Elanor's execution was imminent.
For two years, the humans had held him in the depths of the Dungeon, a damp, dark hole beneath the castle that was little more than a disused tomb. Two years without light, without hope - but today had been different.
The madman himself had come.
The door to his cell had creaked open, and there he stood. The king of men.
Nothing about the old man's appearance was a reminder of the once great hero of unparalleled brilliance and intellect. Elanor could not believe that he had once looked up to his genius.
Now the Mad King's eyes were empty, as if they had left the world long ago. An all-consuming abyss had replaced the aura that had once made him a respected leader.
"I came to ask, Seer."
The king's voice was a hoarse whisper, its echo reverberating throughout the cell. The years of war had taken their toll on him as well.
"Your people believe in a return to nature after death... My people believe in paradise."
Occasionally, his words would trail off in mid-sentence, his eyes lost somewhere in the distance, until they caught Elanor again, like a predator in search of its prey.
Or a sad old man forgetting what he has done.
"Is this world hell, then?"
The words had no meaning, but that was typical of a man who was completely at the mercy of his own madness. Elanor had stared at him hungrily. Had he had more strength, he would have spat in the king's face - but even his saliva was too precious for such a creature.
None of the humans were worth such an effort. Not since their king had started the war.
"Your ancestors despise you, murderer," Elanor had uttered with great effort.
His voice had been weak, little more than a hoarse croak. He would have liked to speak louder. The words were full of contempt, but the years in the dungeon had worn him down.
The madman had just stared at him, without emotion, without anger. It was this terrible emptiness that had shocked Elanor more than any anger. Not even a spark of emotion or reason.
And then the human king left Elanor without another word.
Now the moment had come. The moment of his death.
Elanor felt the weakness in every muscle, in every bone of his body. Hunger and thirst had eroded him to the core. The song of the Mothertree, so powerful in his homeland, sounded like a distant whisper here, barely audible and yet comforting. It was the only thing that kept him alive in this darkness, telling him that his people were still bravely fighting somewhere out there.
But he himself was no longer strong enough to resist his fate. He was so far from home. The only thing that hurt was the thought of dying here, so far away from his beloved forests. Would his soul still find its way to the ancestors?
The footsteps of the executioner echoed in the cell. The man was tall, at least for a human, but even in his weakened state, Elanor towered over him.
The executioner carried a massive battle-axe, the blade glowing with a telltale blue sheen - human magic. The vile magic of creation that had taken so many lives from Elanor's people and the other Houses.
The Blue Death, that's what they had come to call human mana. And now it had come for Elanor.
The executioner said not a word as he forced Elanor to his knees, no gesture of remorse or hesitation. These humans, Elanor thought bitterly, were all as mad as their king. They felt nothing anymore.
Elanor closed his eyes as his head rested on the cold stone. The song of the mother tree was barely audible, only a thin, brittle thread remained.
He waited for the blow, the final gesture of cruelty that would rip him from this world.
But the blow never came.
Instead, a scream broke the silence, a sound filled with unimaginable madness.
'No, not madness. Pain.' Elanor realized.
He opened his eyes. Squinting in the darkness of the cell, he saw something that forced the cold air from his lungs.
The executioner - this human - suddenly doubled over, his hands pressed to his chest as if something inside him was about to burst. His body began to glow an unnatural blue, a cold, alien light that filled the room. The glow grew, brighter, more intense, until the executioner looked like a living star.
And then... he collapsed. Not like a body that simply falls, no, his body folded in upon itself, like a leaf crushed under the fingers.
His flesh, his bones, his entire existence was pulled inward until there was nothing left.
No blood, no dust. Nothing.
With a clatter, the axe the executioner had been holding fell to the ground. It lay motionless, as if it were the only thing that had ever been there.
Elanor stared at the empty space where a person had been moments before. His eyes were wide open, dry and burning, but he couldn't close them. What he had seen was worse than any corpse, worse than any battle. It was the absolute, final disappearance of something that would never return.
He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. All that remained was the echo of that moment, etched into his mind like an indelible mark.
Then Elanor heard the other cries. They echoed through the stone corridors and thick walls of the dungeon. It was a raging storm of wailing voices.
The voices cried out for their mothers, for their gods, for their king. The sound of raw, merciless desperation and fear filled the darkness around him.
And then it was quiet. Silence as there could never have been in this castle of men. A moment that made it seem as if the entire world had held its breath. The blue glow of the axe faded until it, too, disappeared into the darkness.
For many minutes, Elanor lay motionless on the stone that should have been his tomb. The silence was overwhelming, yet beautiful. For the first time in years, the only sound that reached his ears was the song of the Mothertree. So soft and far away that it seemed like a dream - yet real enough to comfort him for a moment.
"What was that?" he finally whispered.
Slowly, he forced his battered body to move. With great effort he stood up. The door of his cell, left wide open by the executioner, let in a cold draft. Elanor staggered to the opening and peered out cautiously. The hallway was dark, lit only sparingly by the few flickering torches. There was no guard in sight.
Confusion drove him on. There was no plan, no hope of escape. He was just... confused. With heavy, dragging steps, Elanor wandered the corridors, his hand often on the rough wall to keep from collapsing. Wandering through the remains of a world that had long since left him, he felt like a ghost.
He paused at some of the other cells. His thoughts darkened as he saw the prisoners from the other Houses. Demons lying motionless on the cold stone. Vampires cowering in the darkness. Djinn who had been robbed of the only thing they ever had, their freedom. They were all lost and broken.
And elves. Elanor's own people.
But they were nearly all dead. Only a few still breathed weakly, barely more than a last clinging to a spark of life. Elanor's throat tightened. He would have met the same fate if it hadn't been for...
Yes, what? What had happened?
He kept walking. His legs protested with every step, but the silence of the castle drove him on. Climbing the stone stairs was torture, his muscles trembled with every step, but no one stopped him. There was no sign of anyone, of any human. But everything else was still there.
Armor littered the floor, swords and shields lying carelessly in corners. The torches were lit, the plates on the tables filled with food, the glasses with wine.
It was as if someone had wiped out everyone in this castle in one fell swoop, leaving everything behind.
'Food...'
The scent hit his nostrils and his instincts overwhelmed him. Elanor jumped at the tables and ate as if he hadn't eaten in years - which wasn't far from the truth. The bread was dry but tasty. The wine burned his throat, but he didn't care.
Like a starving animal, he devoured until his stomach was in knots and he was on the verge of vomiting. But he still wasn't full. He could never be full again...
Then he stopped. The bread, half chewed, fell out of his mouth. What was he doing? Where were the humans?
He walked on, through empty corridors and halls. The dining room was empty. The artists' rooms were silent. The armories, the bedrooms, the kitchen - nothing but emptiness. Only the remnants of their existence accompanied him, and with each step he understood less.
Finally he found himself in the throne room. The large, bright room was as empty as the rest of the castle. In the center stood the human throne. The same throne where the madman had sat when he had hatched his cruel plans.
Hatred boiled within Elanor. His footsteps echoed loudly on the marble floor as he approached the imposing black monster. He stopped. Even this extravagant chair felt like an enemy. His hands clenched into fists.
How many lives had been lost at the hands of the humans in this room, how many decisions had been made here that had brought blood and destruction to the entire Northshard?
He turned away, but his gaze fell on a narrow staircase behind the throne. A nondescript door, half hidden in the shadows. He would never know exactly why he went down there, but something pulled him down.
Of course, he knew of the stories, of the source of human magic that lay deep beneath the castle. It should be impossible to get there unnoticed, but there was no one there to stop him.
He was a Seer. Even now, he couldn't resist the urge to catch a glimpse of one of the six sources of magic.
It was foolish. But Elanor was one of the few fools among his people. At least that's what they called him, for he was the only one who had had any desire to negotiate with the humans, any desire for understanding.
A mistake he would not make again...
With heavy steps, Elanor dragged himself down the stairs. There were hundreds of them, endless and tiring, but he would not be stopped. His legs trembled, but the silence that pervaded everything kept him going. Like a whip, urging him on.
Then he saw it. The Manawell. Or what was left of it.
No vortex of liquid mana, no powerful atmosphere filling the air. Just an empty, round, large basin of ancient stone.
And yet there was something else: a golden crown lying in front of the well.
Next to it was a sword. And next to it...
Elanor stopped. He couldn't believe his eyes. Next to it was a child. A newborn.
A human.
It was small, little more than a breath of life. A pale face, so still that it looked like a statue, yet it was undoubtedly human.
Slowly he approached the child. It was pale, much too pale.
"A stillborn," he whispered.
The words had a bitter taste on his tongue.
He knelt down and stared at the motionless little creature. Memories flooded back to him.
Memories of his own son, whom he had once welcomed and then lost.
He really was a fool. Why did it touch him so?
Tears ran down his cheeks as he picked up the child. He was so small, so innocent.
"Why?" he whispered.
"Why are you humans so cruel?
If even you can create such precious life, why have you destroyed everything?"
He didn't understand. Neither his hatred, nor the humans, nor the war. And yet... he held the child in his arms. It was only a child.
"Your kind kills," he whispered.
"It kills and kills under the leadership of a madman..."
"They took all I had..."
He only cried more.
"Is that why your people were punished? Why not you? Because you are innocent? Or because death has already taken you?"
How could a descendant of the House of Humans ever be innocent?
Now his own words did not make sense anymore.
There was a terrible silence.
Then suddenly a scream broke the silence.
The cry of a living, helpless, vulnerable child.