The Whispering Forest: The Council of Elves
Within the trunk of the forest's largest tree—a colossal living structure housing countless halls—a high elf, a number of senior elves, and elite guards of the elven race had gathered.
Outside, the sky was a canvas of twilight, with dawn inching closer. A faint light streamed through the towering windows, casting its glow on the intricately carved table at the center of the hall. This table, forged from the withered branches of the very tree they convened in, bore the marks of centuries of council deliberations.
The senior elves, appearing to be in their sixties outwardly, had lived nearly a thousand years. Among them, the High elves, who often surpassed 1,500 years, stood as symbols of wisdom and resilience. The eldest elf present was 1,110 years old, still with many centuries ahead.
Elves aged far more slowly than other beings, witnessing generations of humans come and go. Yet, they showed little interest in interacting with others. An elf's active engagement with the world typically spanned from their hundredth year to their five-hundredth. Beyond that, they sought the solitude of nature, living out their remaining centuries in serene reflection.
Unlike humans, who desperately sought immortality, elves saw no allure in it. To them, 500 years—a span equivalent to six human lifetimes—were more than enough to experience the world.
As the faint hum of discussion filled the hall, an elf with a furrowed brow entered abruptly. Adjusting his light green silk robes, he took his place at the table with visible irritation. A wooden crown adorned his head, its three branches bearing delicately carved leaves symbolizing his rank.
"Honored Council!" he began, his voice tight with anger. "What is this ominous energy I felt in the forest? What unnatural force dares to taint our sacred land?"
The room fell silent. Lúthien, one of the Four High elves, rose gracefully from her seat. Her silver gown shimmered faintly as she met his gaze with calm determination. "Talion, I understand your concern," she began, her voice steady but resolute. "The presence you speak of was summoned here under my authority."
Talion's eyes narrowed, his fists clenching against the table. "Under your authority?" he repeated, his tone incredulous. "Without the council's consent? Lady Lúthien, how could you make such a reckless decision?"
Lúthien raised her hand, silencing his outburst with a gesture. "Talion, I do not deny bypassing the council. But clinging too rigidly to protocol blinds us to the threats at our doorstep." She took a step forward, her gaze unwavering. "Darkness has infiltrated our forest, threatening the legacy of our ancestors. I have seen too many of our kind fall victim to it, and I refuse to let more lives be lost."
"And why him, you ask?" she continued, her tone firm. "He is not the source of the corruption but a weapon—a tool to root it out before it consumes us entirely."
The murmurs grew louder as the council debated her words. Another elf, serene and composed, stepped forward. His long, silver hair cascaded over his shoulders, and his eyes, the color of olive leaves, sparkled with quiet amusement.
"Peace, Talion," Erindor said softly, his voice soothing the room's tension. "Lady Lúthien may be bold, but she is not reckless. Would you have her stand by and watch the forest crumble, all for the sake of formality?"
Talion turned sharply toward him. "And what would you suggest, Erindor? That we trust this... outsider? This human?"
Erindor chuckled lightly, his smile faint but sincere. "Trust is earned, not given. But desperation often calls for unconventional alliances. Even you must see the truth in that, old friend."
Talion scowled but fell silent, unwilling to openly defy two of the them.
Another senior elf snapped, "Lady Lúthien, that may be so, but humans have proven to be unreliable allies."
From across the room, another voice interjected. "Unreliable, yes. But not without potential."
Before the discussion could continue, the chamber doors opened once more. The figure who entered was cloaked in shadow, though his crown of blackened wood and the long, emerald-lined robes marked him unmistakably as an elf lord of the highest rank. His presence stilled the room.
"Erindor," he said, his deep voice resonating, "it seems you would rather debate strategies than address the shadows at our doorstep."
"My lord," Erindor and the others murmured, bowing respectfully.
The elf lord stepped forward, his gaze sharp. "I heard your discussion. You trust a human to untangle a thread of darkness older than his entire kind?"
Lúthien began to explain, but he silenced her with a raised hand. "I am not questioning your intentions, Lady Lúthien. But there are truths in this forest that even we tread lightly around." His voice softened, though his expression remained grim. "Secrets buried deep in the ruins of Asrindor. Secrets tied to them."
At his words, a heavy silence fell. Everyone in the room knew what he meant. The dark elves.
The elf lord's expression darkened, the weight of memories clouding his eyes. "If only they had chosen another path," he murmured, half to himself. "Perhaps we could have avoided this looming shadow."
The dark elves were a formidable race, long exiled to the far eastern Towers of the World's End by legendary sorcerers. Though the exact reason for their banishment was lost to history, they were branded as servants of darkness, accused of opposing the fragile peace that once united Midragon. It was said that their ambitions and actions threatened the balance of the realm, prompting their defeat and exile at the hands of a fabled level-ten sorcerer.
Now, these estranged kin resided in isolation, their strongholds standing as grim reminders of the past. The dark elves' mastery over shadow magic and their resilience in the harsh, desolate lands of the east made them a race both feared and respected. Despite their estrangement, whispers of their unmatched skill in both combat and arcane arts occasionally reached the forest, keeping their legend alive.
For some, like Erindor, they represented an opportunity—an untapped alliance that could mend ancient wounds. For others, they were heretics who deserved nothing but scorn, their existence a stain on the honor of elvenkind.
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ELSEWHERE in the Forest: The Forgotten Entrance, Ruins of Asrindor
Harold sidestepped as the first spider lunged, its fangs snapping inches from his shoulder. With a fluid spin, his blade sliced cleanly through the air, purple ichor splattering across the cracked stone floor.
"Persistent pests, aren't you?" Harold muttered, a wry grin playing on his lips. His eyes gleamed with feral light, the golden aura surrounding him pulsing like a living flame.
The second spider lunged. Harold twisted sharply, summoning a fireball with a flick of his wrist. The explosion forced the creature back, its hissing cry echoing through the ancient ruins.
"Not so tough now, are you?" Harold taunted, his tone laced with mockery.
The third spider dropped from above, its shadow falling over him. But Harold vanished in a flash, reappearing above it. His blade struck with precision, carving through its exoskeleton.
The remaining spiders hesitated, their legs twitching nervously. Harold's grin widened. "Oh, don't tell me you're scared now. We were just getting started."
As he advanced, his golden aura flared brighter, unsettling the trees and creatures around him.
[What is this creature?] whispered arose from the forest. [What's his magic level?!]
Harold Golden Shrine, a newly advanced sixth-level mage, was no ordinary human. Level six, nearing the realm of legendary magic users, placed him among the mightiest in Midragon—a force of raw, untamed power.