**Chapter 11: Of White Marble and Whispers**
The morning sun cast a gentle gold over the meadows, and the air was fragrant with dew and wild mint. Elias—still not entirely used to being called Lioren—could hardly contain his excitement as he hopped from one foot to the other. Today was the day. His first trip to the town.
Aelira adjusted the satchel of potions slung over her shoulder, her hair braided with sprigs of rosemary and tiny violet blooms. She watched her son with quiet amusement, eyes twinkling. "Stay close, Lioren. Towns can be... different."
"I will! I promise!" he chirped, eyes wide and full of wonder.
They walked along the winding path, fields opening like soft pages of a storybook. It was a gentle journey, past whispering trees and sleepy brooks, until finally, the white marble gates of Ilyareth rose before them.
Elias froze.
The town shimmered in the light like a place from dreams. Towers carved from white stone climbed into the sky, their peaks crowned with glinting glass domes. Streets paved in polished quartz gleamed underfoot, and canals wound lazily between buildings, their waters catching rainbows.
People bustled past—merchants in embroidered cloaks, musicians playing zithers and reed flutes, children with flower crowns skipping over mosaic bridges. Magic hummed faintly in the air like distant bells.
Elias reached for Aelira's hand without thinking. "It's beautiful," he whispered.
"Yes," she replied softly. "But beauty has roots. Remember that."
---
The magic potion shop was a dome-shaped building nestled near a circle of weeping cherry trees. A wooden sign swung overhead, engraved with curling runes. As they stepped inside, Elias's breath caught in his throat.
Shelves upon shelves. Rows upon rows. Potions in every hue imaginable—some glowing faintly, others swirling with slow galaxies. Vials as tiny as raindrops, and flasks the size of his head. Labels marked in silver script: *Common*, *Uncommon*, *Rare*, *Epic*, *Mythical*, *Legendary*.
"There are so many..." he murmured.
Aelira handed a bundle to the shopkeeper, an older elf with eyes like river-stone. He inspected them, nodded approvingly, and offered coin in return. Elias watched the exchange in awe.
"Each one has its purpose," Aelira explained later as they sat near a fountain, eating honeyed flatbread. "Some mend the body. Others stir the spirit. A few... remember things the world has forgotten."
---
They stayed in Ilyareth for several days. Elias drank it in like a starved bird at a spring.
He watched smiths enchant tools with runes. He listened to tales told by traveling bards. He saw a wind mage sculpt clouds into dancing animals for children. He even tried roasted duskberries for the first time—sweet and a little spicy, like laughter with a secret.
But amidst the wonder, questions began to rise.
He asked about the world. The lands beyond the horizon. An old cartographer smiled sadly. "Each continent is sealed off, boy. Natural barriers, ancient magics. Few travel far. Fewer return."
He asked about adventurers.
He asked about monsters.
And that was when he heard the whispers.
---
In a quiet tea shop, while rain pattered gently against the windows, a silver-haired woman told him the tale.
"The Dragon King," she began, her voice like falling leaves, "was not the hero songs made him. He believed the God of Light had deemed monsters evil—heretics born of darkness."
Elias listened, a knot forming in his chest.
"He waged a war not just of blades, but of belief. Entire species—gentle ones, too—were wiped out. Forest spirits. Stone herders. Sky singers."
"Why?" Elias whispered.
The woman sighed. "Because he could. Because fear is easy to feed, and righteousness a warm cloak to drape over cruelty."
The words stayed with him, deep into the night.
---
On their last evening in town, Elias stood alone beneath the marble arch at the edge of the plaza, watching lanterns drift into the sky.
They floated like soft stars, each carrying a wish.
He thought about the world. About the monsters lost. About how stories could be both truth and lie.
Aelira joined him, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder.
"The world is wide, Lioren," she said gently. "And it's heavy with memory. But that doesn't mean you must carry it alone."
He nodded.
And for the first time, the marble beneath his feet felt warm.
The stars above didn't feel so far away.
And his heart—curious, heavy, tender—held the first seeds of purpose.
*He would remember.*
*He would question.*
*He would seek.*
And someday, perhaps, he would find what had been forgotten.