Arldir waited silently by the door of the wooden cabin, his sword—still stained with the blood of Libo, whose soul it had just claimed—resting against the wall. The blood slowly trickled down the blade, seeping into the grass and mud below.
Roughly half an hour passed before Arldir opened his eyes, just in time to notice the return of both Ravar and Archer, each approaching from a different direction. They were dragging something heavy behind them—corpses, easily recognizable. Archer hauled Arlum, whose face was brutally disfigured and body soaked in blood, as if he'd been tossed into a bush of thorns sharp as knives. Archer himself was covered in blood.
"That bastard was a pain to deal with... Agile and stubborn. Hard to believe we're of the same race," Archer muttered, dragging Arlum's body by the ankles over the grass now stained a deep crimson.
On the other side, Ravar struggled to pull Trin's corpse, visibly exhausted as if the body weighed more than it should. He used both hands to drag it, barely managing. Trin's body was riddled with stab wounds—chest, abdomen, neck—but the face remained untouched. Ravar himself was drenched in blood, though he bore no visible wounds. There was something else… something off about him.
The two reached the cabin where Arldir stood waiting.
"You're late," Arldir said with a smile.
"Man, do you even know Arlum? He's fast for someone so inexperienced—and you tossed him at me? I barely managed to take him down. It was a mess!" Archer complained, clearly just waiting for permission to vent.
Ravar said nothing. He simply dragged the body closer to the cabin's entrance.
Arldir eyed Ravar carefully, sensing he was hiding something, but chose to ignore it for now. His focus shifted to something far more important: the corpses of Arlum and Trin—followers of his father, Sofrik.
Suddenly, Archer broke the silence, his voice cautious yet firm:
"Arldir… was this part of the plan? Killing those two?"
Arldir smiled, turning slightly before gesturing toward the cabin with a flick of his hand.
"Not two… three."
That same captivating smile remained on his face.
The two men exchanged startled glances, then looked inside the cabin. There, atop the shattered remains of a wooden table, lay Libo's lifeless body. Ravar took a step back instinctively, while Archer stood frozen, unable to speak.
"I know, I know... You're wondering why I killed Libo, aren't you?" Arldir said, still smiling. His voice was calm and measured as he continued.
"Despite living by instinct, he was unbearably annoying... always saying the wrong things, acting foolish. That's why I decided to eliminate him—a potential liability."
He added, "And besides… Libo was never useful. He was weak—more like a child trapped in a young man's body. As for his flute playing? Frankly... I always hated it."
His words were cruel, made even more chilling by the calm tone and serene smile that framed his strikingly beautiful features. For Ravar and Archer, his words struck like lightning in the heart of a storm—devastating, deliberate.
"Now then, let's move to the important part. Bring the bodies inside. Set them next to Libo's, or anywhere really. Doesn't matter."
Without another word, the two men dragged the corpses of Arlum and Trin into the cabin as instructed, stepping back once done. Arldir moved forward, pulling a small cloth pouch from his pocket. From it, he scattered a fine, glittering powder throughout the cabin, ensuring it reached every corner. Then, he retrieved a small vial containing a milky-white liquid, sealed tightly with a cork.
"Much as I can't stand the Orbil family... I have to admit—they're brilliant at crafting the most peculiar and fascinating things," Arldir said, admiration briefly flickering in his voice.
He took a step back, then tossed the vial into the cabin.
Ravar and Archer watched in silence, eyes fixed on the vial. In seconds, violet flames burst to life with stunning speed, engulfing the entire cabin. Everything inside—furniture, books… the corpses—was consumed by fire.
"The Violet Flame… an unbound magical concoction, designed to incinerate and erase without leaving a trace. It's made from a modified fire essence that reacts with water as a catalyst. Which means…"
Arldir clasped his hands behind his back, his voice calm and satisfied:
"It's a near-eternal fire. Water—its natural enemy—only serves as fuel for its enchanting blaze."
The fire raged swiftly, turning the cabin to ash. The bodies were reduced to charred remnants. The scent of burning flesh filled the air—a stench so vile it churned the stomach. Ravar couldn't take it; he vomited the moment it hit his nose.
Even Archer, usually composed, was shaken. He stormed up to Arldir, his voice sharp with fury:
"Arldir! For the gods' sake, was that really necessary?! You could've buried Libo at least. He was our companion, whether you liked him or not. He deserved more than that."
Archer's voice cracked between anger and grief, as though he were the one who had committed the act, not Arldir—who stood cold, still smiling.
"Archer, son of the Tomalor family... the same family desperate to earn a place of power in the royal court, so their sons can move freely beyond their borders."
Arldir turned fully to face him.
"I gave you my word. I promised your family a place in the new order I intend to build."
"You mean overthrow the king and his bloodline… and take the throne for yourself? But how…" Ravar spoke through labored breaths, still recovering from the stench. "How will you handle your own family? They're all loyal to your father Sofrik—and he, in turn, is loyal to King Toras. Are you going to—"
"Yes," Arldir interrupted smoothly, same disarming smile on his face. "I'll kill my father too. That way, I secure the backing of House Tamriol and their allies."
Neither Ravar nor Archer could believe what they were hearing. But what could they do? Arldir was stronger than both—not necessarily in raw strength, but in ability, in cunning. A dangerous man, not easily challenged.
"The Eastern Elven Lands... have become pitiful under Toras' rule. Too lenient with outsiders. Mercy where none is due. And now? They want a girl to take the throne. Eryl." Arldir scoffed, chuckling low as he walked past them.
"This could've all been avoided… if only Toras had convinced his daughter to marry me. But no—they brought this upon themselves. And now, my plan to seize power is almost complete... thanks to that outsider, Darken."
Arldir's voice was unusually calm, as if emotion were foreign to him. That same smile lingered on his face—the only expression he seemed to know.
It was Archer who finally shattered the heavy silence, his voice raised in frustration : "I don't understand you anymore, Arldir! How could this be part of a plan? It's chaos! None of this makes any sense!"
Arldir stopped walking, but didn't turn around. He remained still as he spoke : "Listen carefully, Archer... and you too, Ravar. You were the ones given the chance to stand beside me."
He continued,
"My mother was from the Western Elves. My father married her after she was captured and accused of espionage. And for ten long years, she was treated like a prisoner… until she finally escaped. She left me behind."
"I was never seen as a Westerner. They raised me as one of the East. Yet I despised the Easterners. It was because of them she fled… the only person who ever truly cared for me. That's why I want to rule the Eastern Elven lands—by any means. So I can hand them to the West."
He paused, then added with a colder edge,
"But this isn't just for her anymore. She's gone. What I do now... I do for myself."
"And how, exactly, does this serve you?" Archer asked, the irritation still sharp in his voice.
"That's none of your concern. Not yet, at least," Arldir replied coolly. "You haven't proven your full loyalty to me. Perhaps—once you help me bring down the king and his bloodline—I'll tell you. And who knows? You might gain more than you ever imagined."
Archer had no answer. Everything was growing more tangled by the minute. Ravar remained silent as well. This wasn't the Arldir they had known. It felt like they were looking at a face that had never been revealed—until now.
"Let's return to our lands. It's time to begin the next phase: the fall of Toras and his house," Arldir said, walking away from them.
The two men had no choice but to follow. There was no turning back—not now. They were far too deep in something more dangerous than mere conspiracy.
At that same moment, King Toras sat upon his throne. Beside him was Queen Erlsya. The atmosphere in the royal hall was heavy—oppressive, suffocating.
The queen spoke with noticeable unease in her voice.
"Why did you send Sofrik's son and his companions on that reconnaissance mission? We already know Darken isn't the culprit. Why are we still searching for more proof? Unless... you have something else in mind?"
King Toras answered with firm but gentle authority,
"I merely wanted to accelerate things for Arldir. His plan seems to be dragging on longer than necessary."
His words startled the queen. Though veiled, they offered a glimpse of clarity. She pressed cautiously.
"And what exactly do you mean by that?"
He did not hesitate.
"Arldir... was the cause of everything. The recent unrest in the land, what happened with Eryl... all of it traces back to him."
Then, without warning, something struck the king—not physically, but something deep, ancient, and terrible. A tremor that reached through his very bones… and through the roots of the great tree beneath the castle. He fell from the throne.
The queen rushed to his side in panic.
"My love! What's happening?! What's wrong?!"
The king trembled, his eyes distant, haunted. His voice was faint, but clear: "Something has awakened… Something I haven't felt in decades. No... not in a hundred years."
Just as the queen helped him to his feet, a guard entered with urgency : "Your Majesty... Arldir, son of Sofrik, and his companions request an audience."
"Let them in," the king ordered, adjusting the tip of his crown with calm precision.
Then he thought to himself : He returned far sooner than expected… Half a day? I have a very bad feeling about this.
Arldir, Archer, and Ravar entered the royal court, walking in confident strides toward the throne. Moments later, Sofrik and Aria followed. The head of House Orbil was notably absent—likely due to other obligations.
"Sire, we have returned from the mission," Arldir said as he bowed respectfully. His voice was composed, but behind it was the trembling of a lie—unnoticed by all… except the king.
Toras stared down at him with eyes cold as mountain frost, their faint glow betraying something ancient : "Then tell me... what happened? And where are the others? I sent six—only three have returned."
His tone was calm, but laced with quiet menace. He knew the truth—but wanted to hear the fiction Arldir would spin.
With the poise of a trained actor, Arldir lowered his head and donned a mask of grief : "Your Majesty… what we witnessed was a nightmare none of us will ever forget. Deep in the forest, we found a crumbling wooden cabin, shrouded in eerie stillness. Inside, amidst the rotting furniture and old books... I discovered a journal. A journal that exposed the truth: Darken was the one who tarnished Princess Eryl's name—despite his denial."
He paused, exhaling slowly : "But what shattered me... was discovering that some of those sent with me—people I trusted—had fallen into madness. Libo, Arlum, and Trin turned on us like beasts. The fight was bloody. We barely survived. Archer was gravely wounded but managed to slay Arlum. Ravar, too, escaped death by killing Trin. And I..."
He clenched his fist tightly, as if wringing pain from his own heart : "I had to kill someone I saw as a brother. Libo... who once played the flute for us. I never imagined I'd be the one to silence his song."
The hall fell silent. Shock gripped the court. The queen gasped. Aria clutched her mouth. Even Sofrik, who had entered quietly, was frozen in place. But the king…remained still. His gaze, sharper than any blade, pierced straight through the performance.
Then, in a voice like frozen steel, he spoke: "An exquisite lie, son of Sofrik… You fooled them all. Everyone—except me."
The chamber trembled. Even silence itself seemed wounded.
Sofrik stepped forward, stumbling over his words.
"Your Majesty, surely there's a misunderstanding… I know my son. He wouldn't lie to you."
Aria followed, anxious : "Please, Your Majesty… perhaps there's more we don't know. My brother wouldn't—didn't mean—"
King Toras raised a hand, quieting them with a tone that bore the weight of ancient power.
"I inherited these eyes from my father, the former king. And these eyes… do not let lies pass unnoticed."
The words hit like a divine decree. Not metaphor—but revelation.
Then, Ravar broke. His body trembling, his voice weak:
"Yes… yes, we did it…" He suddenly screamed,
"We killed them! Libo was murdered by Arldir—he hated him! Arlum fell to Archer's blade, and Trin... Trin begged me for his life! He begged! And I still killed him!"
He collapsed to his knees, sobbing.
"We did it all! We—"
He never finished. In the blink of an eye, Arldir's blade flashed like lightning, severing Ravar's head in a single clean strike. The head rolled across the marble floor, leaving trails of blood as stunned onlookers stared in horror.
"You should've begged for death sooner, Ravar," Arldir said coldly. "It would've been kinder."
Sofrik's shock turned instantly to fury. He unsheathed his sword, charging at his son—but he never reached him. He collapsed mid-stride, as if crushed by a mountain. One by one, the others followed—the queen, the guards, every soul in the room—slammed down by an unseen force, as if gravity itself had turned malevolent.
King Toras struggled to breathe.
"What... is this…?!"
Arldir calmly retrieved a small object from his pouch, wrapped in gray cloth. He slowly unwrapped it, revealing a black stone pulsing with violet light—beating like a dark heart.
"This is the end of the play, Your Majesty," Arldir said with a wide grin.
"When strength fails… curses speak."
Now, all were at Arldir's mercy. Everything hinged on his next move. Sofrik was in shock, Aria paralyzed by disbelief, the queen writhing under the crushing weight. Even the king was on the brink of collapse.
But suddenly, the king's eyes shifted—not to Arldir, but to a wall on the far right of the throne room, adorned only with faded engravings.
"Your Majesty, looking away now would be... unwise," Arldir mocked, confidence bleeding from every word.
And then—it happened.
The wall exploded with a thunderous roar. The ground trembled, dust choked the air, stones rained from above. Panic seized the hall. And in that instant—the suffocating pressure radiating from Arldir vanished.
In its place came… fear. A primal dread. The kind of terror that signaled death had entered the room.
Through the settling dust, King Toras raised his gaze and saw a figure standing amidst the rubble. At first, he thought it was Arldir. But within moments—he knew.
No… this was not a man.
This was a monster.
A blood-soaked warrior, body torn but unbroken. Eyes ablaze with danger, silver hair wild, a dormant volcano smoldering in his chest.
It was…Darken.