Valantes lay behind a veil of greyish branches, a magnificent sleeping beauty, its attire as majestic and awe-inspiring by night as it was in bright daylight. Between the dark pillars of trees the city's outer walls gleamed like slivers of ivory, turrets and spires shooting up high into the leafy dome of Atunar above.

But Andor did not have eyes for beauty and splendour tonight, knowing what still lay ahead of him, besides, the unnerving encounter with Gilren had done nothing to lighten his mood. He kept his eyes on the leaf-strewn pathway ahead, his bare feet treading lightly over the ever thickening net of gnarled roots. The River Oros rushed away beside him, the dark waters gurgling with renewed vigour after they had broken free from their confined riverbed beneath the city.

Andor followed the trail along the eastern bank upstream, the trees around him gradually receding as they made way for the giant oak, which spread its sweeping branches high above Valantes like protective wooden wings. The pathway widened and were it during daytime, he would have shared this last stretch with a multitude of other elves, eager to reach the city and its promise of bustling activity.

Andor was grateful for the relative silence and peacefulness the late hour granted him, when only the occasional passerby threw him a more or less indifferent glance. Since the privilege of a direct entrance to the city had been claimed by the River Oros itself, the people of Valantes had built serpentine pathways along both sides of the river, using the tree's enormous roots as base. They led up to two beautiful gates on either side of Atunar, and two similar paths had been contrived on the northern side, providing the city with four main points of access.

Right before the path sloped upwards to ease into its gradual ascent towards the city gate, Andor passed the entrance to the royal training grounds, a vast area, which extended along the outer walls and into the surrounding forest. Closest to the trail, the archery range lay now deserted, its wooden targets looming like ominous sentinels in the darkness, the usual shouting and noisy clamour replaced by a watchful silence. Uncountable hours had he spent here, honing his skills with the bow from the days of his early youth on.

Olear, his foster-father, had taught Andor the basic skills of archery and instilled in him the appreciation for a beautifully crafted weapon. He was a renowned fletcher, who took pride in his craft, his arrows of cedar wood being famous for their exceptional lightness and superior velocity, but being more of an artisan than an archer himself, he soon had reached the limit of what he could teach his son.

The remarkable ease with which Andor used to handle the bow had not escaped the instructors at the training grounds, and so they had invited him to train alongside the recruits of the king's guard, although certain restrictions had been clear from the very beginning.

Only members of notable families were usually chosen for these honourable positions and as someone whose parentage was unknown, Andor was far from meeting those requirements. He would receive training, but without the prospect of ever joining the ranks of the king's guard. Despite this irrevocable barrier, Andor had been well aware of the exceptional privilege he had been granted and Olear had made him promise to be on his best behaviour so as not to squander it.

Still, it had not been easy for Andor and initially he had found himself at the centre of unwanted attention from those who had considered him beneath them, Gilren rarely skipping an opportunity to let Andor feel that he wasn't really one of them. Lucky for him he had found support in Bergil and Caladon, who had turned out to be his most fervent defenders, Bergil nearly matching Gilren in his rough muscularity and Caladon, whose lighthearted spirit had pulled Andor out of his shadows of self doubt more than once. And then there was Elia, his childhood friend and the fiercest of them all, her knives as sharp as her tongue and even Gilren would shut his mouth when she was around, as she wasn't fussy about whom to give a taste of her sharpened blades.

During his years of training Andor had turned out to be truly remarkable with the bow, but to his own disappointment he had never been able to bring his skill with the blade to the same level of perfection. He could defend himself with the admirable grace akin to a dancer if it came to it, even kept a small hunting knife on him at most times, but he could never quite bring himself to appreciate the blunt brutality of close combat. Piercing another one's body, slicing the throat or chopping off limbs was not Andor's way of fighting, unlike Gilren, who seemed to revel in the gore of massacring his opponents until nothing much recognisable remained of their bodies.

Andor was a hunter, silent and stealthy, and to him hunting was an art, not an act of aggression. It required moving unheard and unseen, like a shadow in the woods. In all of this he excelled, and when he closed in for a kill, his aim was a clean and swift death with a single arrow shot from his trusted yew longbow.

Being a thoroughly trained warrior, Andor could have filled a variety of other positions, from border patrol to guarding the main waterway through the forest at its entrance or exit points, but he had chosen to stay helping Olear and Meril, his foster-parents, as best as he could, to support their small family. So Andor had found himself not only accompanying Olear to the markets to sell his arrows and hunting game to provide them with food, but he had also taken up to pass on his knowledge in archery, teaching the children who were still too young to join the ranks of trainees for the king's guard, but were yet more than eager to learn. Andor's own instructors had encouraged him to do so, as it not only liberated them from excess work, but also provided them with well prepared recruits once the children were old enough.

At first it was not an official position and nothing Andor could count on, as he basically depended on the good-will of the families, who would give their children into his care, but it had soon turned out that he had a good rapport with his young charges and they in turn adored their tutor, his little brother Tin being amongst the most devoted ones, so it had become regular work. To his surprise he had found himself enjoying those hours more than what he would have ever enjoyed being sworn in to protect the king.

He strode past the grounds, empty, save for a few guards, who kept watch during the night, their shapes outlined against the inky sky. A group of three stood around a small, but merrily crackling fire, their familiar faces illuminated by the flickering orange glow. They greeted Andor with casual nods as he passed them.

"Good to see you back!" called Nolar, the stoutest of the three, poking the fire with a wooden stick, so it flared up brightly.

"I hope you haven't forgotten about your little tournament tomorrow!" added Bragol, the one in the middle, flashing a row of pearly white teeth as he grinned.

"No, of course, I haven't," Andor retorted with a half-smile, but of course he had indeed forgotten and groaned now inwardly at the prospect of having to show up tomorrow for a tournament he had suddenly lost any interest in. Even though it had been originally his idea to host these informal competitions for his young up-and-coming archers, giving them a chance to show what they had learned and how their technique had improved over time.

He knew how much it meant to them, their faces shining with pride, when they succeeded in impressing their parents with a particularly difficult shot. And yes, there was no denying it, it usually brought a smile to his face too, but after today's happenings the last thing he wanted, was to be surrounded by a group of gawking people. He would need to come up with a credible excuse, but he would think about that after his meeting with the elders.

"The little ones are counting on you!" said Findir, the third one, tilting his head sideways, as if he had read Andor's thoughts.

Andor only gave him a noncommittal gesture, pushing away the image of disappointment on the children's faces, when they would realise that he wasn't coming, and called over his shoulder "I'll be there."

The pathway now rose gradually until it converted into a steep incline and then the gate came into sight, a majestic rounded archway hewn out of cream coloured stone, two guards dressed in night-blue tunics positioned on each side. Andor looked up into their faces, both equally dutiful and solemn, but none of them even so much as flinched, allowing him to pass without a question being asked.

Once he stepped through the gate, a high pitched buzzing sound made him look back over his shoulder. A tiny golden dot was zooming up into the night sky. With a small smile he turned to walk ahead. Fireflies kept to the forest, but he was nevertheless glad for the tiny companion, even if it had been only for a short time. Maybe they would yet meet again.