The water of the lake was cold, but not freezing. It enveloped my legs, my waist, my chest. Mira, in Zirinos's arms, curled up.
"I don't like it," she said softly.
"Neither do I," he replied. "But we go."
The bottom was sandy, clear, and the descent gentle. The further we advanced, the denser the light became – not darker, but denser, as if the air itself had become solid. My eyes burned. Breathing became difficult.
"How much further?" I asked Serel, who walked ahead of us without getting wet – the water shrank from her feet as if afraid.
"As long as it takes," she replied. "The king does not like waiting. But neither does he like haste."
Zirinos gritted his teeth.
"Riddles," he murmured. "Do elves govern with riddles?"
"With truth."
"Truth is a disguised riddle."
Serel did not answer.
---
Thalior's throne was in the centre of the tree, in a chamber so vast that the walls were lost in the light. There was no ceiling – only branches and leaves intertwining far above, filtering the eternal brightness into a web of pale shadows. The throne was of living wood, rooted in the ground, with backs that rose like wings.
Thalior was tall. Much taller than any elf I had seen. His hair, silver‑white, fell over his shoulders in perfect waves. His eyes had no irises – only a pale blue glow, like a winter sky. His leaf armour murmured with his movement, a soft sound, like wind in distant trees.
"Intruders," he said, his voice deep, without warmth. "How long has it been since humans last fell into our lands?"
"We did not fall," Zirinos replied, his head high. "We were pushed."
"Falling, pushing, jumping – words are veils. The act is the same. You are here."
"We are."
"And you shall explain why."
Thalior raised his hand. A sphere of light – more intense than everything around us – appeared above his palm. It hovered, pulsed, turned slowly.
"This is the Heart of Truth," said the king. "My ancestors created it to distinguish the pure from the corrupt. Humans call it… a Decetuarius."
"We have heard of it," I said.
"Then you know what it does. Whoever touches the sphere and has corruption in their heart… burns."
"And whoever does not?" asked Zirinos.
"Nothing. The light merely shines."
Thalior looked at Zirinos. His pale eyes fixed on his.
"You shall touch first."
Zirinos hesitated. The hand that was not holding Mira trembled – a slight tremor, almost imperceptible. I saw it. The elf Serel also saw it.
"You shall touch," Thalior repeated.
Zirinos touched.
The sphere glowed. A soft white light spread through the chamber like a wave. It did not burn. It did not scorch. It only shone.
"Corruption," said Thalior, with a mix of surprise and disdain. "You have no corruption."
"I killed a demon lord," Zirinos replied, his voice calm. "Corruption dies with them."
"It does not die. It hides."
"Then it hid well."
Thalior did not insist. He looked at me.
"You."
I touched the sphere. The glow was the same – soft, indifferent.
"Intruder from another world," said the king. "Your soul is… different. Not corrupt. Just lost."
"Lost?"
"Far from your world. Far from your land. Far from yourself."
I did not answer. There was no answer.
Thalior looked at Mira.
"The child," he said. "Come here."
Zirinos held Mira tighter against his chest.
"No."
"I will not harm her. Truth does not hurt the innocent."
Zirinos hesitated. Mira, who had been silent until then, looked at him.
"Let me, Zirinos," she said, her voice small. "I am not afraid."
He let her go. Mira walked to the throne, her bare feet on the living wood. She touched the sphere with her fingertips.
The glow was different – golden, warm, like a tiny sun. The entire chamber lit up. The elves standing in the shadows stepped back, shielding their eyes.
"Innocent," Thalior murmured. "Completely innocent."
Mira withdrew her hand. The glow died.
"I like your light," she said to the king. "It's like the light of my candle, before I sleep."
Thalior did not answer. But his eyes, for the first time, softened.
---
The interrogation continued.
Thalior wanted to know who had sent us, how we had entered, what we intended. Zirinos answered with half‑truths – that he had come to pray, that the bishop had betrayed him, that he had fallen by accident. The king listened in silence, his fingers drumming on the arm of the throne.
"You lie," he said suddenly.
"No," Zirinos replied.
"You lie. I feel it. Your soul smells of shadows."
"Shadows do not smell. They appear."
"They appear when you hide the truth."
Thalior stood up. His leaf armour rustled.
"You will stay here. In the city. Under guard. Until the light consumes you or the truth sets you free."
"That could take weeks," I said.
"Or years. Or decades. Time is not the same for us."
Zirinos tightened his hand on his sword.
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you die today." Thalior looked at Mira. "The child will stay. She is innocent. She deserves the light."
The silence weighed.
"We accept," said Zirinos.
---
We were taken to a tree‑house on the outskirts of the city.
It was small but clean. The living‑wood walls glowed with their own light. The floor was covered in soft moss. There were no windows – only openings through which the eternal light entered without obstacle.
Mira lay down on a bed of leaves and fell asleep almost at once.
Zirinos sat on the floor, his back against the wall, his eyes open.
"Are you going to stay awake?" I asked.
"I can't sleep here. The light doesn't go out."
"You'll have to learn."
"I will." He looked at me. "Do you believe the king?"
"In what part?"
"The part about letting us leave."
"No." I sat down beside him. "But I believe we'll find a way."
"You're optimistic."
"I'm stubborn. It's different."
He almost smiled.
"Mira," he said after a few seconds. "She called his light beautiful."
"It is."
"Do you think she was being honest?"
"Children are always honest."
"No."
"Then you were never a child."
He did not answer.
The light shone.
There was no night. No rest.
Only waiting.