22- Can we wrap this up quick?

The hall of the Northern Forest elves felt alive, an organic cathedral carved from the gnarled roots of ancient trees. Glowing vines, pulsing with soft light like captured stars, wove across the ceiling, casting dancing shadows on the tense faces of the gathered elves.

The walls, woven from living roots, seemed to breathe. Fern-like fronds hung from the arches, brushing the shoulders of the assembled elves, their murmurs blending into a low hum.

At the center of the hall, on a platform where roots curled into a natural throne, the Matron sat motionless. Her deep green eyes fixed on a single point: Liam's portal, its edges faintly shimmering.

Around her, the councilors formed a loose circle, their rigid postures betraying growing impatience.

Tharion, an elf with sharp features and steel-gray eyes, tapped the pommel of his staff nervously. Beside him, Liriel, a councilor with amber-beaded braids, crossed her arms, her lips pressed into a thin line.

The portal, an arch of pulsing blue energy beating like a living heart, was the only proof of the human's prior presence.

The elves watched it with a mix of fascination and distrust, its unstable edges casting flickers of light across the polished wooden floor.

Tharion broke the silence, his voice cutting like a blade. "This human has kept us waiting too long." He turned to the Matron, his gaze hard. "He promised his master's presence, this so-called superior. I doubt such a being exists. Don't you find it suspicious, Matron?"

A murmur of agreement rippled through the councilors.

Liriel tilted her head, her beads clinking softly. "If he's so powerful, why hide?" she asked, her honeyed tone barely masking her skepticism. "Perhaps this human is just a fraud, preying on our desperation against the Dragon King."

A sudden movement drew attention.

Rilléan stepped forward near the portal. His fingers trembled slightly, but his voice was steady. "You're wrong," he said. "The human saved my patrol. Without him, neither I nor Freya would be here. His portal is still active. He'll return. We just need to wait."

Tharion let out a dry scoff, his lips curling into a disdainful smirk. "Your gratitude blinds you, Rilléan. That portal could be a trap, an empty spell to manipulate us."

The assembly's murmurs grew louder, a mix of doubt and impatience. Some elves cast nervous glances at the portal, others at the Matron, awaiting a sign.

The Matron remained silent, her hands resting on the throne's armrests, her slender fingers tracing the living wood's grain. Then, with a slight gesture, she raised a hand, and silence fell like a blade. "Enough," she said, her clear, commanding voice cutting through the hall like a wave. "Accusations are fruitless. If this human has lied, he will answer for it. But if he speaks the truth…"

The councilors exchanged glances, some frowning, others pressing their lips to hold back objections. The wait stretched, each second growing heavier, as if time itself weighed on their shoulders. The glowing vines quivered faintly, their light flickering at times, echoing the rising impatience. The portal's soft hum, like a distant insect's song, was the only sound piercing the oppressive silence.

Suddenly, the portal flared, its edges blazing with blinding light. The elves tensed, their hands instinctively reaching for weapons.

A figure stepped through, and Liam appeared.

His brown hair, slightly tousled, clung to his damp forehead. His worn coat bore traces of ash and dirt. His warm brown eyes, rimmed with fatigue, swept over the assembly, pausing on the Matron.

Every gaze locked onto him like arrows ready to fly.

Tharion stepped forward. "You've taken your time, human," he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "Where's this master you boast so much about? Or was it all a trick to manipulate us?"

Liam squared his shoulders, opening his mouth to respond, but the Matron cut him off, her voice sharp as winter wind. "Silence, Voryn." She leaned forward slightly, her piercing gaze fixed on Liam. "Young human, is your superior—"

She didn't finish.

A raw surge of energy flooded the hall. The air grew heavy, suffocating, as if an invisible hand pressed against every elf's chest.

The glowing vines flickered, their light nearly extinguished. Weaker elves collapsed, their bodies slumping to the floor, eyes rolling back before closing. Stronger councilors staggered, hands clutching temples or staffs, faces contorted with the effort to resist the crushing pressure. Liriel dropped to her knees, her beads scattering across the floor with a desperate clatter. Tharion, pale-faced, leaned against a wooden pillar, his breathing ragged.

Even the Matron wavered, her fingers digging into the throne's armrests, splintering the living wood. Sweat beaded on her brow, and her lips trembled as she fought to stay conscious. "By the Ancients…" she whispered, her voice barely audible, a frail breath amid the chaos.

Liam, at the center of this invisible storm, seemed unfazed, a faint smile touching his lips.

The portal crackled, its edges warping as if caught in a tempest.

Then, slowly, a figure emerged. Tall, lanky, moving with almost defiant nonchalance.

Wrinkled pants and a half-unbuttoned shirt revealed a t-shirt with a cat graphic. Messy white hair framed a face marked by three-day stubble and half-lidded eyes heavy with obvious boredom.

Yet the aura radiating from him was anything but ordinary.

It was overwhelming.

The young man's eyes swept over the assembly with near-provocative indifference. He yawned, jaws stretching wide, and raised his arms in a lazy stretch.

At that moment, the aura spiked briefly, a low rumble vibrating through the hall's roots. Several elves still conscious fainted, their bodies collapsing like puppets with cut strings.

"A god…?" the Matron gasped, barely aware.

The young man scratched the back of his neck, further tousling his hair. "What's this mess?" he muttered, his drawling voice breaking the silence like a stone tossed into a lake. "Liam, you said it was urgent, but this looks like a town hall meeting. I left my coffee half-drunk for this, you know."

The aura vanished instantly.

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the muffled groans of elves regaining consciousness.

Rilléan, on his knees, lifted his head, wide-eyed, staring at the figure.

The Matron, still gripping her throne, breathed in gasps, her narrowed eyes studying the intruder with feverish intensity. She opened her mouth, but Liam spoke first, his voice ringing through the hall with surprising clarity despite the tension.

He squared his shoulders, a smile spreading across his lips. "Matron Eryndra, honorable elves," he said, his voice carrying to the hall's farthest reaches. He gestured to the nonchalant figure behind him. "Allow me to present my superior… Zayn Roskales, the Magister of the Zion Guild."

Zayn raised an eyebrow, glancing sideways at Liam. "Seriously, dude? 'Honorable elves'? You practice that in a mirror or what?" He chuckled, rubbing his eyes as if brushing away dust.

He stifled another yawn, his hand absently scratching his barely stubbled chin. "Yeah, hi," he mumbled, his gaze sweeping the assembly with almost comical indifference. "Can we wrap this up quick? I've got a nap waiting, and it's not the patient type."