The cabin’s interior is comforting. There’s even a fireplace on the opposite wall that lends a soft warmth to the rectangular space. There are also a dozen torches that provide plenty of light to take in the action. A large table stretches out in the center of the room. Atop it lies a map that an elven general is gesturing at. Beside him is my first good look at the infamous fiancé.

He's taller than I am, that’s for sure. Far eclipsing my average height, he looks about 6’ 4”. His garments are also the most elaborate in the room, like he still clings to the silks of palace life even in the wilderness. His face bears a casual smile and radiates a smugness I find both annoying and misplaced among so much suffering and death.

And amidst my own insecurity to be honest.

Of course, maybe he’s unafraid of suffering and death because of the blade at his hip and the shield resting against his chair.

I never trained with sword and shield. I wonder if that’s better than using a two-handed blade.

Of course, he’s likely more skilled in just about any weapon than I am. So I sure won’t duel him for Luna’s hand. But I doubt he can talk to ponies!

“Welcome,” the elf lord says to me, “to the Elder Wood.” He lets the words hang in the air, like a shadow draped over the company.

“Thank you,” I manage, though I don’t know if anyone should be thankful to be here.

“Has Leo told you of this place?” he asks.

“A little. I know it’s unsettled, a wilderness.”

The elf lord looks down at his map. I follow his eyes and am surprised to see how much of the paper is just…empty.

“That is true,” the elf continues, “but it’s not for lack of trying.” He gestures to his general who heaves a giant book onto the table. The thing is clearly old, with a cracked cover and loose pages burgeoning forth from a splintered spice.

The general curls the paper back until he reaches a suitable spot. His voice is deep for an elf. “A letter to Andolyn, Lord of Elfdom, from Prince Gildar, Royal Commander.”

The general pauses and looks at the lord. Erriam motions him to continue.

“We have reached the center of the wood. It glows like the heavens themselves, a light more magnificent than from any temple. I wish you could see it; I wish everyone could see it. And the trees here speak. I hear them sometimes…they talk to me as I walk. They tell me things. All kinds of things. About myself, about my soldiers, about even you, my lord.”

A chair scrapes against the wood. The wind blows outside. I shuffle my feet under my chair.

“I understand now. All of history stretches out before me. But my soldiers do not see it. They cannot fathom what must be done, what an honor our deaths will be. The trees do not talk to them. The dryad says they do not understand. But they will see soon. They will live forever with our god.”

The general pauses again. The flame flickers in torches and the fire no longer feels so warm.

“This will be my last letter, my Lord. I know the truth now. And when her moment comes, so will everyone else.”

The general closes the book and carefully replaces the pages that slipped onto the table.

Lord Erriam looks at me. “That was written three hundred and twelve years ago, the last message of Prince Gildar’s scout troop. Some said he went crazy. Some said he was killed. Whatever happened out here they never returned. They were the last in a long line of lost expeditions, failed settlements, and missing persons. So Lord Andolyn banned the elder wood to the elves during his lifetime.”

The air in the room tastes acidic to me, like it resents being sucked into my lungs.

“There was one more attempt made by Andolyn’s daughter,” Erriam continues. “Twenty-seven years later. When she ascended to the throne she remembered the fate of her brother and marched the entire elven army into this wood to search for Gildar’s god to exact her revenge. But she found nothing but her own death.”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

I swallow hard. “What killed her?”

Erriam shrugs. “Illness supposedly. She died in camp without ever finding her brother’s god. And after that ‘coincidence’ no one came here ever again.”

“Until now,” I say quietly.

Erriam nods. “Because the god is coming for us, just as Gildar said she would. The attacks began when the sorceress emerged. Innocent elves on wood's edge were being attacked, killed, or maimed, and then dragged here, back to this cursed forest.”

My throat feels dry. I swear the air is biting it. “Attacked by what force? This dryad?”

Erriam looks back to the general.

The old elf scowls. “It’s other elves, or at least they look like elves. My soldiers say they are more like ghosts though.” He pauses. “I’m told that they glow.”

Laughter billows from the end of the table, its carefree gyrations puncturing the solemnity of the moment. Myran is laughing so hard his face is red.

“I don’t see what’s funny.” The elf general’s voice is deep and menacing.

Myran leans back in his seat, like he’s just taking in some sitcom on Netflix. “I get that way about ghosts I guess, and generals who refuse to recognize the obvious.”

“Which is?” the general demands.

“It’s rebels. Angry elves who knew they’d be safe out here because of rumors, wives tales, and an old letter. You’ve let them fester right under your nose and now they’ve seized their opportunity.”

“Have they?” Erriam asks suspiciously.

“It looks that way to me,” Myran responds.

“A few rebels wouldn’t be able to challenge the elven army,” the general sneers.

“Oh, I didn’t say a few. The nobility has managed to alienate lots of elves over the years, and our army is hardly battle hardened general. Say what you will about the humans and their infighting but at least they have cause to raise a blade from time-to-time. Our army is even scared to engage with petty bandits.”

The general surges from his seat and it seems like there will be an altercation, but Erriam raises a hand. “Enough.”

The general sits and the air is still for a time, like the conversation has stopped and one’s quite sure how to restart it.

King Leo clears his throat. “So where do we stand now?”

The elf lord drags his pupils over to the king. “The so-called rebels,” the king lingers on that last word, emphasizing his doubt, “are somehow growing in strength and even pressing our army back. So much so that what began as our offensive against them has turned into a stalemate at best and may even be turning against us.”

“And we have endured increasing casualties,” the general adds with just a trace of bitterness in his voice.

The lord glances at the general and then turns to me. “Which is why we’ve brought you here.”

I squirm in my seat. “I’m no army, Lord.”

Erriam laughs, the first time I’ve heard the sound from him and it’s not pleasant. “Don’t worry Ethan, no one here mistakes you for an army.”

It’s amazing how someone can agree with you but humiliate you at the same time.

“But sometimes a small number can succeed when a great many cannot. And with our enemy distracted we think you’ll have a chance to sneak behind their lines and kill or capture their leaders.”

“Don’t you mean their god?” Myran asks sarcastically.

Erriam ignores him. “The choice is yours though Ethan. If you prefer not to go, no one here will force you.”

I gulp but keep my voice steady. “I will go, Lordship.”

Erriam nods and a trace of respect comes across his face. “Bravely spoken. And as you may have heard, you will not be alone.”

“That’s right,” Myran interjects again, “And I’ll be sure no harm comes to our little boy on my way to another victory.”

Man that dude is an ass. I can’t believe Luna fell for him.

Erriam smiles at me. “And to further ease your path I have recruited a third participant. Someone I believe you’ve already met.”

“Yes,” I respond. “I heard about the cleric.”

“The cleric?” Myran asks in surprise. “You mean the deserter?”

Lord Erriam shrugs. “His desertion was under…unusual circumstances. And since our circumstances are also unusual perhaps we should be a little more flexible in our assessment of others.”

It’s not clear that Myran agrees with that; it’s also not clear that Erriam cares.

“So long as he doesn’t hold me back,” Myran says eventually.

The king scoffs. “Cyrus was a champion in the Astrian army and a recipient of the order of Malachar the Just.”

Myran raises an eyebrow. “Does that mean he can hold a sword?”

The king starts to respond but Erriam raises his hand again. “I believe you have made your point, Myran. And I believe enough has been said. Perhaps we should eat so that our illustrious heroes may take time this evening to prepare for their quest.”

Elven servants make haste to follow the implied instructions and quickly enter with food and drink. Which, tasty as they are, cannot fully salvage the foul mood at the table. The general continues to glance at Myran and seems to hate the fiancé as much as the things killing his elves.

And Erriam doesn't want Myran as his heir. I can’t imagine why.

Well, at least I don't have to worry about Eleven politics. I just hope Myran walks as good as he talks.