---
Alf's feminine lips part—just enough. Words emerge low, deliberate, velvet-edged.
Elflord: Lady Courtney of House Gregory… you must be exceedingly bold.
Black eyes appear—pure ink, no whites—lock onto her.
His arm extends.
Dark Energy coils like living serpents around her throat.
In one smooth motion he lifts her clean off the marble floor. Her feet kick uselessly, toes scraping air.
Ernest: No! Don't kill her! Elder Brother, please don—!
Alf's face settles back into that lethal calm, colder than winter stone.
Elflord: Yet you caused the deaths of many. Since those lost lives held no consequence for you, then surely this one held within my grasp should likewise hold none.
His fist tightens fractionally.
The dark ropes constrict.
Lady Courtney's face purples; a strangled gasp escapes.
Ernest: (Tears spilling) No!
Queen Mother: Your Majesty.
Desperation cracks Ernest open.
He drops hard to his knees—forehead slamming the polished tiles again and again, heedless of the pain. Tears strike the floor like rain on glass.
Ernest: (Voice breaking, still bowing) No—no—please, please, I beg of you…
The frantic rhythm slows. His face remains lowered, hair curtaining his eyes.
Ernest: Your Majesty… I beseech thee! (A quick, tear-streaked glance upward) Punish me instead.
Queen Mother: (Eyes shut tight) [Me Hûm, please don't.]
Royal Advisor: There are laws for such offences…
Elflord: Nevertheless… inasmuch as we are bound by ties of blood, I shall send you to contemplate your actions…
He flicks his wrist, his control crashing Lady Courtney to the floor
The dark ropes snap open.
Lady Courtney collapses in a heap, coughing violently.
Ernest exhales—relief flooding his face—until The Elflord finishes.
Elflord: …in the Black Garden.
A ripple of dread moves through the attendants. Several visibly shudder at the name.
Queen Mother: (Rising, voice sharp) Your Majesty—the Emperor! What do you mean by that?
Ernest: (Drawing a slow, steady breath).
Queen Mother: (Disbelieving half-smile) How can you cast your own younger brother into such—
Ernest: (Quiet, head still bowed) I accept the punishment.
Queen Mother: Ernest!
Ernest: May your wisdom reign forever, Your Majesty.
Elf-soldiers step forward. They take Ernest gently but firmly by the arms and lead him away.
The Queen Mother's gaze becomes locked on Alf—searching, wounded.
Queen Mother: [Me Hûm… this isn't you at all.]
Elflord: (Glancing toward her) As for you…
Queen Mother: (Startled back to the present).
Elflord: …you are henceforth forbidden from departing your pavilion, save I should alter my judgement.
Queen Mother: (Soft sigh as she stands) [I know being a ruler throws hard decisions at you.]
She tears a deliberate strip from the hem of her flowing robe—tradition's quiet offering—and lays it before the throne altar. Then she turns, offering a deep curtsy.
Queen Mother: (Voice steady) May your wisdom reign forever, Your Majesty.
Royal Advisor: Escort Her Majesty the Queen Mother out!
Massive doors groan open.
Queen Mother: [So as your mother…]
She turns her back to the throne.
Queen Mother: (Walking away, quieter) […I shall not make it difficult for you.]
The doors seal behind her with finality.
Alf's eyes close.
A long, nauseous exhale escapes him. Fingers press to his temple as though holding back a storm.
Senior Attendant Hü: Your Majesty… why don't you take a medicinal bath? For the sake of your health.
Imperial Spring Fall
Glistening vines drape emerald cliffs. Mist rises from the sacred lake—steaming, faintly luminous, scented with ancient herbs. A place reserved for Elflords alone.
At the water's edge stand Royal Commandant Philip and the Royal Advisor.
Royal Commandant Philip: …Elvÿndia Wood has returned to the Palace.
Royal Advisor: The Imperial Court convenes at dawn.
Alf opens his mouth to reply—then coughs instead, deep and ragged.
Royal Advisor: Your Majesty…
Elflord: (Cold) Depart.
They bow and withdraw, concern etched into every line of their faces.
Alone now.
The Elflord sinks to one knee at the lake's edge.
Memory uncoils.
FLASHBACK — The Apocalypse of the Totutũks
Unmastered Kewen Trait had left him defenseless.
A brutal strike hurled him against jagged rock.
Thirteen Totutũks circled—black wings blotting stars, eyes like burning coal.
Alf: (Coughing blood) Khoff… khoff…
Totutũk 1: Weak!
Totutũk 2: (Impatient snarl) Let's take his soul before the portal closes!
Two of them pinned his arms.
A third dived—claws aimed at his chest.
Totutũk 3: Tula-pssft skitê urno dtuk.
It plunged its paw straight into his soul.
A triumphant, guttural laugh—then the laughter twisted into confusion.
The creature tried to pull back.
The paw sank deeper instead.
Totutũks: (Chorus of alarm) Peaq-icon katcque?
Realization dawned too late.
Totutũk 2: No—get away from that E—!
Alf's eyes snapped shut.
His body became a vortex.
The third Totutũk was dragged inside—screaming.
A churning black fog erupted, swallowing him and the swarm.
Silence.
Then—a single, piercing screech tore through the fog.
Silence again.
The darkness slowly peeled away.
Alf stood alone.
Breath heaving. Legs trembling.
Blood—thick, black—coats his mouth and chin.
His eyes—once pure black—fade back to piercing deep blue.
He tilted his head just enough.
A single Yër was nearby—witness to the slaughter.
Terror seized it. It tried to burst apart in a spray of light...
NOTE: FõLa > Meaning
"Tula-pssft skitê urno dtuk." > "Leave that to me."
"Peaq-icon katcque?" > "What is wrong?"
END FLASHBACK
Present.
Alf lifts two fingers to his lips—soft, almost reverent.
They trail slowly downward, over the elegant line of his throat.
One forearm rests between his thighs.
The other hand combs back long black hair as he leans his head against cool stone.
A slow, seductive exhale slips from his beautiful mouth—half sigh, half memory.
Dawn — Imperial Court Hall
Columns of High Elves, nobles, and officials from every corner of Elfland (save the Elädorn Tribe) fill the vast chamber.
Fog-screens shimmer; distant lords attend in ghostly projection.
High Elf I (Lord Sëfen): …I therefore suggest all inhabitants be evacuated.
Royal Advisor: And to where, Lord Sëfen?
High Elf I (Lord Sëfen): Anywhere. Any realm but this one. The Secret Paths, the other worlds—excluding Gõbv.
Elva: (Rising smoothly) I don't believe that is feasible.
Several officials: Agreed.
High Elf III: Why do you say so, Your Highness?
Elva: [How many times must I tell them to stop calling me that—even after adoption?] Please… call me by name.
Officials: (In unison, bowing) We cannot do that, Your Highness!
Elva: [Oh, come on. I'm not even Imperial blood.] (Muttering) Fine. Address me however you wish. (Serious again) Your suggestion has merit, Lord Sëfen. But we face an uncalculated crisis.
Count of Alväin-Central steps to the enormous map platform of Edhel-Ambar, hand resting thoughtfully on his chin.
Count of Alväin-Central: Your point is valid, Your Highness.
Madam Raphaela: The so-called King of Veil Village is still rebuilding strength… but we cannot predict when he will strike again.
The true Duke of Veil Village—Duke Arlen—looks up sharply.
Duke Arlen: Then what do you propose, Princess Wood? My people live in terror…
High Elf IV (Lady Veyra): "Terror?" (Anger rising) Let us not forget it is your king causing this global catastrophe—and you speak of your people's worries?!
Eyes lock on Duke Arlen.
The hall erupts in shouts.
NOTE: Balin III Gulzien—publicly the "Duke of Veil Village"—is in truth its King. For reasons long guarded, he wore the lesser title as disguise. Until his betrayal of the Dragon Successors, only a handful knew. Now the secret is ash.
Duke Arlen: The treason of King Balin belongs to him—not my people! I will not stand here while you—
Royal Advisor: SILENCE!
The single word cracks like thunder. Quiet falls.
Elva draws a deep breath, exhales slowly.
Elva: I have a plan. Its success is uncertain… but hear me out.
The debate flows on.
The Elflord remains silent upon the throne—watching.
At last the Court reaches consensus.
Madam Raphaela: Your wisdom is divine, Your Highness. You surpass our soundest minds.
Several officials: Indeed!
Elva: [Oh, silly officials… you wouldn't say that if you knew who I really was 😅.]
Cheers rise—"Hope is ours!" echoes through the hall.
The Elflord's gaze tracks Elva—head to toe, then again—slow, deliberate.
Something hungrier than strategy flickers behind his eyes.
Raina notices. Her brows knit in quiet unease.
---
NEXT CHAPTER
Count of Alväin-Central: Hemonen Sach the Fourth! You should know to whom you speak in that tone…!!
High Elf V (Lord Hemonen): Oh, I know precisely to whom I address my words.
…
High Elf V (Lord Hemonen): Where is the hope when she cannot even protect us?!
Silence blankets the hall.
Then—slow, measured clapping.
Alf's hands meet once… twice…
Every head turns.
He stops.
When he speaks, the deep voice is elegant, precise—the first words he has offered since the session began.
Elflord: A most splendid performance, Lord Hemonen of the Fifth Rank.
…
General Tyrên: If it pleases Your Majesty… I should count it an honour to challenge Her Highness, Princess Wood, to a duel.
...