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There came a lord in veil mourning,

‘neath yon pale moon’s beguiling.

His visage shone, proclaiming,

“Come forth, thy pride reviling.”

There came a lady roused from marble sprung,

her mettle fierce and daring,

Yet every word his sharp tongue flung

cut deep beyond repairing.

He twined his mirth, a viper’s coil,

with scornful jest he stung her.

His mocking laughter, sweet and vile,

did from her courage wring her.

No mortal light his path did grace,

nor could she break his tether,

For he, the master of disgrace,

bound both in dark together.

And once a year, as caverns gape,

and silence falls asunder,

They dance till dawn, ‘neath moon’s escape,

and tremble skies with thunder.

One shadow cast, where scorn takes flight,

‘neath Luna’s cruelest beaming,

A jesting wraith, in endless night,

where mock’ry e’er is scheming.

~~~

Elytheris was a land of soft, perpetual sunlight where dawn bled into dusk before settling into a gentle, quiet night. The towering trees were older than any mortal memory, rustling in the sunlit breeze, their leaves shimmering with silver undertones. Petals drifted from their branches most of the year except when snow kissed their land as Yuletide was upon them. This was Ellennara Amarielle Dawnspire’s home, sealed away from the greater world across the ocean.

Elle stood at one of the grand balconies of House Ilythien’s ancestral palace. The polished white stone beneath her feet reflected the soft luminescence of the sky while elegant pillars curved overhead, crowned with intricate runes dedicated to the Great Tree of Life. Beyond the palace, the continent unfurled in an expanse of gently rolling hills, canopied groves, and crystalline waterfalls. And in the distance, hazy on the horizon, lay the vast sapphire stretch of Herawulf, the ocean she so desperately yearned to cross.

She recalled, as she so often did, the stories told to her of her father’s final journey to the Great Tree of Life, where the roots intertwined with the darkest depths of the world and its branches soared high above the skyline into the cosmic blues, granting him eternal unity with creation. He had gone long before she was old enough to make memories with him. Her mother, too, had departed three decades ago to join him among the twinkling tapestry of stars. That was the way of elves – endless cycles of birth, flourishing, and returning to the cosmic realm when one’s time was complete.

Now, at 250 years old, Ellennara was still a young bloom among the ageless boughs of Elytheris. Slender fingertips traced along the balcony’s banister, momentarily closing her eyes. She almost fancied she could sense the faint echo of her mother’s voice in that hush of morning light. “Elle,” she whispered, mimicking that gentle tone she remembered. “Never lose your curiosity about the world.”

A soft breeze stirred, as though answering her. Perhaps it was only the wind sighing through the trees, though sometimes Elle believed it might be her mother’s spirit lingering in the silence.

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She turned away and descended a winding staircase into the heart of the palace: the grand library. It was said to house hundreds of thousands of tomes, scrolls, and fragments of knowledge collected since the founding of Elytheris. Rows upon rows of marble shelves loomed above her, each stacked with centuries of recorded wisdom from the earliest volumes of elven poetry to the meticulous treatises on runic magic. There were so many tomes still unread, and there was a particular thrill every time she set foot here. She could spend decades, centuries even, lost in these books, but her restless soul often grew hungry for something beyond these pristine walls. Running a hand over an embossed cover, she read the swirling script aloud, “Voyages of the Golden Fleet.”

There was that familiar longing in her chest again, weighing heavily on her. Her eyes lit up, and she imagined the open seas, the whip of salty wind against her cheeks, and the impossible thrill of stepping onto distant shores. “Perhaps someday,” she murmured into the hushed stillness.

Even so, ships rarely left Elytheris, and those that did were often shrouded in secrecy or tradition. Indeed, for all its grandeur, this realm was closed. Out of time, out of mortal reach, and rarely in contact with outside lands.

Still, Elle harbored a stubborn spark of hope. She pressed the tome to her chest and moved to a reading alcove, its large arched window flooding the cushions with pale sunlight. She sank down, flipping pages crackling with age. Vivid illustrations depicted the rolling waters, sapphire depths swirling beneath ships emblazoned with elven crests. She closed her eyes, remembering what little she knew of her father: that he, too, once felt the irresistible pull of far-off horizons before returning to the roots of the Great Tree. She wished she could’ve asked him about those journeys, unknown realms, and roiling seas.

Did his heart quicken at the sight of new lands?

She sighed and returned to the pages, letting her mind drift through the sketches. Eventually, Elle returned the book to its shelf, remaining a moment, fingertips still on the spine. She turned away from the towering shelves, the echo of that vow following her through the silent corridors until she reached her private chambers.

Elle sighed, gazing through the open window of her lofty chamber. The weather was always calm, the breezes gentle, the waves placid. Everything was perfect, perhaps too perfect. At times, the princess couldn't help but wish for a bit of turbulence in her otherwise serene life. She wasn’t resentful of her status or ungrateful for the comfort she’d known since birth. She scanned the horizon with bright green eyes, hoping for some grand spectacle. Maybe even the tentacles of a kraken cutting through those tranquil waters. That would undoubtedly rouse the realm from its usual calm. She smiled at the thought, brushing a strand of her cornsilk-blonde hair behind a delicate, pointed ear.

Elle turned from the open window, her silks swirling and twirling with her movement. Her attire was the product of centuries-old artisan skills – a sky-blue tunic slit at the sides, woven from the finest silks, and tawny spider-silk pants that flowed with every step. Her slippers were dyed subtly azure and stitched with tiny, embroidered flowers and stars in shimmering thread. Like a cat dancing along a narrow ledge, she was nimble, quick, and quiet as a mischievous spark flickered in her eyes, contemplating the narrow windowsill. A hand pressed against the marble frame, pondering how simple it would be to slip outside unnoticed. Having tested that ledge many times before by simply stepping out, bounding across the rooftops of Elindoryl, and landing gracefully on a hidden balcony below. From there, she could reach the Upper Westside streets within minutes. The mere thought sent her pulse racing.

Measured, light footsteps echoing in the corridor beyond her doors drew her attention. She closed her eyes, focusing, and could pinpoint the location by the faint scuff of boots on polished stone. Fifteen feet away, by her reckoning. Her ears twitched slightly.