As the morning light deepened, Othorion rose from the roots of the
vallenwood, brushing soil from his hands. The forest thrived, its
ancient heart steady, yet his work was not done. Beyond the grove, the
elves of the Vallen awaited him, their lives woven into the same
delicate harmony he nurtured here.

He walked the hidden paths, where sunlight wove golden threads through
the canopy, leading him to a glade where the elves gathered. Some
rested against the roots of younger vallenwood trees, their breathing
shallow. Others sat in quiet meditation, seeking solace in the embrace
of the forest. They were weary, not from war or sickness, but from the
weight of long years, the burdens of memory and toil.

Othorion knelt beside an elder whose hands trembled like autumn leaves.
The elf had once sung the vallenwood’s songs, but age had stolen the
strength from his voice. With a gentle touch, Othorion traced glowing
patterns upon the elder’s palms, channeling the forest’s unending
vitality. The light of Zandreya, distant yet ever present, flowed through
him, seeping into weary limbs, soothing aches born of time.

One by one, he tended to them, easing burdens both of body and spirit.
To a young hunter, he offered a salve made from vallenwood resin,
restoring strength to an injured arm. To a grieving mother, he sang
soft hymns that carried the whisper of the trees, reminding her that
life, though ever-changing, never truly faded.

The elves, in turn, gave their own gifts. A child placed a garland of
woven leaves upon Othorion’s shoulders, its scent carrying the essence
of fresh rain. The elder whose hands had been steadied lifted his voice
once more, singing an old melody that joined the rustling leaves in a
symphony of renewal.

As twilight descended, the glade pulsed with quiet joy. No grand
miracles had been wrought, only small, gentle restorations, yet they
were enough. Othorion smiled, his heart light as he looked upon those
he had helped. He was no warrior, no prophet, but a keeper of the}
vallenwood’s grace, a healer in the name of harmony.

And so, as the stars unveiled themselves above the ancient trees,
Othorion remained, offering his touch, his voice, his presence,
a beacon of quiet healing in the endless song of the Vallen.