The Essence Flow-Chapter 111: The Sleeping Line
FLASH.
The ground
cracked
beneath his feet.
Elliot blurred forward, a thunderclap of motion trailing behind him—his breath sharp, his form cleaner than ever. He darted across the forest clearing, twisted mid-step, and—
CRACK.
His fist collided with the trunk of a training post.
Not bark. Not wood.
Essentia-infused ironwood.
The trunk snapped clean through and toppled with a low
thud
.
Elliot exhaled, steam curling off his skin. His boots slid into a stop with practiced ease.
(This step-technique… I’m finally getting the hang of it.)
His chest rose and fell, but there was a grin tugging at the edge of his lips.
From the sidelines,
Lytharos
crossed his arms and gave a sharp nod.
“Better,” he said. “You’re starting to
own
your movement—not just borrow it.”
His silver hair stirred in the breeze. The wind, like it often did around Lytharos, seemed to obey him subtly. Calm. Controlled.
“If you keep this up,” he continued, “you’ll be able to use
Thunder-Strike
before the month’s end.”
Elliot wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “I can
move
like lightning,” he muttered, “but I still don’t hit like it.”
Lytharos smirked. “Lightning isn’t about speed. It’s about intention. You move fast, Elliot. But you need to
decide faster.
”
Before Elliot could respond—
The training gate creaked open.
Selene
stepped into the clearing, her cloak dusted with ash, a faint tear on her sleeve.
“I’m back.”
Lytharos turned. “The ball?”
Selene’s lips twitched with something between a frown and a tired smile.
“A mess. Rebels infiltrated the west wing. The whole place nearly burned.”
Lytharos’ brows furrowed slightly. “Anyone hurt?”
“Not many. But they were lucky.” She glanced at Elliot. “And Towan was there.”
CRACK.
Elliot’s next step faltered. His boot skidded across the dirt, almost stumbling into a stance.
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“He was
what
?!”
Elliot’s voice rang through the clearing like a dropped training blade.
Breath short. Eyes wide.
Lytharos approached with that same unshakable calm, placing a hand on Elliot’s shoulder like it might weigh the boy down just enough to keep him from sprinting straight into chaos.
“He’s alive,” Lytharos said. “That’s enough for now.”
Selene folded her arms, cloak still faintly smelling of ash.
“He helped stop the attack. Saved Governor Verestra, danced with
Lady Len
, fought a few rebels—and somehow didn’t end the night in pieces.”
She paused, rubbing her temple.
“Honestly, I think the
newspaper
is going to be more overwhelmed than the guards. A rebel attack during a Verestra-hosted ball? That hasn’t happened since… ever.”
Elliot blinked, stunned into silence for once.
His brain tried to put the puzzle together:
Dancing. Fire. Sylra. Fancy ball. Towan.
None of it fit.
“Wait—hold on,” he said, eyes narrowing. “
Len
? Who the hell is
Len
?”
Selene raised a brow. “Len Verestra. High noble. Daughter of the Lockeheart governor.”
Elliot stared blankly.
Then shook his head like it might rattle the nonsense out.
“And Towan… danced with her?”
Selene smirked. “In public. Multiple witnesses.”
“...Seriously? That’s like—like finding him juggling grenades. Gracefully.”
Selene chuckled. “Apparently, he juggled the governor’s daughter
and
two knives mid-firefight.”
Elliot covered his face with both hands.
“No way. I leave him alone for one week and the guy becomes a
ballroom dancer
?!”
Selene leaned against a tree, arms crossed.
“Oh, you should’ve seen his suit. Perfect fit. Embroidery, tailored cuffs, the whole noble package.”
Elliot slowly lowered his hands, squinting at her.
“...You’re messing with me.”
“Wish I was,” she said flatly.
He turned to the horizon with the slow, resigned energy of a man processing emotional whiplash.
(Towan. In a suit. Dancing. While rebels attack.)
He could already picture it: chaotic grace, awkward smirks, someone screaming in the background, and Towan dodging small talk like he dodged fireballs.
“...I have
got
to catch up with that idiot.”
Lytharos smiled faintly, arms folded as he stepped beside him.
“Then you’d better get back to training. He’s heading to Eryndar.”
Without another word, Elliot turned and dropped into stance—focused again, but muttering to himself between footwork drills.
“Ballroom dancer... unbelievable... he probably tripped at least once…”
Selene waited until he was fully distracted, then caught Lytharos by the wrist and tugged him toward the cabin.
“What is it?” he asked, brows lifting slightly. “You’ve never dragged me away unless someone’s bleeding.”
She closed the door behind them and turned, voice low.
“I need to talk to you. And this stays between us.”
Lytharos studied her, the hint of seriousness wiping the amusement clean from his face.
“I’m listening.”
Selene didn’t hesitate.
“Towan’s an
Elaren.
And I’m almost certain Elliot is too.”
Lytharos blinked.
“…Come again?”
“At the ball, Towan wore one of the old house suits. You know—the kind with woven sigils that only activate for someone with Elaren blood. It
glowed,
Lytharos. Right in front of the Governor.”
He didn’t speak at first. His expression darkened—not in anger, but in realization. Like a puzzle piece he’d long discarded had just clicked into place.
“Those suits were sealed away after the collapse. Only three were ever made.”
Selene nodded. “And that one fit him like it was made yesterday.”
A beat. Then Lytharos exhaled sharply and sat down on the edge of the table.
“...If they’re both Elarens—”
“—Then the line never died,” Selene finished. “It just went quiet.”
She met his eyes.
“Which means something else.”
Lytharos said nothing, but his gaze flicked toward the door, where Elliot’s rhythmic footfalls still echoed through the floorboards.
“It means,” he muttered, “they might be the key to waking up what was left sleeping.”
.
!
Chapter 111: The Sleeping Line
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