Veldra looked out through the towering window, the forest canopy reflected faintly in the glass. A satisfied smile touched his lips. With nothing more than a thought, the translucent window shuddered, flickered, and blinked out of existence, as if it had never been there at all.
The five remaining elves collapsed from their thrones in shock.
"This is impossible," one of them cried, voice shaking. "How can a named one fall?"
"Shut up," Veldra said.
The command carried weight beyond sound. Their mouths sealed shut instantly, lips fusing as if reality itself had rejected their voices. Panic filled their eyes, but no scream followed.
A familiar chime echoed before Veldra alone.
== <<[| The Elven Realm has lost its King |]>> ==
== <<[| Would you like to place a King? |]>> ==
"Place a king?" Veldra murmured, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. A brief silence followed, then his expression eased. "Ah. I know."
He turned his gaze toward one of the standing figures.
"You," Veldra said, pointing.
The elf stiffened. He was a white elf with pale blue eyes and white hair, tall and solidly built, standing just over six feet. Confusion crossed his face as he instinctively straightened.
"Sit on the throne."
The elf blinked. "What? That is not how this works. There is a ritual. A blessing from the forest. Are we truly skipping the process?"
"Yes," Veldra replied calmly. "We are skipping it."
Murmurs rippled through the hall. One of the others stepped forward, panic breaking through restraint.
"What about the prince? Should he not inherit the throne?"
Veldra tilted his head slightly, fingers resting against his chin in idle thought. "No. I do not want him. He may be useful for something else, perhaps."
The protests died before they could fully form. No one dared raise their voice. Not after witnessing their King erased. Not after an elder had fallen without resistance. The weight of inevitability pressed down upon them all.
"From this moment onward," Veldra said, voice echoing through the hall, "you are the ruler of the Elven Realm."
The chosen elf froze.
"As for a suitable name," Veldra continued, eyes gleaming faintly, "you shall be called Amon. Bearer of falsehood and truth. Weaver of illusion and dream. Holder of fragments of wholeness and fractured realities."
Before consent could exist, light descended.
It engulfed Amon completely, searing yet silent. His elven ears dissolved into human form. The blue in his eyes drained away, replaced by a muted gray. His white hair darkened to deep black, falling neatly into place. His former armor unraveled into nothingness as a tailored suit of black and white formed itself upon his body. A cloak twice his size settled upon his shoulders, heavy with authority. A slender cane appeared in his grasp, and a small, elegant hat rested upon his head.
The transformation stripped him of all former glory and replaced it with something colder, sharper, and infinitely more deliberate.
The light faded.
Amon descended to the floor once more, the echoes of power still lingering in the air.
"Amon," Veldra declared, his voice final and absolute. "Ruler of the Elven Realm. Bearer of falsehood and truth, illusions and dreams, and fragments of wholeness and reality."
Amon stepped forward, cloak spilling across the floor like a living shadow. He knelt before Veldra without hesitation, his head bowed low.
"I do not know what your plan is," Amon said quietly, his voice steady yet reverent, "but I will serve you. Everything within this forest has already sworn loyalty to you, for you are its ruler. Many before us were betrayed by their own minds, driven into delusion. That was the power of our former King, Aros, Lord of Minds and Illusions. Please forgive us for our blindness."
Veldra regarded him with calm indifference, his gaze neither warm nor cruel.
"It is fine," he replied. "Everyone who dared raise a hand against me is dead. You crossed the border of death by nothing more than fortune, Amon."
Amon lowered his head further, the weight of those words settling deep within his chest.
"My Lord," he said after a brief pause, "if I may ask, what is your name?"
"Veldra."
Amon's shoulders eased, as though a long held breath had finally been released. "Lord Veldra, we thank you. You have freed us from our delusion."
Veldra turned slightly, gesturing toward the throne entwined with gold and living vines. "Enough words. Sit."
Amon rose from his kneeling position and walked forward. Each step echoed softly through the vast hall, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow given form. When he reached the throne, he turned once, then sat, settling fully into the seat of wind, storm, and living nature.
The throne responded.
The vines tightened, the air shifted, and the authority of the Elven Realm flowed into him, sealing his claim.
A chime rang out.
== <<[| Amon has become the King of the Elven Realm |]>> ==
== <<[| Covenant has linked Amon |]>> ==
Veldra turned his head toward the remaining individuals, his interest in them already fading. Without another glance, he began to walk away.
"Drop the head," he said calmly.
Lucien obeyed without hesitation.
The severed head slipped from his grasp and struck the staircase, rolling downward step by step. Each impact produced a dull, crooked sound, almost like uneven footsteps echoing through the hall. It came to rest at the base of the stairs, lifeless and forgotten, nothing more than a remnant of defiance.
"Now," Veldra said, his voice measured and composed, "we have settled the quarrels. Let us begin our meeting."
He stopped and turned slightly.
"Call the other Kings of the races. Call them here. Now."
"Yes, Lord Veldra," Amon replied at once.
Amon raised his cane and flicked his wrist. Reality folded inward, space compressing as though the hall itself had taken a breath.
Two figures appeared.
The first was ancient. His eyes were a muted gold-gray, heavy with centuries of memory. Blue hair flowed down his back, streaked faintly with silver. An abnormal cloak clung tightly to his form, as if grown rather than worn. From his head rose two curved wooden horns, carved with natural runes, and his long ears marked him as kin to the elves, yet not one of them. The air around him smelled of soil, rain, and old bark.
A Druid King.
The second presence was sharp and predatory. His ears sat atop his head like a cat's, twitching faintly. Short brown hair framed a youthful but hardened face. His black eyes gleamed with instinctual wariness, and sharp teeth flashed briefly as his lips curled. His posture was low, coiled, ready to spring at the slightest threat.
A Beast Kin King.
Both took in the scene at once. The empty throne. The silence. The head on the stairs. The pressure in the air.
The druid's eyes narrowed.
"How dare a lesser being summon us from our realms," he began, voice heavy with indignation. "Who do you think you are to command-"