A telepathic message reaches Inimica, “They’re gone, your majesty.”

She exits the mansion to join her two companions outside, “I have a name now, call me Sylva.”

The shiny dragon-like creatures look at her puzzlingly, then answers, “As you wish, mistress Sylva.”

Thunder and Lightning are shiny, long and sinuous draconic figures but despite their appearance, they are elementals; ancient being that roamed the earth long before the first life forms. Inimica regards the two as her first and only friends, and the anchor to her sanity in that shackled life of death and rebirth.

Something comes to mind; ever since they were born, the three of them have resented their position. She was given a function but refused name and freedom while they received both, but no purpose.

“What about calling yourselves Fragor and Fulmen Inimica? I know you’ve always disliked your names.”

There’s a hidden meaning to her proposition, even if the dutiful pair made taking care of her the meaning of their lives, she’d prefer a more coequal relationship.

“We are unworthy but elated to be granted such honor, your Highness Sylva.” says Fulmen, the older brother.

“Your majesty, more than ever, I pledge myself to you.” booms the younger sister in a thunderous voice.

It’s not what she wanted to hear, but sharing a name, even if it’s self-given, makes her feel like they are family.

The answer is self-evident, but she asks anyway, “How did they find me?”

“They felt your power manifest in the west a few months ago.”

As expected, it was her fault; she could have ignored to criminals, or killed with simple means, but no… She just had to go and make it a flashy demonstration.

“You should have killed them.”

“If fear and death were enough to teach them a lesson, they wouldn’t be needing your lead.”

Fair enough, as miasma absorption tools, demons need to be suitably stupid; who knows what kind of damage they could do if they used their intelligence to become lazy and started a farm somewhere.

“Next time they come, kill them anyway.”

“I disagree, they’ll simply come back after being reborn.”

“So do I, unless we leave some to tell the tale, a warning serves no purpose.”

The two elementals contesting her decision is a rare and delightful sight.

Somewhat happy, Sylva answers them with a light smile, “Do as you wish.”

<><><>

Far in the north, Colonel Iver is in trouble, Azul’s crown prince escaped pursuit by running into the great forest only to get himself captured by Dryads.

“Did you confirm the information?”

“All the members of his escort said the same thing; a group of Fae with wood-like skin kidnapped the prince and the young attendants, all who resisted were either killed or driven out.”

A tricky situation, both his options are tantamount to suicide. No, maybe all hope is not lost yet, at the time of his capture the prince was heading toward Dvergrtorg, an Elf’s trade town connecting Azulstad to the Dwarf kingdom. Fae might just be what he needs to bargain with other Fae, and in the worst case, a little show of strength should get them moving on his behalf…

Is what he thought at the time, but reality can be cruel.

“What the hell is that?”, exclaims Iver.

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

Nothing he had heard could have prepared him for the sight of the mighty wall surrounding, the small trade town. Alive and grown from a single tree, the barrier circles around the town; as thick as two men are tall, and ten times as high.

‘Can something this big be really destroyed by human hands?’ and 'How did they control the growth of something so monstrous? ' are questions that will have to be answered later, if ever. For now, he has a mission to accomplish.

He approaches the gate with the fifty elite soldiers he chose for his mission follow him.

An elf guard addresses him with a condescending look, “You’re the strangest caravan I’ve ever seen; the only thing you’re looking to sell is a fight.”

‘I should have taken my full unit.’ thinks the officer before rejecting the idea; it would have accomplished nothing save getting barred from entering the town.

“We are seeking help, not a fight; a treacherous insurgent has fled the country and we have serious reason to believe he’s fallen in the hand of Dryads.”

The elf smirks in the most obnoxious ways before answering, “Follow me, our elders might be able to help you. Your ‘guards’ are free to enter, but they better keep out of trouble.”

The Colonel rages internally ‘Arrogant green monkey, you too will soon fall to the might of the Randstalt-Tamil empire.’ but out loud he says, “You heard him, lieutenant? Keep out of trouble.”

“Yes, sir!” answers the subaltern. Hagan hates the tone of the elf as much as his boss, but he also knows better than to start pointless and hopeless fights.

Upon seeing the young-looking elders, Iver felt tricked, but green monkeys have needlessly long lives, so the smooth-faced men in front of him might just be as old as told.

“I heard a criminal of yours was taken by the Dryads, but exactly do you expect us to do about it?”

“I want… I would like you to bargain with the Faes for the release of the foul insurgent; for the sake of peace in our country, his death must be public.”

“If the dryad’s got him, he is as good as dead, far worse in fact. They’ll only release him once they got tired of him, and at that time, he’ll be nothing more than a mindless tool.”

“Regardless, as long as he is alive, partisans will continue to appear, we need to recover him, alive or dead.”

“Human, we have no direct relationship with the dryads, we are under the King’s protection, and they are under the Queen’s… At best, we could arrange a meeting, assuming you have many beautiful young males to offer in exchange for this one.”

‘There is no shortage of young rebels and azulian nobles, so it shouldn’t be too hard to arrange’ thinks the devious Randstaltian.

“It’s doable, assuming their demands aren’t too extremes.”

“Let me offer a warning, Dryads cannot be trusted, I wouldn’t be surprised if they took away with your offering, the man you search and any young soldiers who happen to strike their fancy.”

‘I knew it; I shouldn’t have expected anything from those filthy green monkeys, but what else can I do.’

<><><>

The exchange went better than expected, but still not good enough; the prince was apparently too handsome to lose, and all he got for his trouble were the attendants. Even if the testimony of the well-known retainers allowed him to keep his head on his shoulder for a while longer, the mission given by general Einer felt like a sentence worse than death; burn the dryad’s forest.

Not so long ago, his men and himself knew nothing of the Fae, and they would have carried the order without a second thought, but now...

“What should we do?” asks Lieutenant Hagan, his right-hand man.

“What can we do but dig a long trench, throw incendiary weapons and hope for the best?”

“It sounds like a recipe for a disaster.”

“Because it is… The order must have reached the men by now… How many deserters?”

“All two hundred men.”

As expected, every single man who participated in the exchange, and he couldn’t blame them after witnessing the attendants’ state; a traitor’s death feels more humane.

“Do you think we’re going to end up like them?” asks Hagan, unable to hide his despair.

“I’m too old for them, but if I were you, I'd start by scarring that handsome face of yours.”

“Damn right!”

<><><>

The colonel lies down in his bed with cotton stuffed in his ears; he had expected a lot of horrible things, but they all seem preferable.

Unhindered by the cotton, the voices mock him “You are weak, you are useless. Why fight? You were sent to die, anyway.”

“Let yourself go, your life isn’t worth living.”

“Give it to me; it’s wasted on you.”

At first, the voices sounded like a distant murmur, annoying but non-threatening, then they started to probe at his weaknesses, and the more he listened to them, the stronger they became. There is only one voice left, now, his own, and whether it’s night or day, he cannot escape it; sometimes he’d swear his mouth speaks words that aren’t his.

Over half his men have deserted by now, but no matter how many reports he sends, they’re keep getting ignored by the general. The old bastard’s found a method to acquire a great number of magic weapons from the dwarfs and has no time to give to other matters.

In retrospect, cutting all relations with the Faes was a mistake, things don’t disappear just because you ignore them, and to know nothing about the enemy before engaging them is foolish. The empire still has knowledge of the Seelie court through old tales, but the one he faces, the Unseelie, they are a mystery, and fighting them feels like fighting shadows.

Iver equips an iron armor and iron helm he bought for the occasion and pours himself a drink spiked with poison; if he has to die, let it be on his own terms. He extends his hand toward the cup and lifts it to his mouth, but an invisible force stops it in midair. On the wall, his deformed shadow’s left-hand hold its right, and walks out of the wall telling him, “It’s not yours to kill.”