A lone Silma stood in the silence that followed his failure.
The search had been long - frantic, poisoned by desperation - and in the end, fruitless. Before his very eyes was his cousin taken, and still, he could do nothing to stop it. The weight of his shortcomings settled heavily in his chest, a penetrating ache that refused to fade in the days following the Sylvaeri's capture.
The House of Silma does not forget its own. Though we are of different blood, the Sylvaeri are kin - bound by oath, by honor, and by history.
Let it be known, Fëanor:
We will not abandon you.
We will scour every cursed woodland realm, descend into every ruin of ages past, and ride the length of every forgotten path on this forsaken continent until we find you. This is more than a promise - it is certainty. We will not rest, we will not waver, and we will offer no quarter to your captors should they refuse us.
To those who stole him: you have made enemies of the Sons of Siol - Second Son of Malin. Pray that the mercy of this offer finds you before we do. The Ancestral Flame of Elvendom will consume all you have known, all you know now, and all you could ever hope to build.
Wherever the Sylvaeri lies - hear this in the wind and in the earth:
We are coming.