's Renewal!"

Golden light bloomed from his palm, washing over her small body like morning sun through mist. Warm. Pure. Healing.

But nothing changed.

Her violet skin remained. Her glowing eyes blinked up at him, unhurt—but untouched by the spell.

Sylvanor pulled back as if stung, confusion and frustration clashing behind his eyes. His thorn-gauntlets withered and fell away like dried leaves.

"Why didn't it work…?"

The girl just sat there, blinking, her head tilted slightly.

Rakshak stepped closer, his wooden form creaking softly. The golems remained motionless, protective yet calm.

"She's not cursed," Rakshak murmured. "She's… old."

Sylvanor turned sharply. "What do you mean?"

The girl finally spoke, her voice soft and musical, barely above a whisper."I'm not broken," she said. "I'm just… different."

And in that moment, with the forest listening, the mystery deepened.

Sylvanor knelt beside the girl, forcing the tension out of his limbs. His voice softened, losing the edge of battle.

"Are you okay?"

She looked at him—really looked at him now. Her pink-glowing eyes shimmered with something more than fear. Something deeper. Grief.

She gave a tiny nod. "Yes… but…" Her voice broke. "My mother and father… they were with me. They were taken. By those men. Please… help them."

Sylvanor's expression darkened. The rage he had just quieted stirred again—but now it was tempered, forged into resolve.

Before he could respond, Rakshak moved behind him. The great guardian's gaze was locked on the girl—not with suspicion, but with something far older.

Wonder.

Recognition.

Rakshak crouched low, his bark-like face close to the girl's. He spoke her name without knowing it, as if pulled from the roots of memory itself.

"She's a Virlin."

Sylvanor turned to him, blinking. "A what?"

Rakshak straightened, his voice lowering into the deep, resonant tone of ancient remembrance.

"Seven hundred years ago… before even your grandfather's reign… there lived a race unlike any other. The Virlin—children of balance, masters of form. They lived in harmony with creation itself."

"They sculpted beauty from wind. Carved power from light. They could rewrite the laws of magic—not through war, but through will. Through dreaming."

Sylvanor stared at the girl, his brow furrowed. "What happened to them?"

"Their minds outpaced their bodies. Their civilization grew vast… but their will to bear children dwindled. Joy in creation became obsession with perfection. They reached extinction's edge, not by blade, but by time."

He looked down at the girl, eyes somber.

"In desperation, their last elders sought the sorcerers of Oldhan. Together, they forged a new path—a new form. Stronger. Longer-lived. More attuned to the world. And more… driven to survive."

"They changed themselves. They became fertile. Passionate. Resilient. Their skin turned violet, a mark of transformation. But even then… they vanished into myth."

Rakshak's gaze locked with Sylvanor's.

"Until now."

Sylvanor stood in stunned silence, the tale echoing through his mind like a half-remembered song from a dream.

The Virlin… not a single mention of them in the palace archives. Not in the royal histories. Not even in the whispered myths told by the elder court scribes.

And yet here she was—real, living, trembling in the moonlight.

A child of brilliance and extinction. A living heir to a forgotten world.

He looked at her anew—not just as a child in need of saving, but as a fragile ember clinging to life amidst cold ashes.

"So she's… rare?" he asked, his voice hushed.

Rakshak nodded solemnly. "She is the last flame of a dying star. And someone wants that flame… to claim it. Or to snuff it out."

The weight of it sank into Sylvanor's bones.

She wasn't just hunted.

She was targeted.

The girl—brave in her silence—hugged her knees, shivering beneath the torn remnants of her cloak. Yet there was a stubborn light in her eyes, flickering behind the fear.

Sylvanor stepped forward, slowly, and knelt beside her.

He reached out, and gently placed a hand on her head, fingers threading through her silver-lavender hair.

"I'll save your parents," he said softly. "I swear it."

She looked up at him, and for the first time, managed the faintest smile.

Rakshak stepped forward and placed one heavy, wooden hand over the center of his chest.

"Then we must leave tonight. The bandits may return… or worse may follow. There are creatures who smell rare blood."

The wind picked up, rustling the leaves in a low murmur.

Sylvanor looked up at the stars beyond the canopy, then down at the small girl who had turned his path into something stranger—and deeper—than exile.

He whispered to himself, so only the trees heard:

"First a king without a kingdom. Now a protector of legends.What am I becoming?"