Echoes of Time, Whispers of Change

Time passed like a gentle breeze, no longer marked by explosions or chaos, but by a steady rhythm of life. The mana tree, towering in serene brilliance at the heart of the elf forest, had stopped growing in size. Instead, it grew in density, its magic threads weaving tighter and deeper into the land, nourishing everything in its reach. Exiastgardsun matured silently alongside it.

Decades may have passed, or perhaps centuries. To elves, time drifts like petals on the wind, slow and gentle. To humans, it races like a river in spring. Their sense of time rarely aligns.

The original twelve elf children, Fahleena, Jessica, Kyle, Adiw, Fuhiken, Sinryo, Yetsan, Gigih, Sakura, Orchid, Gaby, and Yuuna, grew as well. Though their physical growth had slowed to a crawl, their minds and hearts expanded in leaps. Now resembling twelve-year-olds in human terms, they each embodied their roles more clearly than ever.

As a blackangel, Wildan remained unchanged by time, his body untouched by age, his spirit quietly steadfast.

Wildan, still acting as a reluctant uncle, had more free time now that the new elf children were older and less dependent. He spent more of his days in quiet contemplation near the pond or watching the clouds drift by from the roof of his home, sometimes assisting Lucretia when the younger elves demanded too much.

Across Exiastgardsun, the races that Lucretia had summoned had flourished. In Dwargo, the dwarves had carved a city of stone and flame into the mountainside. Smoke curled from their chimneys and forges alike, the sound of hammer and anvil echoing through the caverns.

To the south, in the Machinia region, what began as a humble human village had blossomed into four thriving kingdoms. Each kingdom bore its own unique identity: one flourished through commerce and invention, another through martial prowess and disciplined armies, a third by fostering magical scholarship, and the last by preserving deep-rooted traditions and governance. Cobblestone streets wound through bustling cities, lined with vibrant markets, towering academies, and towering stone castles that reached toward the sky. Life in Machinia was swift and ever-changing, a stark contrast to the unhurried cadence of the elf forest.

Verdastra, homeland of the beastfolk, overflowed with vibrant life. The population there had grown so rapidly that Lucretia occasionally wondered if the beastfolk reproduced through mitosis. Their culture, an unpredictable blend of tradition and cheerful chaos, spilled out from the bamboo groves into new villages.

Meanwhile, the goblins of Nythvare remained slow to develop. Though their numbers had steadily increased, they lacked the organization and infrastructure of the other races. Every race would grow in its own way, and Nythvare's silence carried its own lessons.

The twelve original elves, once merely curious toddlers, now stood on the brink of a new chapter. Their dreams were no longer confined to the boundaries of their forest. Their eyes turned outward, toward mountains, plains, deserts, and beyond. A whisper stirred among them, a desire for exploration.

Lucretia stood atop the mana tree's highest branch one evening, the wind tugging playfully at her silver hair. She gazed out across Exiastgardsun. The stars above twinkled like a thousand promises.

And the world, too, seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the moment when the children of the tree would take their first true steps beyond its roots.