Arch General Vjetromor Medvjedson had witnessed the ravages of war, felt the sting of betrayal, and seen the chaotic depths of madness throughout his long service to the crown. Yet nothing could have prepared him for the sight of a ruler disappearing in broad daylight, right before his very eyes.
It had been many long, heavy months since Aelric last graced the solemn court chambers. In his stead now presided Aurelia, draped in silks that clashed boldly with the color of mourning, her laughter ringing out too bright and light for a castle draped in sorrow. She had taken to perching herself upon Aelric's once-sacred throne without resistance from anyone, issuing orders with an over-theatrical flare that sent ministers and seasoned advisors reeling with mere flicks of her slender wrist.
And whenever anyone dared to question the whereabouts of Aelric—her tone would turn razor-sharp as she hissed, "Are you questioning your sovereign? Shall I have your tongue removed—or your head?" The ensuing silence was long, laden with a fearful dread that chilled even the most steadfast hearts.
For decades, Vjetromor had feared no one, yet this dazzling woman unsettled him deeply. Her sweetness carried a venomous venom, and her smile, perpetually poised at the brink of mischief, never quite touched her eyes. Meanwhile, Aelric, once the epitome of elven grace, now appeared but a fading specter—a mere shadow of his former self.
That day, Vjetromor concealed himself at the far edge of the palace gardens, hidden behind a row of dying rosebushes whose petals drooped in the cool twilight. Cloaked in the shifting shade of the twilight, he observed every detail with a growing unease. Along the garden path, Aurelia strolled with an air of imperious delight, her arm casually draped around Aelric's limp shoulder. Her voice, high and syrupy sweet, floated as delicate whispers meant only for his ears. She giggled softly, the sound echoing like a sinister lullaby. Yet Aelric's expression remained an inscrutable mask. Every movement he made was measured and slow, his once-vibrant blue eyes now clouded and tinged with a faint, eerie red—like glass, cold and devoid of life.
Oblivious to the shiver in the autumn air, she rested her head against his shoulder, her painted finger tracing delicate, almost whimsical circles on his wrist. Vjetromor's eyes narrowed in grim determination. Enough was enough.
Later that night, back in the solitude of his quarters, he sat by the flickering flame and scrawled a letter with tight, furious strokes:
Lorianthel—Something is terribly, irreparably wrong. Aelric has ceased to attend council meetings. Aurelia now roams the castle's corridors like a resplendent queen, issuing decrees with a royal arrogance and quelling dissent with threats that chill the bone. Aelric stands silently by her side, unresponsive, his gaze unmoving. He does not blink. He does not breathe as an Elf should. I fear that enchantment, possession—or worse—has taken hold of him. You may be the only one left capable of reaching him. Come at once. This matter brooks no delay. —Arch General Vjetromor
With deliberate care, he sealed the missive, tied it securely to the leg of a waiting raven, and sent it off beneath the watchful cover of a moonless, star-dim night.
****
Letter from Vjetromor
The raven, as silent and deadly as an omen, cut through the thick dawn fog like a sharpened dagger. By the time midday bathed the quiet outpost in a muted light, it had landed beneath a heavy cascade of hanging wisteria. There, in a moment of silent contemplation, Lorianthel held an ancient tome in one hand while the other cradled a delicate porcelain cup of rich, dark wine. As the raven alighted, Lorianthel accepted the message without a word, his keen eyes devouring the urgent script.
Nearby, Jingfei approached slowly, one hand instinctively resting on her pregnant belly, her eyes filled with concern. "What is it?" she asked, her brow knitting into deep lines of worry.
Lorianthel's hand dropped with a measured slowness, his lips pressing into a tight, sorrowful line. "It's Aelric," he murmured at length. "Vjetromor suspects something dreadful has occurred. He writes that Aelric seems as though possessed by another force."
Jingfei's face darkened with rising alarm. "Do you truly believe him?"
"I trust Vjetromor's instincts more than I trust the rhythm of my own heartbeat," Lorianthel replied, his voice heavy with resignation.
As he began to turn away toward a shadowed archway to retrieve his cloak, a firm hand gripped his wrist. "I'm coming with you," Jingfei declared, her tone steely despite the vulnerability in her gaze.
He paused and looked down at her, his eyes reflecting not anger but a deep-seated fear. "No. You're with child. It isn't safe for you. I cannot risk your life."
Stepping closer, her voice held a determined steadiness. "He's my friend too, Lorianthel. I refuse to sit idly by as some sinister, twisted elven noblewoman sinks her claws even deeper into him. You may be the sword that confronts this darkness, but I'm not merely the cook you leave behind anymore."
"You do not understand the depths of what we are walking into—" he began.
"I understand enough," she snapped back, her tone cutting through the tension. "And I won't let you face it alone."
He hesitated, jaw set tight against his inner conflict, then looked away reluctantly as it became clear she had already made up her mind. Overhead, the raven swept in a graceful circle before vanishing into drifting clouds, as if heralding the coming storm. The tempest loomed ever nearer, and neither would face it without drawing their strength.
****
By the time the silvery orb of the moon ascended high above the palace, its light casting ghostly silver hues across silent, ancient towers, Lorianthel and Jingfei were already deep within the darkening woods. His horse raced in swift, cutting arcs through the tangled underbrush as if fleeing the encroaching night.
Back at Zlatnomirheim, the atmosphere in the hallowed halls had grown bitterly cold. Shadows stretched longer, deepening into ominous shapes, and servants began whispering in hushed tones. They spoke of the Elvan King's sleepless, hollow existence—how his once vibrant dreams no longer danced in his mind, how his chambers were forever shrouded in darkness, never graced by the flickering luminescence of candlelight. Whispers even suggested that he stared unblinkingly at the same wall for hours on end, as if lost in a trance.
And then there was the new queen—though none dared voice her title above a whisper. It was said she smiled too widely and too frequently for someone who had not yet been crowned, an unspoken rumor that sent shudders through the hallways.
In the palace garden, beneath the ghostly glow of dying moon flowers, Aurelia pressed her head softly against Aelric's still chest. "You're mine now," she whispered, her warm breath grazing his jaw like a silent promise. "You'll see; in time, nothing will matter but this eternal union."
Yet, Aelric's breathing remained unnervingly measured, his eyes, now barely flickering with that ominous shade of red, stared blankly into the swirling mist. Somewhere deep within that forgotten heart of his, however, a spark stirred—a name unspoken, a memory gasping desperately for reprieve from oblivion.