The cobbled streets of Aelondor had once thrived with human life, bustling with traders, artisans, and farmers. Now, they were silent except for the sharp clicks of elven boots and the weary shuffles of human slaves. The town, once a bastion of human ingenuity near the eastern front, had been transformed into an elven stronghold. Where once proud stone buildings stood, towering elven spires now loomed, piercing the sky with their delicate, almost ethereal architecture. Magical wards shimmered faintly on every wall, reinforcing the town’s defenses with an ever-present hum of power.
Arin moved quickly, her head bowed, her eyes fixed on the ground. Her gray dress, simple and unadorned, hung loosely on her thin frame, her small figure blending seamlessly into the background. She had perfected the art of invisibility—not true magic, but the skill of a slave who knew her survival depended on being unnoticed.
She imagined herself as a mouse, scurrying through the legs of predators. Her masters didn’t see her. No, they looked past her, through her, as though she didn’t exist. To them, she wasn’t a person—just another piece of property, a tool to be used and discarded when broken.
The streets were crowded with elves, their ranks swelling in preparation for war. High Elves walked at the forefront, their silver and gold armor reflecting the light of the enchanted orbs that hovered above the town. Their features were impossibly serene, their pale faces unmarked by age or hardship. They moved with an air of effortless superiority, their voices carrying the lilting cadence of a language far removed from anything human.
Behind them came the Wood Elves, their movements quieter but no less graceful. Their leather armor was adorned with feathers, leaves, and vines, as though they carried the forest with them wherever they went. Their sharp eyes missed nothing, and their whispered conversations carried an edge of predatory intent.
The Dark Elves were a stark contrast, their presence oppressive and foreboding. Their blackened armor seemed to absorb the light around them, and their crimson eyes glowed faintly beneath their hoods. They moved in small, tightly knit groups, speaking in low tones. Their cruelty was infamous among the human slaves; they did not merely punish disobedience—they made examples.
And then there were the Wild Elves, a chaotic force that seemed barely restrained. Their scarred and painted bodies marked them as warriors who thrived on savagery. Their crude weapons hung from their belts, and their guttural laughter echoed in the streets as they jostled and shoved one another. They were unpredictable and brutal, and even the other elves regarded them with cautious disdain.
As Arin passed through the marketplace, she kept her head down, avoiding the elves’ gaze. A human woman knelt in the dirt nearby, her hands trembling as she scrubbed the cobblestones. A Wood Elf passed her, kicking over the bucket of water without breaking stride. The woman froze, her shoulders hunching in fear, but the elf didn’t stop or even glance back. To him, she was less than nothing.
Arin quickened her pace as she approached the northern gates. Beyond them stretched the elven army, a sea of gleaming armor and deadly precision. High Elves stood in disciplined formations at the front, their swords and lances glinting in the sunlight. Wood Elves moved among them, adjusting their bows and whispering to the forest-bound spirits that seemed to linger in their presence. Dark Elves lingered at the edges, their black cloaks swirling like shadows in the wind. The Wild Elves were a chaotic mass on the outskirts, their shouts and howls audible even from within the town.
The sheer size of the force was overwhelming. This wasn’t just an army—it was a declaration of elven might, a show of force meant to crush the spirit of any who dared to resist. Arin had heard the name of their target whispered among the slaves: Torvald’s Crossing. The settlement lay on the border between elven and human lands, a defiant outpost that had endured against all odds. Its fall would shatter the already tenuous line that divided the Human Imperium from elven territory.
But the elves didn’t see it as a threat. They spoke of Torvald’s Crossing as if it were an inconvenience, an infestation to be eradicated. This wasn’t a strategic operation; it was a performance of power, a reminder of their supremacy over the lesser beings who dared to exist in their shadow.
By the time Arin reached the gates of the elven manor, her stomach churned with unease. The grand structure loomed before her, a testament to High Elven mastery. Its slender towers seemed to defy gravity, and its walls were covered in intricate carvings that glowed faintly with magical wards. She slipped inside, her footsteps soft and unintrusive, and made her way to the grand hall.
The Elven Court of Aelondor stood as a living embodiment of elven power, arrogance, and control, a bastion of authority on the edge of the eastern battlefield. Housed within a sprawling manor that had once served as a human governor’s residence, it had been transformed into a masterpiece of elven design. Delicate spires rose skyward, their tips adorned with glowing crystals that pulsed faintly with the rhythm of the court’s magic. The walls shimmered with arcane inscriptions, runes that both protected the town and served as a constant reminder of elven supremacy.
The grand hall of Aelondor’s manor exuded an air of unassailable power. The polished obsidian table stretched like a black mirror through the center of the room, reflecting the glowing runes inscribed on the walls. Above, enchanted orbs of light cast an ethereal glow, illuminating the sharp, elegant faces of the Council of Aelondor. Each member held a piece of the elven dominion in their hands, and together, they dictated the fate of the borderlands.
At the head of the table sat Lord Thalindor, his silver hair and regal bearing embodying the serene confidence of the High Elves. To his right stood Ellarion, the Grand Magus, his golden robes radiating restrained power. The other council members—Sylvara, Vaedryn, and Karnath—occupied their seats, their expressions reflecting the mix of poise, cunning, and barely concealed savagery that defined elven politics.
The council convened to discuss their next move: the attack on Torvald’s Crossing, a human settlement that had been a linchpin in the eastern front for decades. Though its fall would not end the war outright, it would deal a significant blow to the humans' defenses, potentially toppling a duchy and rippling through the regional structure of the Human Imperium.
The room fell silent as Lord Thalindor rose from his seat at the head of the obsidian table. His silver hair cascaded over his shoulders, catching the glow of the enchanted orbs that floated above. His pale, almost translucent skin seemed untouched by time, and his eyes, like shards of ice, swept over the gathered council with calm authority. There was no need for raised voices or gestures from Thalindor; his mere presence commanded absolute attention.
He placed a hand lightly on the edge of the table, his long, elegant fingers brushing the polished surface. The faint hum of magical energy in the room seemed to grow louder as he spoke, his voice low and melodic but carrying a weight that silenced even the most restless members of the council.
“Torvald’s Crossing,” he began, each word precise and deliberate, “is an affront to our supremity, a blemish on the borderlands that we have tolerated for far too long.”
The map projected on the table, crafted by Ellarion’s magic, flickered to life with a faint pulse of golden light. It showed the eastern front in intricate detail, with the strongholds and towns of the Human Imperium marked in dull, muted colors. Torvald’s Crossing, however, glowed faintly, standing out against the surrounding terrain.
Thalindor’s gaze lingered on the glowing marker. “For centuries, this settlement has stood as a hub of human activity. Tens of thousands reside within its walls, their numbers swelled by soldiers, farmers, and craftsmen. It is no mere village or outpost—it is one of vital part of the eastern line, a lynchpin that sustains their efforts in this war.”
He straightened, his expression serene but unyielding. “While the destruction of Torvald’s Crossing will not end the eastern front, it will place an insurmountable strain on their defenses. The duchy it anchors cannot hold without it. Should the duchy fall, the surrounding territories will be left vulnerable, and the eastern front itself will begin to crumble.”
Thalindor’s voice grew colder, his words laced with disdain. “It is not strategy or strength that has kept Torvald’s Crossing intact. It is our tolerance. Their continued existence is an insult—a testament to the humans’ arrogance in believing they can hold lands that are rightfully ours.”
He gestured toward the map, and the projection zoomed out, showing the wider region. “The fall of this settlement will not merely weaken their forces; it will send shockwaves through their Imperium. The collapse of this duchy will threaten the stability of the neighboring archduchy. One kingdom, perhaps two, will find themselves on the brink of defeat. And all will know it is we who brought them to their knees.”
His eyes turned toward the council members, pausing briefly on each one. “This is not a simple military action. It is a statement of elven supremacy. A demonstration of the futility of resistance. The humans must understand that their existence is not a right but a privilege—one granted only by our will to fully act.”
Thalindor allowed his words to settle over the room like a frost. The silence that followed was absolute, the weight of his vision sinking into the minds of the council members.
Finally, his lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile, a cold, calculated expression that sent a shiver through even the most hardened of his peers. “We will erase them from this land, not just for today, but for all time. Let the ruins of Torvald’s Crossing serve as a reminder to the Imperium that their defiance will be met with annihilation.”
With that, Thalindor returned to his seat, folding his hands neatly before him. His gaze shifted to Ellarion, signaling the Grand Magus to present his magical strategy. Though his opening words were complete, the vision he had laid out would drive every decision to follow. For the elves of Aelondor, the fall of Torvald’s Crossing was no longer a matter of necessity—it was a matter of pride.
The faint golden glow of the magical map shimmered as Ellarion, the Grand Magus, rose from his seat. His golden robes, embroidered with runes of power, seemed to ripple with energy as he moved. The hum of the room’s ambient magic seemed to intensify around him, a subtle reminder of his immense presence. With a measured motion, he raised a hand, and the map shifted, focusing on Torvald’s Crossing.
Ellarion’s voice, smooth and deliberate, filled the room. “Torvald’s Crossing is no mere settlement,” he began, his golden eyes scanning the council. “It is a bastion—a one of key components of the humans’ eastern front. Tens of thousands reside within its walls, supported by their crude ingenuity and bolstered by rudimentary magical wards. While their magic is feeble compared to ours, it is sufficient to delay us if we are not precise.”
The map zoomed in, revealing the defensive layout of the town. Thick stone walls encircled its perimeter, punctuated by towers armed with ballistae and watch posts. Within, the layout showed a well-organized grid of streets, storage facilities, and garrisons.
Ellarion gestured, and the walls glowed faintly. “Their defenses rely heavily on these wards—primitive enchantments woven into the walls by their most gifted mages. While insufficient to stop a direct assault, they will hinder our forces and give the humans time to regroup. We cannot allow this. The wards must fall before the first blow is struck.”
His hand moved, and the map began to animate, showing the placement of elven forces around the town. “I propose a multi-layered magical assault to dismantle their defenses with precision. First, my Desciples will deploy spells to disrupt the mana flows sustaining their wards. These spells will not simply deactivate the enchantments—they will unravel them entirely, ensuring they cannot be repaired or restored.”
The image shifted to show glowing sigils being placed around the settlement. “We will plant disruption talismans at key points along the perimeter. These will amplify the disruption, weakening the walls until they crumble under the force of our initial assault.”
Ellarion’s gaze shifted to Karnath, the Wild Elf chieftain, who was leaning forward with barely contained anticipation.
“Your warriors will be the first to breach the walls,” Ellarion said, his tone even. “However, their natural savagery, while impressive, must be controlled and amplified for maximum effect. I will provide your warriors with enchanted talismans, each imbued with spells to heighten their physical abilities and sow terror among the humans.”
He gestured, and the map displayed a simulation of Wild Elves charging through a broken gate, their movements enhanced by magical auras. “These talismans will increase their strength, speed, and endurance while also cloaking them in illusions of monstrous forms. To the humans, your warriors will appear not as elves but as creatures of nightmare, breaking their spirits before they even think to fight back.”
Karnath grinned, his scarred face lighting up at the thought. “They won’t just fear us. They’ll beg for death,” he growled.
Ellarion’s hand shifted, and the map highlighted key structures within the town: the garrison, the grain stores, and the central keep.
“The humans’ cohesion depends on their leadership,” Ellarion continued, his voice cutting through Karnath’s mutterings. “Once the Wild Elves breach the outer defenses, my Desciples will unleash a second wave of spells, targeting their command structures and resources. A precision storm spell will strike the central keep, eliminating their commanders. Fire rains will consume their granaries, depriving their armies of sustenance.”
The golden runes on his robes glimmered faintly as he spoke, the magical power behind his words almost tangible. “By the time the Dark Elves sweep through to clean up the remnants, Torvald’s Crossing will be little more than ash and rubble. Yet, its strategic value—its position, its resources—will remain intact for us to claim.”
Ellarion’s hand hovered over the map, and the glowing walls of Torvald’s Crossing dissolved into an image of the surrounding duchy. “The destruction of the town must be total, but we must also avoid waste. The granaries and fields will burn, yes—but we will preserve their irrigation systems, their storage networks, and their transport routes. These assets will serve us once the region is secured.”
He turned toward Vaedryn, his tone now more measured. “While the Wild Elves and my Desciples dismantle the settlement, your forces will focus on eliminating the remaining defenders and securing their infrastructure. The humans who survive the initial chaos will be enslaved and transported to Aelondor to serve our needs.”
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
Vaedryn nodded, a faint smile curving his lips. “Efficient and brutal. Just as it should be.”
Ellarion’s golden eyes swept over the council. “Finally, this assault is not merely about military success. It is about breaking their will. The humans of Torvald’s Crossing believe they are safe behind their walls. They trust in their wards, their commanders, and their gods. We will strip them of these illusions. When the settlement falls, it will not simply weaken the eastern line—it will echo throughout their duchy and beyond.”
He gestured, and the map displayed a ripple effect, showing how the loss of Torvald’s Crossing could destabilize neighboring territories. “Their duchy will falter, and with it, the surrounding archduchy. The humans will see this as the beginning of the end, and their despair will spread like a plague.”
Ellarion allowed the map to fade, the golden glow dissipating as he stepped back to his seat. “We need not sacrifice our forces in a prolonged siege or reckless assault. With precision and controlled chaos, we will dismantle Torvald’s Crossing piece by piece, leaving its defenders too broken to resist and its neighbors too afraid to stand against us.”
He inclined his head toward Thalindor, his tone respectful but confident. “This is how we claim victory—not just over this settlement, but over the eastern line itself.”
Thalindor nodded slowly, his serene expression betraying the faintest hint of satisfaction. “Well spoken, Ellarion. Prepare your mages and talismans. The humans will fall, and they will know it was our magic that undid them.”
Ellarion returned to his seat, his faint smile a reminder of the cold precision that defined his approach. The Grand Magus was not merely a weapon of the court—he was its architect of destruction, and his plans would see Torvald’s Crossing reduced to a smoldering ruin.
Sylvara, the Wood Elf captain, leaned forward slightly, her green eyes scanning the glowing map projected by Ellarion’s magic. Her movements were precise, her leather armor whispering faintly as it shifted with her posture. Unlike the dark menace of Vaedryn or the primal energy of Karnath, Sylvara exuded an aura of quiet confidence and methodical control. She embodied the cold efficiency of her kind, her words chosen with the care of a hunter aligning a perfect shot.
“Torvald’s Crossing,” she began, her melodic voice cutting through the silence, “is a fortress in all but name. Its position on the plateau makes it defensible, but it also isolates them. The forests surrounding the settlement provide us with both opportunity and advantage. Their reliance on the plains for resources and their supply lines for reinforcements will be their undoing.”
Sylvara gestured toward the map, her slender fingers tracing the roads leading to and from Torvald’s Crossing. “Before the first strike, we must sever their supply routes. My rangers can deploy silently under the cover of darkness, positioning themselves along these key arteries. A few well-placed ambushes will cut off their grain shipments and disrupt troop movements. By the time they realize their vulnerability, it will already be too late.”
She turned toward Ellarion, her tone pragmatic. “Your Adepts’ magic can aid us here. A series of minor enchantments along the roads—illusions of wildfires or collapsing trees—will force them to redirect their forces, leaving their supply wagons vulnerable to attack. Once we have stripped them of their food and reinforcements, their morale will crumble.”
Sylvara’s gaze returned to the map, focusing on the dense forests surrounding the town. “The humans have always underestimated the forest. They see it as a boundary, a natural barrier, but it is far more than that. It is a weapon. My rangers can weave enchantments into the trees, creating illusions and traps to disorient any scouts they send into the woods. Their soldiers will not know friend from foe, and their leaders will waste precious time and resources attempting to navigate terrain we control completely.”
She raised her hand, and a section of the map shifted to show the northern treeline. “Here,” she said, pointing to an area near a concealed ravine, “is where we will stage the first ambush. It is an area they frequently use for patrols and supply caravans. My rangers will strike quickly and retreat into the shadows before they can retaliate. By the time they realize what has happened, their food stores will be smoldering ruins.”
Sylvara’s voice grew colder as she continued. “The Wild Elves may charge with reckless abandon, but we will ensure the humans are softened before that chaos reaches their gates. Panic will grip them long before the first blow is struck.”
Sylvara’s focus shifted to the aftermath of the attack, a critical phase that her meticulous mind had already anticipated. “Once the walls are breached, there will be those who flee—civilians, soldiers, perhaps even their commanders. These fugitives must not be allowed to regroup or spread word of our movements.”
She tapped the map again, highlighting potential escape routes. “My rangers will establish a perimeter around the town, ensuring that no one escapes into the surrounding duchy. Those who attempt to flee will find themselves hunted—quickly, quietly, and without mercy. Every human who escapes is a potential rallying point for their kind, and we cannot allow even the faintest flicker of hope to reach the neighboring strongholds.”
Her eyes narrowed, her voice sharpening. “To the humans, the forest will become a nightmare, a place where every shadow hides a predator. Those who venture into it will not emerge.”
Vaedryn, the Dark Elf strategist, leaned forward in his seat, the flickering light of the enchanted orbs catching the sharp edges of his blackened armor. His crimson eyes gleamed with a calculated malice as he studied the magical map projected by Ellarion. Where Sylvara’s voice carried precision and restraint, Vaedryn’s tone was colder, sharper, and filled with an unyielding ruthlessness that was a hallmark of his kind.
“Torvald’s Crossing is an opportunity,” he began, his voice smooth and deliberate, though it carried a faint undercurrent of menace. “An opportunity not merely to take a settlement, but to remind the humans what happens when they defy us. Subtlety has its place,” he said with a pointed glance toward Sylvara, “but sometimes, the most effective method is the simplest: absolute destruction.”
He gestured at the glowing map, his gauntleted finger tapping the image of Torvald’s Crossing with a soft metallic clang. “This settlement is not just a hub of resources or a military waypoint. It is a symbol of their resistance. For centuries, it has stood against us, feeding their belief that they can endure our dominion. If we are to break their eastern line, we must destroy not only the town but the very idea of it.”
Vaedryn’s lips curled into a faint, cold smile as he continued. “Humans are creatures of hope—pathetic, fleeting hope that sustains them even in the face of overwhelming odds. If we simply take Torvald’s Crossing, they will rebuild. If we leave survivors, they will rally. But if we erase it, utterly and completely, we will not just weaken their defenses—we will extinguish the spark of hope that drives their resistance.”
His crimson eyes swept over the council. “We must make Torvald’s Crossing an example. The humans in neighboring towns and strongholds must look to its ashes and see their own future reflected there. They must understand that resistance is not merely futile—it is fatal. Let the very name of this settlement become synonymous with annihilation.”
Vaedryn waved his hand, and the map shifted to show the key districts of Torvald’s Crossing: the central keep, the granaries, the market square, and the garrison.
“We begin with fire,” he said, his voice calm but unrelenting. “A coordinated assault to ignite the granaries, the fields, and the central market. Let the humans wake to the sound of their livelihoods burning around them. By the time their defenders muster, they will already be fighting on multiple fronts, desperate to contain the chaos.”
He pointed to the central keep. “This is where their leaders will retreat. My forces will focus on breaching it. We will drag their commanders from their stronghold and display their corpses for all to see. Their people must understand that no leader can protect them, no wall can shield them.”
The image on the map shifted again, now showing the outskirts of the town and the surrounding forest. “Once the town itself is secured, we extend the destruction to the perimeter. Sylvara’s rangers may secure the forest, but we will burn the roads leading to neighboring settlements, cutting off any chance of retreat or reinforcement. When the smoke clears, there will be no town, no defenses—only ash and the shattered remains of their will.”
Vaedryn turned toward Thalindor, his voice growing colder, more precise. “This is not just a battle; it is a statement. Humans are a resilient pest, but they are also fragile. If we strike with sufficient brutality, we can fracture their morale across the entire eastern front. Neighboring duchies will falter, not because of military weakness, but because of fear. Soldiers who might have held the line will desert, unwilling to face the same fate. Civilians will flee before we even arrive, leaving their towns undefended.”
He leaned back slightly, his crimson eyes narrowing. “This is how we win the war—not through endless battles, but by breaking their will to fight. Let them know that resistance leads only to death. Not for some, but for all. Their leaders, their soldiers, their children—none will be spared.”
Vaedryn’s tone shifted slightly, taking on a more pragmatic edge. “Of course, while annihilation is our goal, it need not mean waste. Once the fires die and the town is reduced to ruins, we will reclaim what remains of their infrastructure. The irrigation systems, the mines, and the roads will serve us. The humans who survive—if any—will be transported as slaves to bolster our workforce.”
He gestured again, this time toward the duchy as a whole. “And as their duchy collapses, the surrounding archduchy will find its resources strained to compensate. The Human Imperium will be forced to redirect troops and supplies from other regions to stabilize their eastern line. This will weaken them on multiple fronts, creating opportunities for further incursions.”
Vaedryn cast a sidelong glance at Sylvara, his tone turning almost dismissive. “Precision and patience have their place, but there is a time for subtlety and a time for finality. The humans must not be given the chance to regroup or recover. Every second we delay is another second they use to fortify their defenses or flee to safety.”
He turned back to Thalindor, his voice firm. “We strike fast, we strike hard, and we leave nothing behind but fear and ashes. Anything less is weakness—something we cannot afford.”
Vaedryn leaned back, his expression unreadable, though the faintest trace of a smile lingered on his lips. The room was silent for a moment, the weight of his words settling over the council. His proposal was ruthless, calculated, and entirely in keeping with the Dark Elves’ philosophy of warfare. Where Sylvara sought precision, Vaedryn sought annihilation—and he would stop at nothing to achieve it.
As the voices of the council subsided, Lord Thalindor rose from his seat, his movements slow and deliberate, commanding the room’s attention with an effortless grace. His silver hair shimmered in the enchanted light, and his pale, piercing eyes scanned the faces of his advisors. Though each council member had spoken with conviction, the ultimate decision rested with him, and in that moment, the hall was utterly silent, waiting for his judgment.
Thalindor’s hands rested lightly on the obsidian table as he leaned forward, his serene expression unchanging. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm yet unyielding, each word cutting through the tension in the air like the edge of a blade.
“Torvald’s Crossing has stood for centuries, not because of its strength, but because of our forbearance,” he began, his tone almost conversational, though every syllable carried the weight of absolute authority. “It has existed as a symbol of human defiance, a stain upon the borderlands we have long claimed as our own. That ends now.”
He gestured toward the map, the glowing projection of Torvald’s Crossing flickering under his gaze. “The destruction of this settlement must be total, not only to weaken the humans’ defenses but to shatter their spirit. It is not enough to claim their walls or their resources. We must make it clear to them, and to the entire eastern front, that resistance is futile. That the price of defiance is annihilation.”
Thalindor straightened, his eyes sweeping over the council as he began to weave their proposals into a single, cohesive plan.
“To Sylvara,” he said, his voice steady, “your rangers will play the first and most critical role. The forests surrounding Torvald’s Crossing are a weapon only you can wield. Your task is to sever their supply lines, ensuring no reinforcements or provisions reach the settlement. Disrupt their roads, ambush their caravans, and ensure the humans within Torvald’s walls understand that they are alone.”
He nodded to her, his expression approving. “Your precision will ensure their resources are preserved for us while denying them to their defenders. Let their people feel the creeping hand of isolation before our forces even arrive.”
Turning to Ellarion, Thalindor continued, “You will dismantle their defenses. Deploy your Discaples to unravel their wards and weaken their walls, rendering their fortifications useless. Your talismans will amplify the Wild Elves’ strength, heightening the chaos within their ranks. Let the humans see their mightiest barriers crumble, and their faith in their magic dissolve before their eyes.”
His gaze shifted to Karnath, the faintest edge of a smile touching his lips. “Your warriors will lead the charge, Karnath. Their savagery will be the spearhead of our assault, breaking the gates and driving terror into the hearts of the defenders. Your Wild Elves will sow chaos and confusion, scattering their forces and leaving them vulnerable to what follows.”
To Vaedryn, Thalindor’s tone turned colder, more calculated. “Your Dark Elves will deliver the finishing blow. When the humans are disoriented and fractured, your forces will sweep through the settlement, targeting their leadership and crushing any remaining resistance. Spare no one who stands against us. Leave no doubt in their minds that this was not a battle—it was an execution.”
Finally, his gaze swept across the entire council. “Once the settlement falls, we secure it. Sylvara, your rangers will ensure no fugitives escape, and Ellarion’s mages will fortify the site with new wards, binding it to our control. The fields, the roads, and the waterways must remain intact, ready to serve our needs. This town will no longer belong to the humans. It will be a resource, a staging ground for our continued advance.”
Thalindor gestured again, and the map expanded to show the surrounding region. “The fall of Torvald’s Crossing will destabilize the duchy it anchors. Its loss will strain the neighboring strongholds, forcing the humans to divert troops and resources to compensate. The resulting weakness will ripple through their archduchy and, in time, the entire kingdom. This single victory will sow the seeds of their collapse.”
His voice grew colder, sharper, as he delivered his final words. “Prepare your forces. Within a month, Torvald’s Crossing will fall, and with it, the first pillar of their eastern defense. We will not stop until the humans understand the truth they have long denied—that their existence is a privilege granted by our tolerance. A privilege we are no longer inclined to extend.”
Thalindor straightened, folding his hands neatly before him. His expression remained serene, but the faint tension in the room made it clear that his decision was final. The council members exchanged brief glances, each of them processing how their roles would fit into the greater plan.
As the council members departed, their graceful steps echoing softly in the vast hall, Arin remained pressed against the cold stone wall. She had stood there for the entirety of the meeting, her head bowed, her presence unnoticed by the towering figures of power. To the elves, she was less than furniture—a silent shadow meant to clean, fetch, and disappear.
But she had heard every word.
And now it was doomed.
The words of the council reverberated in her memory. Erasure. Annihilation. Fear. The elves hadn’t even discussed Torvald’s defenses as a challenge; they had spoken of them as obstacles to be swept aside. Their plan wasn’t war—it was slaughter.
Arin’s fingers trembled, but she quickly folded her hands together, clutching them tightly to still the shaking. Her eyes stared blankly at the floor, but her thoughts churned, chaotic and panicked. She wasn’t supposed to feel anything. She wasn’t supposed to care. She had trained herself not to care.
Years of servitude had taught her to suppress every emotion: fear, anger, even sorrow. To show even a flicker of defiance would draw attention, and attention led to punishment. She had mastered the art of invisibility, becoming nothing more than a shadow to her masters.
And yet…
She thought of the people in Torvald’s Crossing, of the families and children who believed their walls would protect them. Did they know what was coming? Could they even imagine the devastation that was being planned in this hall?
Her breathing quickened as a dark realization settled over her. The elves weren’t simply planning to destroy a town. They were planning to destroy hope itself—the hope that somewhere, humanity might still have a chance.
But what could she do? She was nothing. A slave. A mouse scurrying between the feet of giants. Even now, as she listened to the echoes of the council’s decisions, she knew she was powerless to stop them.
Why should I care? she thought bitterly. What difference does it make to me? Torvald’s Crossing is just another place. It’s not my home. I’m not one of them anymore. I’m nothing.
But the words rang hollow in her mind. Deep down, buried beneath the layers of fear and resignation, a flicker of something unfamiliar stirred. It wasn’t defiance—she was too broken for that. It was something quieter, something she didn’t dare name.
As the last of the council members left the room, Arin exhaled shakily. She pushed herself off the wall and slipped out of the hall, her footsteps silent as she made her way back to the servants’ quarters. Her hands brushed against the stone walls as she walked, the rough texture grounding her in the present.
When she finally reached her small chamber, she sat on the edge of her cot, staring at the worn wooden floor. Her fingers toyed with the hem of her dress, her mind racing with thoughts she couldn’t banish.
The elves had decided the fate of Torvald’s Crossing in minutes, with no more care than one might give to swatting a fly. It would be gone, its people dead or enslaved, and the eastern front would weaken under the strain. It was a cold, calculated plan, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.
Nothing she could do to stop it.
She curled in on herself, wrapping her arms around her knees. She was small. She was invisible. She was safe so long as she remained unnoticed.