Magic which couldn’t be explained was taken very seriously by the Council. That was why they were so against Dilmir, and why, once Erundil recovered himself enough to fully relate what had happened, several mages were dispatched into the forest. Alfimir led a group to where Erundil and Dilmir had trained, trying to find who had caused the fire. A larger group split up, searching out the elves still training in the forest, unaware of what had happened.

It seemed clear to Dilmir that he was the only target, but he went into the forest anyway, heading for where he knew Ilrin was training. He didn’t like the strange magic any more than the Council. He had gotten used to controlling everything he could feel; a piece of magic he couldn’t control was quite unnerving, and not something to be taken lightly.

The similarities between the fire in the forest and the fire used by Alfimir at Arath Imil were not lost on Dilmir. Both had been used as traps, surrounding him and constricting, and both had resisted his attempts to quench them. But this was different.

At Arath Imil, he had been able to feel the fire, and the magic controlling it. He had been able to fight it, but the fire had fought back, simply refusing to go out. These spells were different. Dilmir couldn’t even touch them. Despite the similarities, he was convinced Alfimir was not behind the attacks. He might want Dilmir dead, but he would never have attacked Erundil. He was sworn to protect the elves.

These thoughts ran through Dilmir’s mind as he made his way through the forest. This section of the Great Forest was safe, free of wolves. They only really controlled territory west of the Ans Aras, the river which split the Great Forest down the middle. Here, east of the river, Dilmir could follow the Elven path without worrying about them.

The elves trained in various clearings just off of the path, but Dilmir saw that these were already empty as he ran by. Someone had already warned them. Ilrin would be deep into the forest however, where no sound from other training elves could disturb her studies.

Dilmir eventually found them – Ilrin and her trainer, Eledim – in one of the last clearings. They both looked up as he entered the clearing, Ilrin surprised, Eledim frowning. Dilmir knew why: Lifeformers guarded the secrets of their craft carefully.

“There’s danger in the forest,” he said, trying to catch his breath between words.

“Wolves?” Ilrin asked, getting to her feet (she had been kneeling, probably growing some plant).

Dilmir shook his head. “Mages,” he said. “There was an attack… The Council has ordered everyone back into Eld’rin while Alfimir investigates.”

He had teetered for a moment on saying who had been attacked, but had decided against it. The threat was real; he didn’t need Eledim doubting his words anymore than she already did.

She looked at him suspiciously, but if the Council and Alfimir were involved, she had no choice. “Come,” she said to Ilrin.

Then, without waiting, she strode from the clearing.

Ilrin looked after her for a moment, and then moved to where Dilmir still stood, breathing heavily. “What happened?” she asked.

She knew there was something he hadn’t said. He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “Someone attacked us – me and Erundil. They used spells, but I couldn’t feel them. I couldn’t control them. We need to get back to Eld’rin,” he added. “They could still be out here.”

Ilrin nodded.

Even as he spoke, Dilmir let his magic flow out of him, realizing he should have done it long ago. Two years, and he was still getting used to it. The magic flooded over the forest, Dilmir sensing every speck of energy around. Nothing. They were alone. But then Dilmir had thought that while dueling Erundil, too.

“Come on,” he said, leading the way back to the path.

Ilrin followed him silently, perhaps sensing just how worried he felt.   

They moved down the path, not running, but walking quickly. Dilmir kept his magic unbound, allowing it to flow freely around them.

The reality of the attack was finally beginning to settle in. Dilmir had gotten so used to being in control that it had taken him this long to fully realize how close he had come to not making it out of that fire. It had taken a spell from Eltuthar, a spell which according to all other elves wasn’t supposed to be possible, just to escape. This was no attack from the Council, easily thwarted by a few enchantments. This was something else entirely.

It was still mid-afternoon, but due to the closeness of the trees and the overcast sky, it was dark in the forest, Dilmir and Ilrin moving through an almost-twilight. Eledim was long out of sight. The entire forest was silent, the pines dark, the other trees bare. Only the rustling of the leaves underfoot made any noise.

They continued on for some time, the silence and darkness starting to get to Dilmir. He wasn’t usually jumpy, but he was sensing everything around them with his magic, and the tension was beginning to mount. Ilrin took his hand in hers, and Dilmir felt his tension lessen. He gave her a quick smile.

They were nearing the edge of the forest, and Dilmir was just able to make out clear sky through the trees, when he finally felt what he had been dreading: a spell, slippery and untouchable, racing through the air towards him.

Dilmir wasn’t going to let the spell anywhere near him or Ilrin. He flung his magic forwards, in the direction of the spell, and caused vines and roots to sprout from the forest floor in the spell’s path.

The spell struck, and the makeshift barrier – a good fifty feet in front of them – exploded into flame. Dilmir could still feel the barrier, the roots which made it up under his control. But the fire was shielded. He couldn’t stop the barrier from burning. He caused the roots to fall to the ground, but the fire stayed, a burning wall of flames rising from the earth. The flames began to ignite leaves and fallen twigs on the ground, moving quickly towards them.

The fire was right in their way, blocking them from Eld’rin. Dilmir turned to Ilrin, unsure what to do. She nodded to the right, and they left the path, both running in that direction. The fire chased them, as if drawn to them, passing around trees, leaping across bare ground. It was almost alive, and all the time, Dilmir couldn’t touch it. Again, any barrier he created would be flammable and not stop the flames.

Dilmir finally halted, stopping Ilrin with him. The fire was gaining on them; they couldn’t keep running forever. “I’m going to teleport us!” he shouted to Ilrin over the crackling of the approaching fire. “Hold on!” Ilrin gripped his hand tightly and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Ler imi elsen! Tirs imi im Eld’rin! Fesil imi ene!”

Again, Dilmir felt sudden heat. Then the sound died, color merged to white, and then… they were both thrown violently to the ground, right where they had been.

The spell had been blocked. Actually blocked. Who could do that? Who would know how? Not even Dilmir could guess how that was possible.

He scrambled to his feet, helping Ilrin up as he stood. The fire surrounded them now, a perfect circle, the walls of flame too high to see over. Dilmir pushed at it with his magic, using every ounce of power he had, but it was no use; he couldn’t touch it. Slowly, the circle of fire began to constrict. He was out of options.

“Dilmir!” Ilrin cried.

He turned to her.

“I can get us out of here,” she said, “but I need your magic!”

Dilmir didn’t hesitate. He didn’t pause to wonder what Ilrin’s idea could be, or how it could use more magic than she possessed. He just merged his magic with her own, giving her complete control over it. “Hurry,” he said. The flames were getting closer.

Ilrin wasted no time. “Silin, esvress fener! Keliess fineth il imi il aseldienim!”

Dilmir was ready to feel Ilrin use a vast amount of magic, but nothing seemed to happen. It took him a second to realize the heat from the fire had vanished.

“Walk through it,” Ilrin said.

“What?” Dilmir said. “The fire?”

Ilrin nodded. “Keep your magic linked with mine. I don’t know how strong the fire is; I might need your magic to keep the spell in place.”

This was magic Dilmir was unused to: Lifeformer magic. He had no time to question it though; the fire was mere feet away, and closing quickly. Trusting Ilrin, he turned, and put one foot into the fire.

Now he felt the drain on his magic. It was slight though, hardly anything to worry about. It was a strange feeling, having someone else control his magic. Dilmir hadn’t even known it was possible until Ilrin did it. He supposed it must be another secret of the Lifeformers.

Ilrin stepped into the fire, and the pull on Dilmir’s magic doubled. He still had plenty though. He and Ilrin looked at each other, nodded, and stepped fully into the fire.

For a moment, Dilmir was blinded. All about him was light, yellow and brilliant orange blazing around him, hurting his eyes, Ilrin’s hand in his the only tie he had to direction, his feet somehow finding the ground as they stumbled forwards. His magic continued to drain, quickly using up far more than the Curse would have allowed. Dilmir continued to feed his magic into Ilrin as it depleted, wondering as he did so how long the flames could last.

And then they were out. They took two final steps and collapsed to their knees, the relative darkness blinding them as effectively as the flames had. Dilmir turned, and saw the fire behind them, a half-sphere of flame. As he watched, it slowly constricted in on itself, growing smaller and smaller, until it fizzled out of existence.

Dilmir watched the spot for a moment. Then he pulled his magic from Ilrin, and flung it outwards in all directions. The elf responsible had to be nearby.

Over burnt ground, around charred trees, through chill air his magic sped, searching, vengeful, hungry. And finally he found what he sought: an elf, at the very edges of his magic, running. His magic was slippery, but that didn’t matter to Dilmir.

“Fel, hart imis!” he shouted. He felt the forest about the elf come alive, vines tripping him, roots snaking over him and binding him to the ground, tree branches fencing him in.

He hastily pulled Ilrin to her feet, and then ran to where he knew the elf lay, held immobile by the forest.

It was just light enough in the forest to see the elf, firmly bound by vines and roots. He was lying face up, and Dilmir could see that he wore a dark cloak, with a dagger strapped to his side. He wore no armor; only a padded jerkin. He wore no emblem, no symbol of who he might be working for.

Dilmir knelt beside him, his magic still in full control of the forest. “Who are you?” he asked.

The elf blinked up at him.

“Who are you!” Dilmir repeated.

The elf smiled. “We are the Asdelarcen,” he replied. His voice was calm, too calm.

Asdelarcen. The word was Elvish, but Dilmir didn’t know it’s meaning. He glanced to Ilrin.

“The directing hand,” she whispered.

He turned back to the elf. “You said ‘we,’” he said. “There are more of you?”

“Many,” the elf said, still smiling.

“Why are you doing this?” Dilmir asked. “Why are you attacking me?”

“Greater magic draws greater foes,” the elf said.

“That’s no answer,” Dilmir snarled.

The elf’s eyes flicked to the left, somewhere above Dilmir. Dilmir felt a spell fly from his bound hand, and heard a corresponding crack. He turned. Ilrin screamed. A tree was falling right at them.

Dilmir lunged out of the way, grabbing Ilrin around the waist and taking her with him. He refocused his magic on the tree, but wasn’t entirely surprised to find it shielded from him, slippery like the spells. It crashed to the ground, right where they had been. The Asdelarcen was gone, the shielded tree the only remaining sign of his presence.

Had he teleported? He shouldn’t be able to, unless he was Uncursed like Dilmir was. And if he was…

‘Greater magic draws greater foes’ he had said. What manner of enemy was after Dilmir? And why?

Dilmir continued to muse over the spell he had felt. Elmir dismissed him at noon, and he returned to Aimim’s home for a midday meal. He told her about the spell, but she was as puzzled as he was. She had never heard of shielded spells.

That meant the only person who might know the meaning of the spell would be Eltuthar, which of course did Dilmir very little good. He had no idea where Eltuthar was, let alone how to reach him. For this, he was on his own.

Dilmir briefly considered the Council as the source of the spell, but quickly dismissed it. The magic was far beyond their capabilities. Alfimir might be able to somehow shield magic – Dilmir had actually seen him do something similar once – but why would he attack now? He and the Council had been content to leave Dilmir alone for two years. Attacking now not only made no sense, but it wasn’t their style. A spell in broad daylight? No, someone else was to blame.

These thoughts continued to circle in Dilmir’s mind as he thanked a concerned Aimim for the meal, and headed off to his afternoon training. Remembering what the trainer had said yesterday, he made for the forest, where he knew Erundil waited, ready to train him with the sword.

He shivered as he neared the beginning of the forest. He’d warm up soon enough, but just now the cold was biting. If anything, it had gotten colder as the day progressed. The sky was a blank white-gray as well; it would snow eventually for sure.

Most of the trees in the forest were pines, but there were still quite a few deciduous trees, their limbs bare and stark, red and brown leaves covering the forest floor. Dilmir didn’t go far into the forest, turning off of the path soon and making his way to a small clearing. Erundil was there waiting for him.

Erundil had the taut, lean look of a battle-hardened elf. Dilmir didn’t know his background, but he guessed he had fought against the wolves of the forest many times. He was skilled with the blade: while Dilmir’s duels with Ilrin meant he could hold his own, he still had to pay attention. Erundil could capitalize on the slightest mistake.

“Sword out,” Erundil said, his own already unsheathed and at his side.

Dilmir pulled his sword from its sheath. His tarrenith was already strapped to his left arm.

“Forms,” Erundil said, his voice blank.

Dilmir had never been able to tell if Erundil disapproved of his magic, or simply didn’t care. All he knew was that the old elf rarely spoke more than three words together, and that his tone never changed.

Dilmir began the first of the Blade Forms – a series of exercises designed to stretch the muscles, while practicing the various sword movements needed in combat. Erundil stayed where he was, watching. Dilmir had to execute the form perfectly, or he’d have to do it all over again.

As he practiced, Dilmir’s thoughts strayed. He had done the form so many times that he didn’t need to think about the individual moves; his muscle memory carried him through them perfectly.

He thought about Ilrin. He’d much rather be fighting her right now than Erundil. Yes, Erundil was the harder challenge, but Dilmir had more fun with Ilrin. He could relax around her like he could never relax around most other elves. He wondered where she was. Probably somewhere deeper in the forest, still practicing magic. She stayed there throughout the day usually, only practicing with swords some days.

Dilmir finished the form.

“Good enough,” Erundil said. He stepped forward. Training with the sword was fairly simple: you could spend all day learning various positions and blocks, but you only really got better through practice. Erundil raised his sword so it pointed up, and Dilmir did the same.

“Begin,” he said.

As before, neither of them attacked immediately, instead waiting for the other to start moving. Erundil slowly began circling to the right, so Dilmir began circling to the left. However, an opening wouldn’t just present itself: you had to make it appear. And so the feints began.

Erundil quickly narrowed the circle, coming closer to Dilmir until he was within striking range. Then he made a few jabs, first right, then left, trying to get Dilmir to swing wide to block, and thus open himself up.

Dilmir kept his sword close, and his tarrenith ready. He made a few feints as well, attacking when Erundil did, forcing him to fall back to block the blow. Slowly, the duel grew faster and more complicated, each strike an opening, each opening attacked, each attack blocked.

As he fought, Dilmir let his magic out. It took concentration to keep it bottled up inside of him; it was far easier just to let it flow outwards as far as it could, not doing anything, but feeling everything. Dilmir remained connected to it, and it made him calmer, being aware of his surroundings.

And then without warning, he felt it: the same slippery magic.

Erundil’s sword crashed against his own, punishing him for the split-second lapse in concentration, and Dilmir was forced to leap backwards, flinging his arms wide, indicating for Erundil to stop.

Erundil halted his forward momentum with difficulty. “What?” he asked, a hint of annoyance in his voice at being forced to stop.

Dilmir held up a hand, concentrating on his magic. He could feel it: another slippery spell, coming closer, speeding along a straight line between the trees. Another spell joined it. And then a third. Three spells coming at him, all slippery, all resistant to Dilmir’s touch.

But they weren’t aimed at him. Dilmir could tell their trajectory was far too low, and sure enough, a moment later they struck the forest floor at the edge of the clearing. Flames sprang up from where they had struck, flames which grew into a wall of fire far too fast to be natural. Instantly, the chill of the air was gone, replaced with a searing heat.

The fire was shielded, slippery like the spells had been. Dilmir tried to touch it with his magic, to envelop it, to bend it to his will, but he just couldn’t do it. His magic flowed around it, unable to find purchase.

Still not particularly worried, Dilmir focused on the middle of the flames, slamming the whole of his magic into one single point. Nothing. His power just curved around the fire, like a stream diverted by a boulder.

Then the flames began to move. The wall expanded, growing to the left and right, quickly igniting the dead leaves and sparse grass of the clearing. It didn’t move forwards, towards Dilmir or Erundil, but began to encircle them instead.

“Dilmir?” Erundil said, for the first time a slight waver in his voice.

Dilmir frowned. Now they were in danger. “Back up,” he said. The flames weren’t moving particularly quickly, allowing him and Erundil to walk out of the circle they were creating. Whoever was controlling the flames obviously was in no hurry.

Dilmir had just reached this conclusion when more fire ignited behind them, quickly joining up with that in front of them to make a circle. He turned on the spot. Now they were trapped.

Stay calm, he told himself, finally feeling his control over the situation begin to slip.

The flames constricted, the circle growing smaller slowly.

Dilmir forced himself to think. He couldn’t control the fire, so what could he do? He had to effect it somehow… but how? Everything he could throw on the fire with his magic was flammable: trees, bushes. There was no sand or water nearby. Doubtless he had been attacked here for that very reason.

“Dilmir,” Erundil said, next to him. “We’ve got to get out of here. Can’t you do something?”

Dilmir glanced at Erundil. The old elf seemed uncharacteristically nervous. Dilmir supposed he didn’t trust magic – many elves didn’t. That was probably why he had become a master with the sword.

Dilmir knew he had to stop the fire somehow, but there was nothing he could do. The flames drew closer and closer, and Dilmir remembered the last time he had faced a fire he couldn’t control. It had been when he was banished, when Alfimir had attacked Arath Imil, Eltuthar’s sanctuary. How had he escaped then?

And Dilmir remembered.

He gripped Erundil’s shoulder, pulled all of his magic into himself, and cast one of the few spells Eltuthar had taught him: “Ler imi elsen. Tirs imi im Eld’rin. Fesil imi ene.”

For a moment, Dilmir thought the spell hadn’t worked, and that he was being burned by the flames. But then the heat left, sound faded, and even color turned to pure white. The only sensation was one of being stretched, scattered somehow, and moving very, very fast.

And then Dilmir opened his eyes, and found that they were in the middle of Eld’rin. He had just teleported using magic.

Erundil spun on the spot, trying to take in what had just happened, apparently struck speechless. Dilmir didn’t blame him. The magic it took to cast such a spell was well beyond the amount allowed by the Curse. Only he or Eltuthar could do such a thing. For everyone else, teleportation was supposed to be impossible, a myth from the distant past.

Several elves had noticed them appear out of nowhere, and were now approaching them warily. And then Dilmir saw Alfimir, his cloak billowing, walking towards them quickly.

Alfimir stopped in front of them and looked them up and down, noting their rapid breathing and their singed state.

“What happened?” he finally said, speaking to Erundil.

“I—” Erundil didn’t seem quite capable of speaking yet.

“We were attacked,” Dilmir offered, but Alfimir held up a hand to silence him, still watching Erundil.

Erundil nodded slowly. “Flames,” he finally said. “Someone conjured flames around us. They tried to kill us,” he added, almost as if realizing it himself for the first time.

“In the forest?” Alfimir pressed.

Erundil nodded.

Alfimir turned to Dilmir. “Did you do this?” he asked.

“No,” Dilmir said immediately.  

Alfimir looked at him for a moment, as if trying to ascertain if he was telling the truth or not. Dilmir held his gaze. “Very well,” he finally said. “I will find who did this. The two of you return to your homes.”

There was little chance of that. Dilmir was sure now: someone was out there, someone with foreign magic. That was a threat, not just to him, but to all the elves. There were plenty left in the forest, including Ilrin. They had to be warned.

It didn’t take Dilmir and Ilrin long to reach the main gate after Aldir had met them. Ilrin was still silent, her anger at Aldir clearly taking time to subside. Dilmir knew she didn’t want to talk about him, so he bade her farewell once they passed through the gate. Ilrin nodded, and set off for the forest, while Dilmir turned left.

As a Lifeformer, Ilrin trained in the forest next to Eld’rin, where she was surrounded by trees and other plants. Dilmir however still trained near the gates of Eld’rin, in one of the bowl-shaped depressions in the ground, formed for the purpose of practicing spells. He found the proper one, and descended into it.

His trainer, Elmir, was waiting for him. To Dilmir’s surprise, Elmir had requested to continue teaching him magic, and had done so for three years now. Trainers usually specialized in only one year, but Elmir seemed to have developed some sort of interest with Dilmir. Not that he ever showed it. Elmir was the model elf, his face conveying nothing, his words even less. Nothing could rattle him.

“Dilmir,” he said.

“Aseleth, Manithar,” Dilmir replied. It was customary to greet one’s superiors in Elvish.

Elmir took a breath, breathing in the cold air. Then he looked at Dilmir. “Today is a special day,” he remarked. “Today we begin counterspells.”

Dilmir nodded, neither particularly excited nor displeased. While Ilrin had chosen to become a Lifeformer, he had chosen to become a mage. Mages were warriors, wielders of magic tasked with the protection of the elves. Given his magic, it had seemed the logical choice to Dilmir. He had no intention of joining the army, as most mages did, but the extra knowledge of magic could prove useful in unraveling the Curse some day.

However, Dilmir didn’t use magic the way other elves did. A Cursed elf could only control the magic within themselves, and so were forced to form spells and then cast them if they wanted to affect something at a distance. Dilmir could control the magic in a wide field around him, reworking it at will. Casting spells would just slow him down. However, he used spells during training. It was still a good idea to learn how Cursed mages operated, and Dilmir could still practice truly using his magic after dinner. Therefore, he listened as Elmir spoke.

“Counterspells are among the most difficult to cast,” he said. “The mage attempting to do so must first gauge what spell he’s been attacked with, and then form one to counter it, all before the spell he’s trying to counter reaches him.”

“How?” Dilmir asked. He of course could just sense the spell’s composition as it flew towards him, but no Cursed elf could do that.

“Guesswork,” Elmir said simply. “And practice. All spells look a little different, unless intentionally designed to mask themselves, and that’s not something most have time for during battle. You must look at the spell, guess what it is meant to do, and form a spell to unravel it.

“For example,” he stepped back, indicating Dilmir should do the same, “what would you guess this spell is?” He raised his palm, and fired a spell into the ground between them.

It had only been visible for a split second, but Dilmir had seen it was a light green-blue, shimmering with yellow around the edges. That didn’t help him. He had never needed to identify spells by how they looked. He looked up, shaking his head.

Elmir nodded. “Practice,” he said. “Over the next year, I’ll teach you how to recognize the composition of spells based on their appearance. But first,” he added, “let’s see how well you do with no practice. Try your best to counter my spell.”

Dilmir raised an eyebrow. This was the mystery of Elmir: for some reason, the old elf wanted to see Dilmir’s magic. He would never admit it, but he consistently set Dilmir challenges far above the capabilities of a Cursed elf. Whether he was trying to actually train Dilmir’s magic, or just see what he could do, Dilmir didn’t know.

He obliged, finally letting his magic flood out of him, filling the bowl they were in. He knew Elmir wanted him to use his full magic; a Cursed elf simply wouldn’t be able to counter a spell with no practice. They both knew that.

Elmir fired the same spell at Dilmir, green-blue with yellow edges. But the instant it left his hand, Dilmir could feel it with his own magic. Normally he didn’t bother to identify the composition of the spell, but he took the time to notice that it was completely harmless: a spell designed to make what it touched glow with a yellow light briefly. Just a training spell. Dilmir merged his magic with that of the spell, and easily unraveled it, absorbing the magic into his own. The spell disappeared in mid-air.

Elmir nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Now onto practice. We will start with some basic spells used in combat…”

And so it continued. Elmir would fire a spell at the ground, teaching Dilmir how to identify it. Soon he had Dilmir firing simple counterspells, trying to both guess composition and aim correctly at the same time.

As he worked, Dilmir’s magic eddied about him, idly flowing in and out, dimly aware of everything going on around him. He could sense magic and energy with it, meaning he could feel other trainers and their pupils nearby, practicing their own spells. He used to try to keep his magic within, afraid of what would happen if he let it out, but no longer. He was in complete control, his magic almost like a sixth sense, allowing him to feel his surroundings.

That was how he felt the spell before he saw it.

His magic had been unfocused, gently washing over the training field, idly feeling everything from the grass to the spells from the other training elves. But then Dilmir felt a spell, a spell so unlike anything he had ever felt, that his magic automatically stiffened, focusing on it purely by instinct.

Dilmir controlled magic. He could sense it, merge with it, and bend it to his will. But not this spell. He could feel it as it sped across the field towards him, but he couldn’t touch it. It was shielded from him, slippery somehow. His magic slipped around it, somehow denied access.

“Focus, Dilmir,” Elmir said. Dilmir had suddenly stopped trying to counter spells, focused completely on what his magic had sensed. The spell was still soaring over the training field, arcing down towards him.

Dilmir wasn’t particularly concerned yet. He plunged his magic deep into the ground around him, locating the thick roots of Eld’rin which spread out from the city, and causing them to send several shoots the width of his arm upwards. The roots burst from the ground in front of him, and quickly grew into a protective latticework, covering the entire bowl Dilmir and Elmir were in.

The spell struck a moment later. Dilmir felt it slam into his roots and dissipate instantly. Aside from a small burst of flame, the spell seemed harmless. This puzzled Dilmir. Firstly, who would fire a spell at him? And secondly, if they did, why wouldn’t they make more of an effort to actually harm him? And how had they managed to shield the spell?

Dilmir let the vines retract back into the ground slowly, thinking. Elmir watched him silently.

“Rogue spell,” Dilmir said, hoping the explanation would satisfy. He could tell Elmir knew there was more. The only reason for the shelter of roots would be because he had been unable to unravel the spell. But Elmir said nothing, and merely continued with the lesson.

Dilmir kept his magic alert the rest of the morning, but didn’t feel anything like the spell. Who had cast it? It clearly hadn’t been lethal, so was it just a test? And if so, why?

Something wasn’t right.

It didn’t usually snow in Eld’rin, but with the cold they were having, Dilmir wouldn’t be surprised if it did. The fog which constantly covered the Lower Quarter had spread out into the middle of Eld’rin, where Dilmir was waiting, and now covered everything. All he could see was a dense mist.

He got more comfortable against the root he was leaning on. Walking together with Ilrin to training in the morning had been something Dilmir had done ever since they became friends. He couldn’t say exactly why; he supposed he just enjoyed being with someone who wasn’t afraid of him or thought he was out to conquer the elves. Either way, he waited for Ilrin to join him in the middle of Eld’rin every morning.

Things had definitely improved for Dilmir. He used to dread training, where he would be forced to endure the thinly veiled dislike of the elves. He had tried his best to avoid all elves except for Ilrin, and even she had needed to work hard in the beginning to become his friend. He had always been afraid of what would happen if his magic slipped out of him, always cautious, always looking over his shoulder.

Now things were different. He had friends, and he didn’t worry about his magic anymore. Yes, the elves disliked him more than before, but as Ilrin had said, he couldn’t do anything about that. Not until Eltuthar found a way to lift the Curse, anyway. No, on the whole, things were much better. Dilmir smiled to himself in the predawn darkness.

Eventually, a shape appeared, bobbing through the mist towards him. The shape quickly resolved into Ilrin, tired and a little disheveled from sleep. She barely greeted him as they turned toward the main gate, but Dilmir knew she’d wake up soon enough.

The mist began to dissipate as they walked, the dark gray of the sky slowly turning to light gray. Even at this hour, Eld’rin was alive, other elves going to training just as Dilmir and Ilrin were. They kept a good distance from Dilmir, some giving him scowls, some hurrying by with fright, most just ignoring him. Dilmir was used to it.

Ilrin did indeed begin to wake up as they walked, the movement and fresh air serving to rid her of sleep. Dilmir smiled to himself as they walked, looking forward to the day. Another day of training, another day of practice. No secrets or plots to worry about, no enemies lurking in the shadows.

Except for one. A figure detached itself from where it had been hiding next to a root and stepped forward, into the early morning light. The elf didn’t approach them, but just stood there, directly in their path.

Dilmir recognized him: it was Aldir. Aldir was only two or three years older than Dilmir, but he was an agent of the Council, a spy tasked with making sure the laws were upheld. That was all Dilmir really knew about him. He was a ghost: an elf with no history. The Council had erased any record of who he was, allowing them to plant him into any situation without suspicion.

Ilrin saw him and stopped walking, glaring at Aldir with a hatred Dilmir rarely saw. He knew why.

Aldir had been the one who had gotten Dilmir banished two years ago, but that wasn’t why Ilrin hated him. Aldir, unseen, had watched Dilmir and Ilrin together for several days, and had deduced that if he pretended to get close to Ilrin, and let Dilmir see them together, Dilmir might react without thinking, using his magic to retaliate.

The plan had worked perfectly. Aldir had asked to see Ilrin, and she, not knowing who he was at the time, had agreed. Aldir had made sure Dilmir had seen the two of them together, and before he had known it, Dilmir had caused a branch to fall, aimed straight for Aldir’s head. He had already been struggling to keep his magic in, and that brief moment of distraction was enough for it to flood out of him.  

Aldir had gotten out of the way in time, but the damage had been done. Dilmir had been banished by the next morning. Ilrin, quickly discovering that Aldir had orchestrated the entire thing, had hated him vehemently ever since. Not just for banishing Dilmir, but for the way he had done it: using her to get to him. Dilmir couldn’t say he blamed her.

“Aldir,” he said, a little warily, unsure what his motivation was for appearing.

Aldir nodded, but his eyes were on Ilrin. “Can – Could I speak with you?” he asked.

Ilrin didn’t even bother replying. She continued to look at him as if her venomous gaze could kill.

“Please,” Aldir said. “I need to say something.”

Dilmir glanced at Ilrin. She wasn’t about to talk to him. “Say it, then,” he said.

Ilrin might hate Aldir, but Dilmir himself didn’t hold him any ill-will. He disliked him, of course, but in an odd way he understood him. Aldir served the Council, and he had just been doing his job when he got Dilmir banished. Dilmir was sure that, in his eyes, he had been serving the elves.

Aldir looked briefly at Dilmir. He clearly wanted to speak with Ilrin alone, but Dilmir returned his glance with a look which clearly said that wasn’t going to happen.

Aldir took a small step closer to Ilrin. “I – I just wanted to say that” —he seemed worried that Ilrin might lash out at him any moment— “that I – I’m sorry. For what I did.”

Ilrin glared at him silently.

“It was wrong,” Aldir said. “I should never have—”

“I don’t care what you think,” Ilrin hissed, cutting him off. Aldir took an instinctive step backwards.

Ilrin was one of the kindest people Dilmir knew, but something about Aldir seemed to have gotten to her two years ago. She had never forgiven him, and her hatred for him now was as strong as it had been then.

Aldir stepped forward again. “I just—”

“Go,” Ilrin said. “I don’t care what you have to say. Just go.”

Aldir seemed to teeter for a moment on the edge of staying, but Ilrin’s look finally seemed to convince him otherwise. He turned, and left, quickly being swallowed by the shadows.

Dilmir waited a good ten seconds before speaking. He rarely saw Ilrin so angry. “It’s been two years,” he said.

Ilrin shot him a dark look, and Dilmir promptly fell silent. She wouldn’t hear it. Based on her reaction, Aldir had committed the most heinous of crimes, and there would be no redemption for him.

Dilmir knew when to remain silent. He moved forward, heading for the main gate, and training. After a moment, Ilrin followed him.

---

Aldir was not one to let things or people get to him. He was an agent of the Council, trained since he could remember to consider only whatever mission he was on. It was not his job to get involved, not his job to care.

But he did care. He couldn’t deny it: what he had done two years ago was wrong. Using Ilrin had never sat well with him. Even before he had gotten Dilmir banished, there had been doubts. Ilrin hadn’t deserved what he had been planning.

He had told himself repeatedly that he was acting for the good of the elves, and he believed that. Even now, he still did. Dilmir was dangerous, and did need to be removed from Eld’rin, for the safety of all. But somehow, that didn’t justify what he had done.

It wasn’t as if anyone had gotten hurt. That was something else Aldir kept telling himself, but it didn’t seem true. The simple fact was that he had callously used Ilrin to get to Dilmir, and even to Aldir, that was low.

“What news?”

The words broke Aldir from his silent thoughts. He was in one of the massive trees which made the four corners of Eld’rin; he must have wandered here after trying to speak with Ilrin. Before him, Delarthen, head of the Council, stood. Of course. He wanted a report.

“Nothing new,” Aldir said.

“Nothing?” Delarthen repeated.

“Nothing,” Aldir said again. “Dilmir practices his magic at night like he always has, but it’s hardly enough to banish him over.”

“And the others?” Delarthen pressed. “What of their use of the magic?”

Aldir frowned. “They’re not involved,” he said, looking Delarthen in the eye for the first time.

Delarthen raised an eyebrow. “Not involved?” he repeated. “They’ve learned magic from Dilmir, and practice it almost daily. They are nearly as much a threat as he is.”

“No,” Aldir said. “They’re no threat.” He pressed on before Delarthen could interrupt him. “You set me to watch them. That’s my job. Well, I’ve watched them for months now, and I tell you they are not a threat.”

“Deciding that is not up to you,” Delarthen said, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “You are merely there to observe, and tell me if they do anything dangerous.”

“Anything you can possibly banish them for,” Aldir corrected.

Delarthen watched him silently, but Aldir wasn’t afraid of him. He just didn’t care anymore.

He waited until Delarthen opened his mouth to speak, and then interrupted him. “They’re elves,” he said. “Citizens of Eld’rin. We’re sworn to protect the citizens of Eld’rin, not hunt for excuses which don’t exist.”

“We are sworn,” Delarthen hissed, “to remove threats, wherever and whoever they may be. You would do well to remember that.” He glared at Aldir.

Aldir held his gaze coolly. Was that a threat? Had the head of the Council actually just threatened him?

Delarthen seemed to calm down slightly. “You do your job well,” he said, putting his hand on Aldir’s shoulder in what he clearly hoped was a fatherly fashion. “Try not to lose focus. Sometimes keeping threats from the elves requires doing things we would rather not. Just remember that everything you do is for their good.”

“Everything?” Aldir repeated. He shrugged Delarthen’s hand away. “Even betrayal of those who have no part to play?”

Delarthen nodded. “Sometimes, yes. Remain focused, Aldir. Consider what really matters.”

“I’ve done that,” Aldir said. He paused a fraction of a second. “And I’ve decided. Find someone else to watch Dilmir and the others. I won’t do it any longer.” And then he turned and walked away.

He had considered what really mattered. He had joined the Council to protect the elves, not spy on them or betray them. But that was all he had done: spy and betray. He couldn’t leave the service of the Council; he had nowhere else to go. They were his life. But that didn’t mean he had to like what he did.

He wouldn’t be a part of it anymore. Dilmir was a threat, yes, but not Ilrin, and not the others they met with almost every night, Endir and Inilidin. They were just normal elves, people Aldir had joined the Council to protect.

He was done playing the Council’s games.

“Don’t be long,” Aimim said. “Be back before midnight.”

“I will,” Dilmir said. “I have to; you know that. I have training tomorrow.”

“It’s cold out,” Aimim said, rummaging in a chest. “Take this.”

She held out what at first seemed to Dilmir to be a shapeless mass of fuzz, but it resolved into a woolen overshirt when Aimim shook it.

Dilmir took the overshirt. It was indeed cold outside, winter fast approaching. “Thanks, Aunt,” he said, turning for the door.

“Be careful,” Aimim said, her words serious.

Dilmir turned back. Aimim was watching him, almost as if debating within herself whether or not she should snatch him back before he opened the door. “I don’t think anyone is waiting outside to attack me,” he said jokingly, trying to ease her mind.

She half-smiled at him. “Of course,” she said.

“But thank you,” Dilmir added.

She smiled again, and he opened the door, leaving. It was indeed cold outside, and he quickly pulled the overshirt on.

It was true: there wasn’t that much reason to worry. Yes, the elves were in general more hostile towards him now than they ever had been, but their actions were limited almost entirely to the training field, where they had no choice but to face him. The rest of the time they just avoided him. Dilmir was used to it.

He stepped down from the door of Aimim’s home, the squat tree which made it enveloped in shadow. Only the windows – which were transparent enchantments – shimmered in place with a soft light all their own, mostly white with hints of green, yellow, and blue. All the houses had the same enchantments for windows, and together they cast small flecks of light across the ground as Dilmir walked, little patches of brightness amidst the shadows of night.

Dilmir didn’t have far to go. There was a sheltered space between the edge of the Upper Quarter and one of the large roots which made up Eld’rin, a small depression in the ground where several elves might sit comfortably.

One elf was in fact already there, and she turned as Dilmir approached.

“Dilmir,” she said, by way of greeting.

“Inilidin,” he replied.

“How was training?” she asked. “I heard you fought Asenir again today.”

News really traveled uncannily fast in Eld’rin.

“It went as you’d expect,” Dilmir said, shrugging. “But he fought Ilrin right after me. I think she made him even madder than last time, if that’s possible.”

Inilidin looked like she was torn between a frown and a smile.

“It’s fine,” Dilmir said, shrugging again. “What can he do? He just doesn’t like being beaten.”

“And he takes it out on you every time you meet,” Inilidin said.

Dilmir waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t mind some cuts or bruises,” he said. It was true. He wasn’t trying to seem brave or anything; Asenir was a lot bigger and stronger than he was. But Dilmir knew he was never in any real danger. He had his magic. That was something Asenir could never beat.

Two years ago, it would have been different. Dilmir would have taken the defeats lying down, hoping maybe Asenir would tire of fighting him and move on to someone else. Now it mattered little to him. Accepting his magic had given him a sense of control over almost every situation, and that in turn made him not care as much if Asenir beat him. It wasn’t a contest anymore. He was better at swordplay than most, and with his magic, that was all that mattered. The past two years had been some of Dilmir’s happiest.

“What about you?” he asked of Inilidin, taking a seat beside her. “How was your day?”

“The same,” Inilidin said.

Dilmir knew what she meant. She was sixteen, meaning her training had entered a very repetitive phase: Magic in the morning, swords in the afternoon. Magic, swords, magic, swords, over and over and over. It got boring quickly. Dilmir had dealt with the boredom by trying to keep his magic hidden, but other elves didn’t have that. For Inilidin, who was neither markedly good or bad at magic or swordplay, it was going to be a monotonous two years of constant practice.

Inilidin was one of those elves who had achieved what Dilmir used to wish for: being invisible. She wasn’t good or bad at anything, spoke softly, and there was nothing remarkable about her appearance. If it hadn’t been for Ilrin, Dilmir never would have noticed her.

Inilidin lived only a few houses away from Ilrin in the lower quarter. Somehow, when Dilmir had been banished two years ago, they had run into each other, and become friends. Now, the two were rarely apart.

“What about your parents?” Dilmir asked. “Still no change?”

Inilidin shook her head.

Dilmir sighed. Most elves were loyal to the Council, and believed what they said about Dilmir’s use of magic. Inilidin’s parents were among these, and so disapproved of what she was doing.

Not that she was doing much. Probably just sitting here talking to him was enough in the eyes of some, but there was more. Eltuthar had taught Dilmir some of the secrets of magic he had uncovered, and in turn, Dilmir had taught these secrets to Ilrin. Inilidin had been interested, so Dilmir had taught her as well, only realizing afterwards that her parents were opposed to her even being seen with him. But the damage had been done, and now Inilidin showed up almost every night, at this same spot, to practice what Dilmir had shown her.

In reality, Eltuthar hadn’t shown Dilmir a whole lot. Dilmir had eventually figured this out for himself, because what Eltuthar had shown him didn’t add up with his tales of the past. Eltuthar had said that because of what he had shown his followers, they had gained powers the Council feared. Eventually the rift between the elves who sought Eltuthar’s secrets and those who feared them had grown too wide, erupting into one of the bloodiest civil wars the elves had ever known. Eltuthar had been Cursed by Sonlen, stripping him of his magic, and most of his followers had abandoned him, returning to Eld’rin or being banished. That had been many years ago.

Obviously, Eltuthar hadn’t wanted to repeat that, because when Dilmir showed up, banished, two years ago, he had taught him only the safest secrets of magic. It irked Dilmir some that Eltuthar hadn’t trusted him, but he supposed it made sense. There were far too many similarities between them; Dilmir couldn’t blame Eltuthar for choosing not to tell him everything.

But the result was that while he had taught Ilrin and Inilidin some secrets of magic, they were really no more powerful than any other elf. The Council conveniently ignored this fact, overreacting as if Dilmir were Eltuthar all over again. At least they’d left him alone for two years. He supposed that was something.

Still, he felt sorry for Inilidin. She was curious about magic, and eager to practice what he had taught her, but she had to do so in secret, her parents having forbidden her from so much as talking to him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s not your fault,” she said.

“It is, sort of,” he said. “My magic started all this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was going to show everyone my magic, and they were supposed to see it for what it was. But the Council is blinded by the past, so—”

“—So it’s their fault,” Ilrin said, approaching out of the darkness. “Not yours.”

Dilmir frowned at her. “You are way too quiet when you move,” he observed.

Ilrin ignored the comment. “It is their fault,” she repeated, looking at him. “You did what you could.”

Dilmir nodded. She was right, as she always was. Still, he felt a twinge of guilt as he looked at Inilidin, still sitting there.

“Endir not here?” Ilrin asked, stretching her arms over her head. Endir was another elf who had been interested in Dilmir’s magic.

Dilmir shook his head. “I haven’t seen him,” he said. “Maybe he couldn’t make it.”

“Close,” said a voice, “but not quite.” Endir materialized out of the night. He was seventeen, tall and wiry, and seemed possessed of a perpetual grin. “I was waylaid,” he said, speaking as if he was retelling an epic tale, “by a force of five sinister dwarven agents, who tried to assassinate me in the dead of night. I only just now escaped.”

“Right,” Dilmir said, grinning as well, “and I’m Alfimir, here to arrest us all.”

Ilrin laughed. Inilidin smiled.

“Shall we get started then?” Endir said, rubbing his hands together.

“You better stay a good five feet away from us,” Ilrin warned him good-naturedly. “Your magic can get a little… exuberant.”

Endir gave her a mock bow and backed up, closer to the root.

What Eltuthar had shown Dilmir was simple for him. He had possessed his power all his life, and had been able to use Eltuthar’s secrets easily. But Ilrin, Endir, and Inilidin, as well as all other elves on Feylund, were Cursed. They needed to practice to make use of Eltuthar’s secrets.

Long ago, when magic was still young, the elders of the elves, fearing the consequences of wielding so much magic, had formed a powerful Curse. This Curse was complicated and inescapable, and they had cast it on the entire Elven race. It limited an elf’s magic to a very small amount, and kept them from having any more. For most elves, the Curse was forgotten, the miniscule amount of magic they had assumed to be normal.

But Dilmir wasn’t Cursed. Somehow, his predecessors had escaped being Cursed. Eltuthar, Dilmir’s oldest living relative, had been the first to use his full power in centuries. The Civil War had been the result. Eltuthar’s descendants had been more careful, controlling their power and keeping it hidden, but Dilmir had always struggled. He had always felt his magic, seething and boiling within him, and finally, two years ago, he hadn’t been able to keep it in any longer. He had been banished as a result, gone to Eltuthar, and there learned the secrets Ilrin and the others were now about to use.

Eltuthar had taught him exactly one thing he had not known: that magic could enchant energy. At Eld’rin, it was taught that magic could only enchant living things. While Dilmir had taken to the lessons easily, for a Cursed elf, they were hard to master. And that was why he met with Ilrin, Inilidin, and Endir, almost every night after dinner: to practice.

He of course didn’t need to be there. They knew everything they needed to; now it was just a matter of endless repetition. But Dilmir himself had things to practice. He had tried to ignore his magic until Eltuthar had convinced him to use it. As a result, he was still learning everything he could do.

They took up positions around the small space, Endir and Dilmir keeping their distance, Ilrin and Inilidin in the middle, practicing together. Dilmir closed his eyes, a smile escaping him, and plunged into his magic. He had been looking forward to this all day.

Power rose and fell within Dilmir, crashing within him with the force of waves on rocks. He could feel it: nearly nineteen years of accumulated magic, just waiting to be released, waiting to shape the world as he wanted. Dilmir relished the feeling. He liked his power, not because it made him different, but simply because he didn’t have to worry about being the same as everyone else. Those days were gone.

Dilmir raised his hand, and let his power rush out of him. It flooded into the ground at his feet, working its way in and around the dirt, stones, and roots which made it up. Magic was bound to energy, and energy was heat, meaning Dilmir’s magic could go anywhere. He could feel his magic in the ground, feel the roots, the small worms and insects in the ground, all of it.

Cursed elves needed to cast spells, but Dilmir didn’t. He was in complete control of the magic and everything it touched. With a thought, he caused the ground before him to rise up, held aloft by roots, pushed upwards as if some great burrowing beast had surfaced. To do the same, a Cursed elf would have to prepare at least twenty spells and fire them into the ground individually, making sure they struck the correct roots. And even then, the result wouldn’t be the same. Once a spell was fired, the elf lost control over it. Not so Dilmir. Even now, he still controlled the roots and the earth they held, causing them to slide back into the ground, replacing it seamlessly where it had been.

Technically, a Cursed elf could do everything he could. But Dilmir could do it faster, with much more precision, and all at once. And he was always in control. He could feel not only his own magic, but that of Ilrin and Inilidin, struggling to cast basic enchantments, and Endir, going overboard in the opposite direction, producing highly combustible spells. If he let his magic continue to flow outwards, he could feel the magic of every elf in the Upper Quarter, and at least half of the Lower Quarter. His magic had its limits, but he had never needed to test them.

As he continued to experiment, he could feel the others nearby. Elves were trained to enchant living things, like trees. Eltuthar had taught him that energy could be enchanted, which meant the very heat in the air could be made to glow with light or produce fire. But doing so was such a foreign concept to Cursed elves, that even Ilrin, who had been practicing for two years, had trouble. Dilmir had to admit he couldn’t imagine being unable to enchant the air. If he wanted to conjure a green sphere of light, he just… did it. Even now, the limitations of the Curse continued to surprise him.

The Curse. Eltuthar wanted more than anything to lift it, but it had defied his every attempt. The Council blamed Eltuthar for the Civil War, but he blamed the Curse, and Dilmir agreed with him. The Curse had blinded the elves, and made them shun their true power. Only by lifting it could they ensure another Civil War never happened.

Dilmir stretched his magic towards Ilrin, feeling her own, merging with it. She could feel him, and glanced towards him briefly, but then turned back to Inilidin. He had done this countless times before.

Within her, he could feel the Curse, an overly-complicated web of magic which had no right to be there. It wasn’t just a simple enchantment; it was woven into her energy, her very magic, limiting everything she did. Dilmir explored it for a time, trying various things to dispel it, but none of them worked. It was always the same way, his magic slipping off of it, repelled by some ancient countermeasure.

They practiced magic for two hours, but no one wanted to stay too late. They all had training early in the morning, and would have to get up before dawn just to be there on time. Inilidin was the first to leave, Endir soon following. Ilrin stopped shortly after, yawning and stretching.

“I think I’m done,” she called to Dilmir.

Dilmir reeled his magic in, absorbing it back into himself like water rushing to fill an empty pool. It only took half a second.

“All right,” he said. “Walk you back?”

It was a silly question; Dilmir always walked her back to the middle of Eld’rin. But Ilrin nodded anyway, and they set off together, weaving between the homes of the Upper Quarter.  It was cold, but peaceful, and his use of magic had left Dilmir feeling calm and relaxed.

Those feelings all fled as they turned a corner, and found themselves face to face with an elf. This elf wore a cloak and hood, but Dilmir could see his face: pallid, stark against the black of his hood. Alfimir.

Alfimir was the elves’ only archmage. As such, he was permitted to study and use magic most others were not, in exchange for his protection of all elves. Many in Eld’rin respected and looked up to him. Dilmir had once, too, but that had been before Alfimir had decided that he was a threat and tried to kill him. They had clashed more than once, Alfimir even attacking Ilrin in an attempt to get Dilmir to fight back.

All of this made Dilmir hate Alfimir. But it was what Eltuthar had revealed to him which caused his magic to boil, yearning to strike at the archmage. Alfimir had deemed Eltuthar’s entire line a threat to the elves – Uncursed as they were – and had hunted them down. Dilmir’s parents had managed to escape him, which was why Dilmir was here at all. But his grandparents, Eltuthar’s son and his wife, had been mercilessly slaughtered by Alfimir after the Civil War. And he had tried to do the same to Dilmir’s parents, and Dilmir himself, when he realized he was related to Eltuthar.

It was understandable, therefore, that they both froze, Dilmir’s magic ready to be unleashed.

“Dilmir,” Alfimir said after a moment.

“Alfimir,” Dilmir replied, calm despite the circumstance. Ilrin said nothing, standing well away from the two.

“Are you planning on killing me tonight?” Dilmir asked calmly. Alfimir was an archmage, but Dilmir was more powerful. They had fought before, but Dilmir had learned much since then.

“No,” Alfimir said, just as calm. They both slowly relaxed.

“Why are you here, then?” Dilmir asked. “I thought the Council decided to leave me alone.”

“Wandering Eld’rin is my business,” Alfimir said quietly. “Running into you was an unfortunate mishap.”

The Council ruled Eld’rin, and was responsible for enforcing its laws. Alfimir reported to them. Together, they were responsible for much of the ill-will felt towards Dilmir. But that didn’t mean Alfimir was about to outright attack Dilmir, even if he might want to. The Council was bound by its own laws, and the law said that no elf could be attacked within Eld’rin. The Council of course made a habit out of bending the rules, but they couldn’t break them.

Dilmir knew all this. When his first banishment was lifted and he returned to Eld’rin, he knew the Council would try to get rid of him for good. They couldn’t do it themselves, so they hired an assassin to kill him while he slept.

Dilmir had been ready. He had laced so many enchantments around his house, that the assassin was caught and rendered helpless before he could even slip through the doorway. Dilmir had found him the next morning, and exposed him.

Hiring an assassin was seen as underhanded and cowardly, and the elves didn’t tolerate the practice. The Council and Alfimir had come under suspicion, and had nearly caught the blame, but had wormed their way out in the end. But the message had been clear: Dilmir was ready for the Council.

From that day forward, they had left each other alone. Dilmir had refrained from doing anything too extravagant with his magic, and the Council and Alfimir had generally avoided him. Dilmir liked it that way.

Alfimir and Dilmir remained silent, watching each other. Once, Dilmir had been afraid of Alfimir. But now he was in control, and waited calmly.

“Have you heard from Eltuthar recently?” Alfimir asked.

Dilmir’s control slipped slightly. “No,” he said, surprised at the question. “Why?”

“The Council likes to keep tabs on those who have caused wars in the past,” Alfimir said coolly.

“Then you still haven’t found him,” Dilmir surmised. After Dilmir’s banishment was retracted, Eltuthar had fled, knowing that no such fate awaited him. He had long been branded an enemy of the elves, and would be slain if found. He had whisked away Dilmir’s parents to safety before Alfimir could find them, and had been on the run ever since. Dilmir hadn’t heard from him for two years, but could only assume that meant he was still alive.

“No,” Alfimir said. “We have not found him.” He continued to watch Dilmir.

“What do you want?” Dilmir finally asked again.

“You are Eltuthar over again,” Alfimir finally said, speaking slowly. “You teach elves magic against the Councils’ wishes.”

“I have yet to start a war, though,” Dilmir reminded him.

Alfimir nodded slowly. “So far,” he said. “But Eltuthar didn’t mean to start a war either, and it happened nonetheless. You are him over again, and I fear another war will follow you soon enough.”

But Dilmir had heard enough. He was tired of the Councils’ constant fears that he would turn into another Eltuthar. He had proven them wrong for two years, but still they believed it, blinded by fear.

He shoved past Alfimir, pulling Ilrin with him. Alfimir let them go, a dark figure in a darker night. Some day, they would see the truth. Dilmir wasn’t Eltuthar.

Dilmir locked blades with his opponent, both hands gripping the hilt, the low sun flashing off of the swords. He got a better grip and pushed, sending his opponent’s sword back and up, leaving its owner defenseless. A quick flick of the wrist, and Dilmir’s sword was at his opponent’s neck, claiming victory.

They both stepped away, lowering their swords. They were the first to finish; about them, elves continued to duel, swords flashing in and out, bodies ducking and lunging. Elves generally trained with either a single partner or a specific trainer, but occasionally the trainers would pit them all against each other. It was useful to face a different opponent every now and then. Dilmir had been facing a rotating selection of adversaries since noon, and now the sun was nearing the horizon.

Despite this, he wasn’t tired. Partly, this was due to the fact that he had trained far harder than this in past years. But mostly, it was because he found the duels too easy. He had been beaten over and over by Ilrin for nearly five years, with the result that now, when he finally faced a new opponent, his skill far outmatched theirs. It seemed that Ilrin was so skilled with the blade that, merely by fighting her, Dilmir himself had gotten far better at handling a sword than most elves his age.

It was a welcome relief, actually being good at swordplay for once. Dilmir was able to relax more during training, and actually learn the finer points of swordplay, rather than just duel for his life every time. He still got beaten from time to time, of course. His trainer, Erundil, was a master of the blade, and could easily punish Dilmir for a moment’s loss of concentration. And whenever he fought Ilrin, the duel could go either way. But for most everyone else, Dilmir was able to beat them easily.

But not all of them. Dilmir glanced sideways, seeing who his next opponent was, and felt his heart sink. Asenir.

Asenir was big for an elf, stocky and strong. Dilmir was almost convinced he was part human. He put his strength to good use, wielding a heavy axe in place of the usual Elvish sword. One blow from his weapon could knock aside any defense, leaving his opponent open and vulnerable. The only way Dilmir would be able to beat him was by avoiding his blows and sneaking one of his own in. Ilrin was good at that kind of thing, but not Dilmir. His strength lay in solid, measured strikes, and both he and Asenir knew it. Matched against each other, Asenir would almost always win.

Dilmir switched his sword from hand to hand, watching Asenir, trying to gauge how tired he was. For four years, Dilmir had trained with the traditional Elvish sword, but now that he was approaching his last year of training, he had been allowed to craft his own weapon.

Once they mastered the Elvish blade, elves chose a personal weapon, designed to fit their strengths and make up for their weaknesses. Dilmir’s strength in swordplay was his balance, control, and precision. Some elves liked to dance around as they fought, dodging this way and that, weaving forward and backward. Dilmir preferred to stand his ground, locked firmly into a single stance, overpowering his foe with consistent, well-placed strikes.

His chosen blade therefore was thicker and heavier than most others, giving him more power behind each blow. It had a long wooden hilt, allowing room for Dilmir to grip it with both hands if he wanted. It was shorter than other swords, but that gave Dilmir greater control over it, allowing him to strike harder and faster.

With the sword came a single bracer for Dilmir’s left arm. It was a single plate of thin metal, woven with leather straps. A tarrenith, it was called. It reached from just behind Dilmir’s knuckles, all the way to his elbow. The metal was thin, not enough to stop a blade, but that was not its purpose. Dilmir could use it to deflect a blow to the side, causing an enemy’s guard to open up wide. Against enemies with swords, the tarrenith was quite effective. But Dilmir couldn’t block something heavy, like Asenir’s axe. He’d break every bone in his arm.

“Switch!” called the trainer.

Everyone stopped dueling, finished or not, and moved to their left. They were in two lines, facing each other, meaning every time they switched, they faced a new opponent. Asenir coolly stepped in front of Dilmir.

He was tired, Dilmir could see that. He had been swinging that heavy axe for nearly half the day, and he was already breathing a little heavily. But he wasn’t winded. One good strike from his weapon and Dilmir’s sword would be wrenched from his hand. Dilmir’s only chance would be to avoid his blows – the one thing he was worst at. He got a better grip on his sword.

“Begin!” came the command.

No one immediately began dueling. The first few seconds of any fight were always about searching for weaknesses: shifts in balance, unprotected areas, that sort of thing. Slowly, the more aggressive elves began attacking, first with feints, then with real strikes.

Asenir was one of these. He quickly sized Dilmir up, and then swung his axe at his left side, knowing Dilmir couldn’t block it with his tarrenith. Dilmir leapt back to avoid the blow, now too far away to deliver one of his own, and Asenir stepped forward, now swinging at Dilmir’s right side.

He would keep advancing if Dilmir let him, so he did the opposite of what was expected: he stepped forward, inside of the arc of Asenir’s axe, using his sword to keep it from biting into his shoulder. He and Asenir were practically face-to-face now, and Dilmir took advantage of this, backfisting Asenir across the side of the head with his tarrenith. No one took minor injuries seriously. They were easily healed.

Asenir did not stumble back as Dilmir had expected. He took one step back, but recovered quickly. He gripped his axe with both hands, shifted his weight, and swung it cleanly into Dilmir’s side.

Dilmir blocked the blow with his sword, but it didn’t matter. The axe was so heavy that its haft slammed into him anyway, knocking him off his feet. He landed on the ground a moment later, his side blazing with pain.

Asenir lowered his axe so that the tip was resting against Dilmir’s neck. He didn’t say anything; just stood there, keeping Dilmir down, looking at him as if daring him to get back up.

It had always been this way between them. In fact, it was this way between Dilmir and most elves. His power wasn’t a secret anymore. The Council was afraid of his magic, so they called it unnatural or dark. Most elves were loyal to the Council, and believed what they said without a second thought. Thus it was that Dilmir often found himself in this situation during a duel: at the end of a blade, held by an elf who disliked him, seeing him as different, some sort of threat.

“Switch!” the trainer called.

Asenir slowly removed his axe from Dilmir’s neck and moved to his left. Dilmir got up and did the same.

“Athen,” he muttered, passing his hand over his side. The pain dulled, but didn’t go away. Healing injuries had never been one of Dilmir’s strong suits. He’d have to get Ilrin to do it properly.

Dilmir stretched his arms above his head briefly, keeping his shoulders loose, and then settled into his normal defensive stance. He knew his new opponent to be horrible with the sword; this would be a quick fight.

Sure enough, the trainer had barely called, “Begin!” before Dilmir had lunged forward and disarmed his opponent with a single stroke. He rested his sword briefly against the elf’s neck, signifying he had won, and then stepped back, waiting to switch again.

Asenir was two spaces down from Dilmir, which meant he was now dueling Ilrin. Dilmir tried to suppress a grin as he watched. Ilrin’s style was almost perfectly designed to counter that of Asenir. She had seen how he had kept Dilmir down, and she was toying with him now, avoiding his every blow, and repeatedly nicking him. She could end the duel at any time, but she seemed to be bent on punishing him instead.

Asenir grew more and more furious with every touch of Ilrin’s sword, his swings becoming wider and less controlled. She continued to dance out of his way, her counterattacks becoming fancier and fancier.

“Match up!” the trainer called, a bit sooner than normal. Perhaps he too was watching Asenir, and feared he might lose it completely.

‘Match up’ meant the elves should match up with their original partners. The line the elves had been holding disintegrated, elves pairing off. Ilrin finally let Asenir go, keeping her sword pointing at his throat a little longer than was strictly necessary, and walked over to Dilmir.

“You enjoyed that,” Dilmir murmured to her as she approached.

“Not particularly,” Ilrin replied, her voice equally quiet. “I just get tired of him.”

Dilmir knew what she meant. Asenir was a bully, using his strength to push the other elves around. Only Ilrin could reliably defeat him, and she took every opportunity to do so.

“Plus,” Ilrin said, “I didn’t like how he held you down.”

There it was, the real reason. Dilmir smiled despite himself. Ilrin seemed to take it personally whenever an elf showed their dislike for him.

“What are you smiling at?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Dilmir said, quickly rearranging his features into a blanker mask.

“Begin!”

They stepped apart, bringing their swords up. For her weapon, Ilrin had chosen the thinnest of Elven blades. It was long and slender, allowing it to sneak through the smallest gap. It was also light, which let her move and dodge other blows with ease. She was fast, and almost impossible to defend against. Dilmir knew her weakness lay in getting her sword locked against another, but that was unlikely when she was so fast.

However, Dilmir knew how she fought by now. Blocking her strikes was almost second nature to him. That was why, when she lunged forward, he was able to leap aside, easily deflecting her blow with his tarrenith. Her sword went wide, leaving her wide open.

Dilmir struck, almost half-heartedly, knowing that he would never make it. Sure enough, Ilrin spun out of the way, lightly moving his sword aside with her own. Dilmir set his feet, knowing his strength lay in holding his ground, and began swinging at Ilrin. The sword strokes were measured and powerful; she couldn’t block them. She was forced to dodge them instead, the constant motion keeping her from attacking him.

Eventually she snuck her sword under his guard, but as always, Dilmir was ready for it. He swung his blade low, catching hers as it snuck forward, wrenching it to the side. Ilrin was pulled forward slightly, allowing Dilmir to flick his sword up to her neck before she could escape.

He was getting better at beating her. Despite their different styles, he won nearly half of their matches now.

Ilrin disengaged gracefully, stepping back. “Your third swing was slow,” she said.

“Right.” Dilmir smiled. “That’s why I won.”

She smiled back.

“That’s enough!” the trainer called, ending the duels. Slowly, the other elves stepped apart. Asenir’s opponent was on the ground. Again.

The sun had touched the horizon, and the shadows cast by the massive trees of Eld’rin were getting too long. The entire training field was in darkness now, rendering blades almost invisible. There was something to be said for training in the darkness, but at some point the elves had to admit they couldn’t go on.

“That’s all for today,” the trainer said, addressing them all. “Your trainers will be waiting for you tomorrow afternoon.”

Dilmir sighed. He liked dueling Ilrin, but it was something he rarely got to do. Usually he dueled only his trainer, Erundil. Tomorrow he’d be back at it.

Slowly, the assembled elves began to trickle towards the entrance of Eld’rin.

“Are you hurt?” Ilrin asked. “I saw Asenir hit you hard.”

“Here,” Dilmir said, pointing to where the haft of Asenir’s axe had slammed into his ribs. “Just a bit.” He wasn’t one to ask anyone – even Ilrin – to heal his various injuries from training, preferring to do it himself. But since he and Ilrin had both turned eighteen and started their second-to-last year of training, there was no point in trying to deny her. She was just better at healing than he was.

She was training to become a Lifeformer, an elf who studied how magic affected living things. Lifeformers had grown Eld’rin from the ground up, and they were also healers, knowing how the body went together, and being able to heal it to near-perfection as a result.

Ilrin murmured some complicated line of Elvish Dilmir missed, and he felt his pain evaporate instantly. “Thanks,” he said, watching as Asenir finally left the field, axe on his shoulder.

Ilrin saw who he was watching. “He’s not worth it,” she said.

Dilmir knew what she meant, but said nothing.

“You have friends,” Ilrin said. “That’s enough. You can’t make all the elves like you.”

“I don’t need them all to like me,” Dilmir said, still watching the retreating form of Asenir. “I just wish they didn’t hate me.”

“They don’t hate you,” Ilrin said. “They’re just afraid of you.”

“That’s worse.” Dilmir finally looked at her.

She shrugged. “You can’t have everyone be your friend, Dilmir,” she said. “You’ve done your bit. Let them make up their own minds about you.”

Dilmir nodded, knowing she was right. She put her hand in his, and he let her lead him away from the field, towards the gates of Eld’rin. He wished the elves saw his magic as he did, but they didn’t, and that was unlikely to ever change.

Two years ago, when he had still been trying to hide his magic, that would have bothered him. He had wanted everyone to see him as normal. Now… things were different. He didn’t hide his magic, and the elves showed their dislike of him plainly, but somehow, it didn’t matter. Ilrin was right. Dilmir had done what he could. The elves’ reactions were their own.

Still, he wished something would change.

The land of Morindan was darkness. The days were bleak, sunlight seeming to struggle to reach the barren ground, leaving it gray and shadowed. The nights were a shroud, a cloak of blindness stretched across the land. The ground itself was but dirt and rock, its surface cracked and covered with an endless field of dust. What trees had once dared to grow there were now little more than bare limbs struggling upwards from the dried earth, their tips shattered, their wood long dead. No color lived there, no green of grass or blue of sky. All was gray; shadows or the deepest of blacks.

Morindan was silent. It was a dead land, and the dead claimed it, but now it was empty. Its barren plains were lifeless, its horizon unmarked by movement. Normally, the undead would have called it home. Zombies would have stumbled across it, doing the bidding of whatever dark mind had risen them. Vampires would have flown through the gray skies, watching for any sign of fresh life. But not so now. Now, Morindan was empty, both of the living and the dead.

There was only one place in the land where movement could still be found, the one place where all the vampires, zombies, and other foul creatures of night had gathered: Cyprien’s castle.

The castle jutted from the landscape perpendicularly, defiant of the flatness around it. The grounds about it hummed, not with life, but with an aura of death and decay, for here were gathered all the denizens of Morindan, the undead milling about in one mindless mass, stumbling and staggering blindly. Around the castle, vampires flew, their numbers impossible to count against the black of the night.

The full moon was the only source of light, its rays illuminating the dark castle. The shadowed stones of the citadel seemed to soak up the light, the towers and walls standing against the moon in silhouette, their blackness stark against the moon’s brilliance.

One of these towers, one of the highest in fact, possessed but one window, allowing the moonlight in. The room illuminated by the light was small, only big enough to fit five or six shuffling zombies across. Not that any would be allowed here.

The walls were of dark stone, and no tapestries or other decoration hung upon them. Countless wooden tables, desks, and chests were scattered about the room, but these were all covered in a thick layer of dust.

The center of the room was the only clear space, the chests and dust having been swept aside. Etched in the center of the stone floor was a deeply carved circle – just a plain circle – its outline black with shadow, despite the moonlight which touched it.

Cyprien Essenwein, lord of Morindan, watched as the moonlight began to cover more and more of the circle. He was arrayed in the garb of royalty: a deeply red tunic, shrouded by a black cape. Across from him, separated by the circle, Sonya stood, wearing similar clothing. Only the best raiment for such an occasion.

Cyprien was lord of the night, and rightly feared by all he hunted, but Sonya inspired an entirely different kind of fear. While Cyprien was known for his bloodlust, his unmatched skill in battle, and his ruthlessness, Sonya was feared for her subtlety and ability to plan. The elves feared Cyprien for the battles he had fought against them, but it had been Sonya who had orchestrated some of his greatest victories.

The moonlight now covered half of the circle on the floor. Cyprien watched its slow progress, his excitement growing with each inch the light covered. The time was very close now, very close…

Sonya stepped forward, her black cape shifting as she moved, revealing for a moment the red gown she wore for the occasion. In one graceful stride she was within the circle, feet close together. She looked at Cyprien, and smiled.

Cyprien stepped forward, joining her in the circle. It wasn’t big, large enough only for them to stand comfortably within, about a foot apart. Cyprien could almost feel Sonya’s excitement radiating off of her, his own anticipation mounting with hers. They had waited for this night to come for years, so many years, and now it was nearly upon them…  

The moonlight finally touched the last of the circle, and instantly the room was plunged into blackness. This was no shroud of night, but deep, dark magic. Not even Cyprien could see, a sensation he was unused to, and quickly decided he didn’t like.

He could feel Sonya in front of him, standing still as he was. They waited, and the darkness seemed to thicken, probing them, testing them. And then everything was still, muffled and cut off as if a thick cloth had been cast over the world. It was time.

A sound reached Cyprien, seeming distant at first, but then swelling in volume. It was Sonya: she was singing.

Cyprien had never heard her sing. There was no real tune to the words, but her voice was soft, and the words seemed to flow together. They were in an ancient tongue, and their meaning mostly escaped Cyprien. However, he knew each one of them by heart. He took a breath, and joined Sonya in song, the practice unfamiliar to his tongue.

It couldn’t be said that they made a good duet, but the words they sang were powerful, the darkness about them seeming to quiver as they continued. It wasn’t a long song, and they ended soon after, silence taking the room once more. Still, the thick darkness persisted, blinding Cyprien.

And then he felt… a thing. The darkness between them constricted, and… something appeared. Cyprien couldn’t see it, but he could feel it, like a presence watching him, somehow coming into being between him and Sonya.

Sonya knelt, reaching out to the presence, and Cyprien knelt with her. Instantly, the shroud of silence about the room lifted, and Cyprien could just make out Sonya’s silhouette before him. The darkness was slowly fading.

He could still see little more than Sonya’s outline, but there seemed to be a patch of extra dark shadow between them, somehow cupped in Sonya’s hands. Cyprien reached out, and felt again that presence, the undeniable feeling that there was another being in the room with them.

He held his hand out to it, and felt a wave of cold as the shadow touched him. Sensations flashed across his mind: curiosity, hunger, drive… he smiled.

“My daughter,” Sonya whispered, bending low over the shadow and blowing gently on it.

Cyprien copied her, bending low and blowing softly on the presence. “My daughter,” he breathed.

The presence seemed to swell as they spoke, but then shrank, somehow condensing further until it was small enough to swim within the bowl of Sonya’s hands.

“My daughter,” she whispered to it, “I name you… Iskra.”

The thing in her hand quivered.

“Sleep now,” Sonya breathed.

The shadow swirled for a moment, and then somehow funneled inside of Sonya, slipping through her skin like water through a cloth. Cyprien could still feel it, the presence, now slumbering within Sonya.

Together they rose, Sonya smiling, Cyprien himself feeling his mouth twitch.

A violent hammering came from the one small door into the room, and the remaining darkness shattered like the shards of a broken mirror. Cyprien’s peace shattered with it, rage instantly taking its place. Who would dare to interrupt this, the most sacred of rituals?

He strode to the door and flung it open, already grasping for his knife.

“My lord,” said the vampire at the door, visibly paling – despite his skin already being as pallid as the moon above – at the sight of Cyprien’s rage. “Aranthar requests an audience.”

Cyprien’s arm froze midway into unsheathing his dagger. His rage stumbled, confusion taking its place. And yes, perhaps a hint of fear. Aranthar? Here? Now?

Cyprien shoved past the vampire without a word, his black cloak billowing behind him as he strode down the hall. The vampire followed, taking the first doorway which presented itself, eager to escape from Cyprien’s wrath.

But Cyprien’s anger had cooled. What could Aranthar be doing here? Cyprien hadn’t expected him for another few months. Had something gone wrong? Had the plan changed? Cyprien frowned. The vampire had been right to alert him about Aranthar’s approach, of course. But still, to interrupt the birth of his daughter, the birth of Iskra…

Iskra. Cyprien’s thoughts cooled at the name. Already the house of Essenwein was feared; she would continue its legacy. Vampires were brought into the world fully formed, having all the knowledge they would ever need to possess. There was only one thing they lacked: a body.

Vampires were pure spirit. They needed the physical body of another to truly interact with the world. This body acted as a shell, a housing for the vampiric spirit, channeling its strength and power. Most of Cyprien’s vampires inhabited the bodies of dead elves or men, slain in combat. But for his daughter… only a live body would do.

Inhabiting a live body was a sign of strength for a vampire. It showed that they possessed the willpower to overcome the mind of another, and having a live body meant that it did not decay and weaken over time, as a dead one would. But not just any body would do. Iskra was an Essenwein, and Cyprien would need to find a special body for her, one which the elves either trusted, or looked up to, or perhaps feared. A symbol. That’s what Iskra needed.

Cyprien finally reached the bottom of a winding staircase, and threw open the door to the courtyard below. There Aranthar stood, at the head of at least a hundred zombies.

Aranthar was an elf. Not a zombie elf, not a vampiric elf, just a plain, living elf. His hair was gray, but he wore armor and carried himself upright. His cloak was tattered, and his sword, devoid of any sheath, was stained black with age. Behind him, the zombies stumbled idly in place, bumping into each other or just standing still, limbs hanging limp.

“Cyprien,” he said calmly.

“Aranthar,” Cyprien replied, not quite able to keep the distaste from his voice. They might be allies, but Aranthar was still an elf, and Cyprien hated elves. The weak, tree-loving, magic-obsessed—

“Perhaps we could speak inside?” Aranthar suggested, cutting Cyprien’s thoughts short.

Cyprien nodded curtly, standing aside for Aranthar. The elf stepped into the hallway, and then waited politely for Cyprien to take the lead. Cyprien did so, keeping up a brisk pace, taking Aranthar through several extra halls and rooms, trying to show off as much of his castle as he reasonably could.

They finally came to a small room, containing a simple table and two wooden chairs. Cyprien offered one to Aranthar, which he did not take.

“The land grows barren, Aranthar,” Cyprien said, choosing to remain standing as well. “All of Morindan is sucked dry, the air as chill as the far north. Why?”

“I had need of the land’s magic,” Aranthar said simply.

“Morindan’s?” Cyprien repeated. “You’ve already taken the magic from the whole of Annelintia. What could you possibly need that much magic for?” His eyes narrowed. “What manner of curse are you weaving?” he asked.

“That is not your concern,” Aranthar said.

Cyprien yearned to strike the elf down where he stood for that comment, but restrained himself. He needed Aranthar. “Why have you come?” he said instead.

“I have brought you an army,” Aranthar said, his tone as calm as if remarking on the weather. “An army to destroy Eld’rin.”

Cyprien was instantly suspicious. “The undead you were with?” he guessed.

Aranthar nodded.

“And… why not lead them yourself? Why give this army to me?”

“Unfortunately,” Aranthar said, “I cannot yet stray far from Annelintia. My… work is not yet complete there. My control over the undead can only extend so far, but Eld’rin must fall, so I give them to you, to lead in my stead.”

Cyprien nodded. That made sense enough. A reanimated zombie was controlled directly by the mind of the vampire or mage who had reanimated it. A mind’s influence could stretch for miles, but not indefinitely. Annelintia was a long ways from Eld’rin.

However, Cyprien was used to the traps of elves, and he immediately spotted two problems. “I appreciate your offer, Aranthar,” he said, “but I saw only a hundred or so undead with you. Zombies are weak, and easily slain. It would take a force of thousands to overrun Eld’rin.”

Aranthar nodded. “True, but these are no normal undead. I have enchanted them with magic, giving them the strength of twelve men. A single blow from them will crush an elf. Additionally, they possess a shield, a magical barrier around each one of them. This barrier is unbreachable. They are immune to both spell and blade.”

“I – Immune?” Cyprien repeated.

“Immune,” Aranthar confirmed. “Completely.”

Cyprien quickly recovered himself. “Very well,” he said, “but why now? I thought we weren’t to move on the elves for another few months. Are your preparations done already?”

“No,” Aranthar said shortly. “However, I have been forced to begin the attack early. I have learned, from my spies amongst the elves, that one among them intends to lift the Curse.”

Cyprien was no elf, but he knew of the Curse. A piece of magic which determined if the elves won or lost against him? Oh yes, he made it his business to know about such things.

“Lift the Curse?” Cyprien repeated. “Is that even possible?”

Aranthar shrugged. “Certainly it’s possible,” he said. “Anything is possible. Is it likely? No. But it is a threat nonetheless.”

“And this elf,” Cyprien said. “You have… caught him, I assume? Killed him?”

“Unfortunately,” Aranthar said, “my agents can’t even find him. None of the elves can. He is a master of remaining hidden. If I could find him, I would kill him, but sadly that is not an option. Thus, I need to attack Eld’rin.” He continued at Cyprien’s frown. “Eld’rin is the center of the elves’ kingdom,” he explained. “It’s the head. Remove the head, and the remaining villages will be without a unified voice telling them what to do. It will be chaos. And if you are there, leading an unbeatable undead army, that chaos will be even greater.

“If, by chance, the one elf should manage to lift the Curse, he will have no king, no Elvish Council to go to. No one to spread the countercurse for him. He will have to do this himself, and it will be very difficult with all the elves in disarray. By attacking and destroying Eld’rin, I’m buying myself some time, and time is all I need to complete my work. He might lift the Curse on a few elves, but these are of no concern.”

“Why?” Cyprien said. “Surely an elf without the Curse is a danger to us all?”

“Not quite,” Aranthar said, smiling slightly.

Cyprien hated that smile. “Very well,” he said. “I will lead this army for you. And what happens after Eld’rin?”

“By all means,” Aranthar said, moving for the door, “continue rampaging amongst the elves. Just try to keep them contained,” he added. “I wouldn’t want to miss any stragglers when I arrive. Oh,” he added, turning at the door, “one last thing: I have agents in Eld’rin. They will tell you when to attack. If you wait to attack until they say, your victory will be easy.”

Cyprien frowned. “And otherwise?” he asked, tiring of the elf’s mysterious words.

“You’ll still win,” Aranthar assured. “It will just be more… difficult. Trust me. Wait for my agents.”

Cyprien nodded after a moment. He hated Aranthar’s superior ways, but he wouldn’t decline such an offer. “Very well,” he said. “I will lead your army, and I will wait for your… agents.”

“Very good,” Aranthar said. “I must return to Annelintia, but I will join you in a few months’ time. Try to keep some elves alive for me.”

Not likely, Cyprien thought as Aranthar left. He had been at war with the elves for over two centuries. If he had a chance to finally destroy them, he would take it. He strode to the only window set in the wall, and looked out at the darkness of Morindan. A smile flitted across his face.

First Iskra, and now an unbeatable army. The elves didn’t stand a chance.

This is a recap of the events of Dilmir: A Tale of Feylund.

Dilmir was a normal elf of Feylund. He lived in Eld’rin, the elvish capital, where he practiced magic and swordplay like any other elf. His parents lived in a far village, and sent him to Eld’rin to receive his training. He lived with his aunt. There was nothing strange or different about him.

Or so he would have the other elves believe.

The truth was that Dilmir was the wielder of far more magic than any other elf. On his way to Eld’rin, the caravan he was with was ambushed by wolves – the protectors of the forest. Without thinking, Dilmir unleashed his magic at them. The battle was quickly won, but his secret was out.

The news of Dilmir’s unnatural power troubled the Council – the ruling body in Eld’rin. While Dilmir had broken no laws, they feared that the mere presence of his power would cause him to follow in Eltuthar’s footsteps.

Eltuthar had been at Eld’rin long ago, not unlike Dilmir himself. He, too, had possessed strange magic, and had begun experimenting. One thing had led to another, and when the Council demanded he cease his practices, he had refused, and civil war had erupted between those loyal to him and his magic, and those loyal to the Council. The battle ended when Sonlen, archmage of Eld’rin, placed a powerful curse on Eltuthar, draining his magic. Most believe Eltuthar died that day, but Sonlen, for reasons unknown, let him escape into the forest.

Rumors of his magic had reached Eld’rin by the time Dilmir arrived at the city. The memory of Eltuthar still fresh in their minds, nearly all the elves shunned him. Some saw him as possessing dark magic, others as just being different. Dilmir swore to never use his magic again, but he couldn’t take back what was done.

Only one elf befriended him: another student at the city by the name of Ilrin. A natural adept at the blade, Ilrin took pity on Dilmir, and resolved to not let him grow up in Eld’rin friendless. The two became inseparable.

Meanwhile, Eld’rin had a new archmage since Sonlen had died: Alfimir. Alfimir had once been a student of Eltuthar, but had renounced his teachings as dark magic, and sworn to purge them from Feylund. To this end, he hunted down Eltuthar’s line, killing his descendants without mercy. However, Alfimir had been careless, and one family had escaped his crusade.

That family was Dilmir’s.

Unknown to Alfimir, Dilmir was the direct descendent of Eltuthar. This was a secret Dilmir told no one, not even Ilrin, for if the Council ever found it, they would consider it evidence of his dark intentions, and take action immediately.

Unfortunately, Alfimir realized he had missed someone, and soon traced the final descendent to Dilmir. He arrived at Eld’rin at dusk, confronted Dilmir, and tried to slay him.

He never succeeded. By some unknown magic, Dilmir found himself transported behind Alfimir, out of harm’s way. Both Dilmir and Alfimir were shocked at what had happened, and by the time they recollected themselves, other elves had arrived.

Alfimir was employed by the Council, but his methods had to remain subtle. No one could know that the Council was willing to quietly assassinate elves they deemed a threat. For this reason, Alfimir was led away, arrested for trying to kill an elf, one of the worst of offenses. The Council’s hands were tied, and Alfimir was banished from Eld’rin.

Having failed to kill Dilmir once, the Council turned to less-savory means. They hired an assassin (something no self-respecting elf would dream of) to kill Dilmir. The assassin failed however, when Dilmir used his magic against him. Now Dilmir knew the Council was trying to get rid of him.

He continued with his daily schedule in a mockery of what was normal, but now he saw the assassin everywhere, watching him train, following him home, even shadowing Ilrin. He knew what the Council was trying to do: they were trying to get him to use his magic in public, so that they could banish him as they had Alfimir. He resolved not to play their game.

His resolve didn’t last long. Once they realized their tactics weren’t working, the Council commissioned a young elf, Aldir by name, to get close to Ilrin. Through trickery, Aldir managed to make his affection for Ilrin seem genuine, and tricked Dilmir into thinking that she shared it. Dilmir reacted again without thinking, causing a tree branch above Aldir to snap, and fall. Aldir was ready, and was unharmed, but the Council had what they needed. Dilmir was banished the next day.

Now realizing the lengths the Council had gone to, and consumed with anger at them, Dilmir sought out Alfimir, and dueled him. Alfimir was a trained archmage, however, and easily defeated Dilmir. As he prepared to slay him, again a mysterious force intervened.

This time the owner of the force showed himself. Alfimir instantly recognized the elf, and called him by name before being incapacitated: Eltuthar. Having saved his descendent again, Eltuthar brought Dilmir to his sanctuary, Arath Imil. It was here he had retreated to after Sonlen had cursed him. Here, he could study magic, and train those still loyal to him.

Dilmir soon learned the true nature of his magic, how he possessed no form of evil magic, but simply more of the same magic all elves possessed. Eltuthar also showed him why he possessed as much magic as he did: somewhere in the far distant past, all elves had become Cursed. This Curse allowed them only a small amount of magic. Somehow, Eltuthar and his descendants did not have this Curse.

Meanwhile, Alfimir, wounded but not dead, had managed to warn the Council what had happened. They now knew that they must travel to Eltuthar’s sanctuary, and once and for all end the threat his magic posed, by killing him and all of his followers.

Ilrin, when she saw the council’s army preparing, guessed at their purpose, and guessed also that Dilmir might be their target. She rode into the forest in the dead of night, and fled to Eltuthar’s sanctuary, determined to warn Dilmir.

While she arrived in time, the army was right on her heels, and attacked that night. Eltuthar’s sanctuary was burned, and nearly all of his followers were slain. Alfimir came with the army to finish the bloody work he had started, but met Dilmir there, and the two dueled again. This time Dilmir held his own, thanks to Eltuthar’s teachings, but Alfimir used some form of magic Dilmir had never seen, and won once again. Unable to win, Dilmir used his power to transport himself and Eltuthar back to Eld’rin. Ilrin, as a citizen of the city, could not be harmed by the council’s army. She was allowed to return to Eld’rin.

Eltuthar determined to continue searching for the Curse which plagued the elves. If he could but lift it, they would eventually understand their true nature, and stop hunting him and Dilmir. But he couldn’t ask Dilmir to accompany him. Dilmir needed to complete his training at Eld’rin. When he was older, he could join him, but not just yet. Therefore, he formed a plan.

With Dilmir hiding in the shadows, Eltuthar revealed himself in the midst of Eld’rin. He pretended to cast a large spell, drawing all attention to himself. In reality, Dilmir was casting the spell, but the only one to realize what was going on was Ilrin, who saw Dilmir, and wisely said nothing.

Alfimir appeared in Eld’rin, determined to end Eltuthar. He cast spell after spell, but unable to see Dilmir, couldn’t understand why nothing worked. Finally, Dilmir revealed himself, pretending to have just arrived. He pretended to be against Eltuthar, and dueled him as if fighting to protect Eld’rin.

Alfimir guessed what was going on, but was unable to stop it. Eltuthar was ‘forced’ to flee the city, and to the Council, Dilmir appeared to have saved the day. Their laws were binding, and they had no choice but to lift the banishment on Dilmir as a result. Using the same logic, they lifted Alfimir’s banishment as well.

Afterwards, Dilmir, with some help from Ilrin, decided that he had been wrong about his magic. He should never have shunned it, or let the elves tell him it was dark or evil. He had seen and felt what it could truly do, and believed, like Eltuthar, that the elves deserved to feel it as well. With Ilrin on his side, he decided to show the elves the magic, hoping that in time, they would come to see it as he did.

And thus we come to the events of this tale…

For those of you interested, I wanted to explain why I’ve decided to rewrite both this story and its sequel, rather than just reposting them with edits.

This all goes back to the original theme of the trilogy. Shortly after posting the trilogy, I realized that the theme was actually incorrect. If I were to repost the trilogy, I’d have to tweak that theme. I figured it would be easy – most of the theme was packed into an epilogue after the ending in both books. The actual events of the books wouldn’t really impact things that much. So I jotted down what the theme was and what I wanted it to now be, and then started going through the original story, editing as I went.

Unfortunately, the Feylund Trilogy is kind of like the original Star Wars trilogy: sequels weren’t planned from the start, and when they were added, plot holes were created. I started to see these plot holes in the original, and the changes I was making to the theme were unfortunately only making more of them. When I tried to fix these issues, other things started to not make sense, until I just had a huge mess on my hands.

At one point I even gave up, opting to actually rewrite Dilmir instead, and start over from there. I was never happy with the story that idea produced, and fortunately scrapped it a few chapters in.

I decided to go back to this story, and resigned myself to doing some heavier edits. I finally managed to cobble together an amalgamation of original bits and new bits into a workable story, and finally thought my job was done.

I like to set a story aside after I’ve written it, turn my mind elsewhere for a day or two, and come back and proofread with a fresh eye. I did that with this amalgamation. But the longer I let it sit, the more and more flaws I found. The plot holes were still cropping up, and a lot of things just didn’t make sense. A lot of this was due to Dilmir, which hadn’t bothered to explain critical things in enough clarity.

Eventually I just decided to do the whole thing over. I re-developed the story, built it back from the ground up, and then rewrote the whole thing. I’m glad I did, because the result is far better than what I had before. I was able to actually fix the plot holes instead of trying to patch them, and as a whole, the story just made a lot more sense as a cohesive unit.

That story is what you are about to read.

Now, this change in plans also means that I will have to rewrite the final story in the trilogy. There were too many changes in this story not to. But this is a good thing. I feel the final story will be the best of the trilogy, and am looking forward to writing it.

But for now, read The Curse of Feylund, and let me know what you think.

Aseleth, one and all! Greetings! Welcome to The Curse of Feylund.

There’s a whole story behind how this fan fiction came to be, and I could doubtless go on for several paragraphs detailing it. But I won’t do that. You didn’t come here to listen to me ramble on about my writing adventures. You came here to read, and I’ll let you get to that soon. First though, there are some things you need to know.

Firstly, this story is a direct sequel to Dilmir: A Tale of Feylund. Dilmir was written back in 2013, and two sequels quickly followed, together making up the Feylund trilogy. However, shortly after posting those stories, I decided to delete them. The theme didn’t sit right with me, and I believed at the time that I would convert those stories into novels one day.

I now know that is very unlikely. In mid-2019, I decided to repost Dilmir, the first story in the trilogy. I said that I would have to look at the two sequels, and possibly edit them, before I felt comfortable reposting them.

And finally, following some world-class hemming and hawing, we’re here. I eventually had to just rewrite the entire story, instead of my original plan of merely editing the original sequel. I also plan on rewriting the final story in the trilogy, finally posting the Feylund trilogy once more in its entirety. If you’re interested in exactly why I’ve decided to take this somewhat more laborious path, there will be an Author’s Note directly following this Introduction, explaining just that.

Onto this story itself. It’s usually around this point in the introduction that I start warning you about what you’re going to read. I’m not going to do that this time. This story has no major flaws that I’m aware of, and should just be a good straightforward read. Obviously it has some issues, but these are minor. This story is a sequel, and there is a recap of Dilmir following this Introduction, which should serve to jog your memory. If you’ve never read Dilmir though, or if it’s been a long time, I suggest you do so before reading this story. There are just some things in the story which I can’t convey completely in a recap.

That’s about all there is to say though. Sit back, allow your mind to immerse yourself in the world of Feylund, and prepare for a tale of elves and magic.