As the first rays of dawn crept over the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow across the once-pristine landscape, Prince Mirkia awoke with a start, his delicate features etched in pain. The chains binding his wrists and ankles clinked softly as he shifted uncomfortably against the hard, cold floor of the wooden carriage. His ethereal beauty and shimmering silver hair were a testament to his royal elven heritage. Tears welled up in his blue eyes as he gazed out the window, taking in the devastation that surrounded him. The royal palace, once a symbol of elven majesty and power, now lay in ruins, reduced to little more than a pile of rubble and twisted metal. The bodies of his loyal guards and subjects littered the ground, their blood staining the earth a deep crimson. His heart ached with grief and anger as he remembered the brutal battle that had taken place the night before, a battle in which his father, King Alric, had valiantly fought against the invading human forces.
The humans, driven by their insatiable greed and lust for power, had marched across the land, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. They had slaughtered indiscriminately, sparing neither women nor children. Mirkia's father had led the elven army into battle, determined to defend their homeland at all costs. But even his unparalleled skill and strategic prowess had not been enough to stand against the sheer numbers and ruthless tactics of the humans. In the end, the king had fallen, struck down by a merciless human soldier who had been waiting for the perfect moment to deliver the fatal blow.
After the massacre, Mirkia the sole surviving member of the royal family of Malaya, the last one bearing the weight of a legacy only his bloodline could wield—the gift of magic. He understood all too well the motives behind the human invaders who had successfully conquered Malaya. Their desires extended beyond the abundant riches of the fertile lands and mines filled with precious gems; they also sought to harness the magic of the royal bloodline for their gain. This was the only reason they chose to spare his life.
As Mirkia watched the caravan of carriages winding its way through the charred remains of the forest that surrounded the city, he knew that he was now their captive. The humans intended to take him back to their capital, where he would be paraded as a trophy of their victory and forced to witness the desecration of everything he held dear. He clenched the crescent-shaped golden pendant that hung on his neck, he could feel the connection to his father and his people. An heirloom reminding him of the responsibility he now bore as the rightful heir to the throne.
A tear trickled down his cheek as he gazed out the window, his thoughts consumed by the memories of happier times. There was a gentle breeze blowing through the trees, rustling the leaves and carrying with it the faint scent of spring. In another world, in another time, he would have been out hunting with his father, enjoying the peace and tranquility of the forest. But this was not that world, and these were not those times. The world had changed, and so must he.
With a deep breath, Mirkia steeled himself for the trials that lay ahead. He knew that he would have to find a way to escape from the humans, rally the remaining elves, and reclaim their stolen kingdom. It would not be an easy task, but he refused to give up hope. For as long as there was breath in his body, he would fight for the freedom and survival of his people. The sun rose higher in the sky, casting its warm glow across the landscape, and Mirkia squared his shoulders, bracing himself for the journey that lay ahead.
"Your Highness," someone spoke, startling Mirkia. Until that moment, he had been lost in his thoughts, completely oblivious to the fact that he was not alone. Seated in front of him were two elven nobles, who had managed to survive the massacre and were now being held captive.
The one who spoke to Mirkia was Lord Naryl, a trusted advisor of his father. He had fought bravely alongside the king until the very end. Lord Naryl, a middle-aged elf, had sharp features and piercing gray eyes. His light brown hair hung lifelessly around his face. The battle had left him looking disheveled and covered in dust. Exhaustion and grief weighed heavily on his shoulders. The other figure present was Lord Calysius, a young elf emanating an air of noble dignity. He was Mirkia’s childhood friend and the son of one of the high-elven lords who had pledged loyalty to King Alric. His long, blond hair was tied back into a ponytail, and his emerald green eyes burned with determination and anger. Calysius pressed a fresh wound on his upper left arm with his right hand, trying to stop the blood that stained his once-immaculate robes.
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Naryl spoke softly, his voice barely above a whisper, "Your Highness, we understand the weight of your grief and the anger you feel. But we must remain strong for the sake of our people. We must find a way to escape from the humans and rally the remaining elves to our cause. Only then can we hope to reclaim our kingdom."
Mirkia looked at them both, his eyes filled with determination. "I know that we face insurmountable odds, but I will not give up hope. I am my father's only son. I must continue his fight, and I will not shirk from it."
"Your Highness, you are not alone," said Calysius. "Lord Naryl and I will stand by your side, as will any elf who still has a shred of honor left within them. Together, we will avenge His Majesty's death and restore our people to their rightful place in the world."
Mirkia turned to him, his eyes shining with gratitude. "Thank you, my friend." He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead. "And Lord Naryl, your wisdom and experience will be invaluable to us. I am honored to have you at my side."
The caravan continued, winding its way through the lush countryside. The human soldiers, mounted on sturdy horses, flanked them on either side, their armor gleaming in the sunlight. Mirkia clenched his fists as he looked at the soldiers' confident faces. They saw them not as prisoners of war, but as trophies to be paraded before their king.
As they approached Brita, the human capital, the landscape began to change. Great towers and spires rose from the horizon, dwarfing the surrounding buildings. Mirkia felt a chill run down his spine as he realized what lay ahead.
Naryl, ever vigilant, studied the approaching city with a wary eye. "Your Highness, we must be cautious. We must remain alert at all times and be ready to seize any opportunity that presents itself."
Mirkia nodded, his jaw clenched. "I understand. We will not go down without a fight. We must find a way out of this nightmare."
The sun dipped below the horizon, bathing the city in a golden light. The towers and spires loomed larger with each passing moment, casting long shadows across the ground. Mirkia steeled himself for what lay ahead, bracing for the inevitable confrontation with the humans who had stolen everything from him. But he was not alone. He had Naryl, Calysius, and the memories of his father to guide him through the darkness.
The human soldiers parted to allow their caravan entry into the city. Their armor gleamed in the fading light. Trumpets blared as they made their grand procession through the bustling streets, soldiers and civilians alike lining the cobblestone path to catch a glimpse of the exotic elven prince. Mirkia clenched his chained hands into fists. He never felt this humiliated. They saw him as a prize to be displayed for their amusement.
Naryl, his expression grim, kept a close eye on their surroundings, ready for any sign of danger. Calysius tried to keep his face expressionless as he gazed at the curious onlookers. Mirkia, however, could barely bring himself to meet the gaze of the humans who had destroyed his world.
As they wound their way through the city, the smell of roasting meat and ale filled the air. Colorful banners hung from the buildings, celebrating the humans' victory. The festivities only served to remind Mirkia of all that he had lost. His father, his kingdom, his people. It was a never-ending torment.
Finally, they arrived at the great palace, its walls towering above them like a fortress against the encroaching night. The guards at the gates nodded to their human escort, and the caravan was ushered inside. The air within the palace was thick with luxury and power, and Mirkia could feel the weight of it pressing down upon him. He tried to summon his father's strength, but it was no use.
The humans led them through a series of ornate halls, their footsteps echoing on the polished marble floors. The paintings on the walls depicted great battles and triumphs, the human heroes standing tall and proud, the elven villains vanquished beneath their boots. It was a mockery of history, a twisted version of the truth. Mirkia clenched his fists, fighting back the urge to tear the paintings from their frames.
At last, they arrived in a grand chamber, the walls lined with tapestries and lit by flickering torches. In the center of the room, upon a throne of gold and jewels, sat the king of Pevaria, Zaros. He was a muscular man in his mid-thirties, with shoulder-length dark brown hair, his red face flushed with wine and arrogance. He gestured grandly for them to approach, and Mirkia found himself marching forward, his chains rattling ominously. As they drew near, he could see the lust and greed in the king's brown eyes, and he knew that his fate had been sealed the moment he had been captured.