Valadel

Chapter XVIII

"Wait, so...how exactly does this whole...magic thing work?" Danticus asked. He had spent the past hour getting to know the elves and their history, and Tyren, the older elf, had no problem explaining all of it to him. The world under the Elven rule was so different to the world under the ruling of the Men. Once the same world, yet worlds apart.

Just wait till Jazmyn gets her hands on them

Tyren sighed. "Okay, listen here Danticus. Magic was a gift from the Gods, or so the tales go, that was bestowed upon us when the Gods ruled the land. There were six Gods when time began, but in my time, there were five. When Gods created us elves, we were divided, to serve them and to share the land with them. My blood traces to the Levellan Dynasty," he paused, and his face turned bitter, "...or what's left of it. My father married an elva from-"

"Wait, wait," Danticus interrupted. "What is an 'elva'?"

Tyren rolled his eyes. "Have the men taught you nothing about the elven race?"

Danticus shook his head shamefully. "No. Much of the history from the time before has been lost. Legend has it that Jorik burned any document with the word elf in them. Most of what I know comes from the stories and tales the village bards would sing, of the wick-" he paused and uneasily cleared his throat, "of the wicked elven monsters, and the hero mens triumphant defeat of them."

Tyren stared at him, his eyes cold and calculating. He scoffed, and flicked his neck. "Wicked elven monsters? That couldn't be farther from the truth."

"What do you mean?" Danticus asked.

"What I mean is that your "scholars" and "educators" have failed you. Jorik likely twisted the truth and painted the elves into something we're not. We were not vicious, nor wicked, nor were the 'hero men' noble and triumphant. Elves still exist, don't we?"

You do...just not in great number, Danticus thought, but would never say aloud.

Tyren let the question go unanswered.

"Well, man...let me tell you what really happened that day, the day the Elven race fell, the day Jorik proclaimed himself king, the day our castle sank into this ocean...it started with my father, Quinten. He was leaving the Council, coming home at last...and with a plan to save our kind..."

*****

Tyren gazed upon an empty throne, the marble it was crafted from glowing brilliantly in the sun. When his brother would sit in it, he'd appear almost godlike before his subjects. When he had subjects. Those days felt so long ago.

The sun was low in the sky, but nightfall was quite some time away. Tyren approached the balcony, and placed his hands along the stone railing, casting his gaze upon his home, the Kingdom of Dahnayel. The image before him nearly shattered his heart. Smoke filled the skies from fires below, raging in the streets. Screams and wails filled his ears, some from elvas, others from evlins.

At times, when Tyren would go up there at night, when all was quiet, life seemed as it was before. Peaceful, a time of enlightenment and serenity. But the men had sought to destroy that long ago.

Buildings crumbled and withered away from the winds of war, and the city once filled with life and stories was swept away with it. The siege had lasted long, but they broke through the walls days ago. It was a matter of time before they descended upon Valadel.

Tyren felt a hand on his shoulder, and his palm heated quickly, fire brewing within his veins. The face of his brother came into view, handsome, brave, stoic as ever. His hand was cool on Tyren’s shoulder, and eased away Tyren’s startelement.