Elara
The palace walls whispered secrets, and Elara had grown skilled at listening.
Eldrenor was caught between seasons, the chill of late autumn lingering in the air. Rain fell in steady sheets, its rhythmic patter a melancholic tune against the stained-glass windows of the royal palace. The cobblestone streets below were slick with water, reflecting the faint glow of lanterns that struggled to pierce the stormy night. The air smelled of damp earth and the faint tang of burning firewood, carried on the restless wind.
Inside the grand court, warmth from a dozen roaring braziers battled the damp. The room was vast, its vaulted ceilings etched with murals of Eldrenor’s history, its polished wooden table stretching the length of the hall. Elara sat at her usual place, her sapphire mage’s robes heavy on her shoulders, the intricate silver embroidery glinting in the firelight.
The conversation swirled around her, sharp and accusing.
“The creatures are no longer mere legends!” Minister Valen’s voice was a blade striking stone. “There are signs, rumors from the borderlands. Livestock torn apart, caravans vanishing. Daravax’s influence grows stronger by the day!”
“You can’t blame Daravax for every shadow in the forest,” Lyra retorted, her voice calm but her eyes sharp. “These are likely brigands or wild beasts.”
Valen sneered. “And yet the evidence—”
Elara tuned them out. Their debates always circled back to fear, to distrust, to excuses for inaction. Her fingers traced the rim of her goblet, her gaze distant. The ministry was supposed to protect the balance between humans and creatures, but the council had become more concerned with their own fears than their duty.
As the meeting adjourned, Elara felt a hand grip her elbow. She turned to see Lord Athran, his expression grim.
“Elara,” he began, his voice low but firm. “A word.”
She nodded, allowing him to guide her to a quieter corner of the hall. His face, framed by dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard, was as unreadable as ever, but his gray eyes betrayed his concern.
“You’ve been quiet,” he said, his tone accusing.
“And you’ve been loud enough for both of us,” she replied dryly.
“This isn’t a time for sarcasm.” He leaned closer. “I’ve seen the reports you’ve requested, the maps you’ve borrowed. Whatever you’re planning, it’s reckless.”
“Reckless,” she echoed, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Or necessary?”
Athran’s jaw tightened. “There are eyes on you, Elara. Powerful eyes. You can’t do this alone.”
“Then what do you suggest? Waiting for the council to agree on the shape of the table?” she snapped.
His silence was telling. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small folded parchment. “This was intercepted yesterday. Another noble murdered.”
He unfolded the parchment to reveal a crude drawing of a blade dripping with blood, accompanied by two chilling words: Cursed Blade.
Elara’s heart skipped a beat. She had heard the rumors—an assassin who left no witnesses, only carnage. The nickname hung in the air like a specter.
“They’re calling him a phantom,” Athran said grimly. “If this blade crosses your path, you won’t even see it coming.”
“Perhaps,” Elara said carefully, folding the parchment and handing it back. “But phantoms have motives too.”
Athran’s frustration boiled over. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Elara. Stop before you end up like them.”
“‘Them’?” she asked, her voice hard. “The ones who did nothing and paid the price anyway?”
The conversation ended in stony silence as Athran walked away.
Later that night, the storm still raged as Elara slipped into the archives. The room, massive and dimly lit, was a labyrinth of towering shelves crammed with ancient tomes and scrolls. The air was heavy with the smell of parchment and candle wax, the faintest trace of rain drifting in from the door she’d just closed.
She placed her lantern on a nearby table, its light casting shadows that danced across the room. The map before her was layered with troop movements, trade routes, and coded markings that spoke volumes to the trained eye.
“Daravax,” she whispered, her finger tracing the border. She felt the weight of the storm in her chest—a brewing tempest of doubt and resolve.
A sudden noise froze her in place. The creak of a floorboard, faint but unmistakable, sent her pulse racing. She quickly extinguished the lantern, plunging the room into darkness. Her hand went to the dagger strapped to her thigh, the cool metal a small comfort.
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The silence stretched, broken only by the distant howl of wind and rain. Then came voices—low and urgent, just outside the door.
“…another noble. Same signature. The Cursed Blade…”
“…a ghost. Never seen. Just the mark…”
Elara pressed herself against the wall, her breath shallow. She strained to catch more, but the voices faded, replaced by the sound of retreating footsteps.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as she relit the lantern. The room seemed larger now, its shadows darker and more menacing. She stared at the map, her grip on the dagger tightening.
The assassin’s name lingered in her mind. If she couldn’t trust the council, perhaps she needed a phantom of her own.
If no one else would act, she would. Even if it meant seeking out the ghost that haunted Eldrenor’s streets.
The rain had been relentless all day, painting the streets of Eldrenor in streaks of gray. The cobblestones outside the castle glistened, slick with water that pooled in uneven crevices. In the distance, the towers of the city disappeared into a heavy mist, their once-proud banners clinging limply to their poles. The chill in the air was sharp, biting through even the thickest cloaks.
Elara stood at one of the tall windows in the great hall, watching as servants below struggled to cover market stalls from the downpour. Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance, a low growl that seemed to echo the tension simmering within the castle walls.
Behind her, the council session was well underway. Voices rose and fell as advisors debated trade routes, military deployments, and the ever-present whispers of Daravax’s growing influence. The words swirled together into a monotonous hum that barely registered in Elara’s ears.
She turned back to the room, her emerald cloak swishing softly as she moved. The massive oak table dominated the center of the hall, its polished surface scattered with maps and documents. Around it sat the kingdom’s most powerful figures—advisors, generals, and mages, all vying for the queen’s favor.
Queen Lysara presided over the meeting from her high-backed chair at the head of the table. Her golden hair glowed in the light of the enchanted chandeliers, but her expression was sharp, her emerald eyes cold as she surveyed her advisors.
“Elara,” the queen’s voice cut through the din, sharp and precise.
Elara straightened, stepping forward. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“What is your opinion on the Daravax trade proposal?” Lysara asked, her tone measured.
Elara hesitated, glancing at the faces around the table. High Mage Loryn was watching her with a hawk-like intensity, his lips pressed into a thin line.
“I believe we should approach with caution,” Elara said finally. “Their terms are favorable, but their motives remain unclear. Daravax has a history of… unpredictability.”
“And yet,” Loryn interjected smoothly, “their resources could strengthen our borders significantly. Are we to let fear dictate our decisions?”
Elara met his gaze evenly. “Prudence is not fear, High Mage. Daravax’s history speaks for itself. We cannot afford to ignore it.”
A murmur rippled through the council, some nodding in agreement, others exchanging skeptical glances.
Lysara held up a hand, silencing the room. “Enough. Elara’s caution is noted, but we cannot afford to turn away valuable allies in these times. We will proceed, but with strict conditions. This meeting is adjourned.”
The council members began to file out, their voices lowering to murmurs as they left the hall.
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As the last of the advisors disappeared into the corridors, Lysara turned to Elara.
“Walk with me,” the queen said, her tone leaving no room for refusal.
Elara followed Lysara out of the hall and into the quieter corridors of the castle. The walls were lined with tapestries depicting Eldrenor’s history—victories, alliances, and the scars of war. The rain outside was a constant backdrop, its rhythm almost soothing.
“You spoke well today,” Lysara said finally, breaking the silence.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
The queen stopped, turning to face Elara. “But I sense there’s something weighing on you. You’ve been… distracted.”
Elara hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “I’ve been spending more time in the archives,” she admitted.
“The archives?” Lysara’s brow arched. “And what, pray tell, have you been looking for?”
“Answers,” Elara said simply.
Lysara studied her for a long moment. “Be careful, Elara. Answers have a way of leading to more questions—and not all questions are safe to ask.”
Elara nodded, though her mind was already racing.
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The archives were a world unto themselves, a sprawling labyrinth of ancient knowledge buried deep within the castle. The air was cool and heavy with the scent of aged parchment and candle wax. The sound of her boots against the stone floor echoed faintly as Elara made her way through the rows of towering shelves.
She stopped before a section labeled Historical Records: Military Conflicts. Her fingers trailed over the spines of the books until they settled on one: The War of Shadows.
She pulled the book free, its weight solid in her hands. Settling into a corner alcove, she opened it and began to read.
The pages detailed the fall of Vorithane, a once-prosperous kingdom that had been utterly destroyed by Daravax. The accounts were vivid—armies decimated by creatures of shadow and flame, cities reduced to ash in the span of days. Daravax had emerged victorious, but at a cost that left scars on the world.
As she read, a faint sound reached her ears—voices, low and hushed, just beyond the shelves.
“She’s been here too often,” one voice muttered, clipped and impatient.
“Let her dig,” another replied, colder. “She’ll find nothing. And if she does…” The rest was lost in a whisper.
Elara’s heart raced. She closed the book carefully and slipped deeper into the shadows, her hand instinctively resting on the hilt of the dagger at her belt.
The voices faded, and she exhaled slowly, forcing herself to stay calm.
As she made her way back to the shelf, her eyes caught a single word scrawled in the margins of another book: Cursed Blade.
She froze, the name sending a shiver down her spine. It was a name she’d heard before, whispered in dark corners and shadowy taverns. A ghost, they called him—a blade that moved unseen, striking without warning or mercy.
Could such a figure truly exist?
Elara shook her head, dismissing the thought. She had no time for myths. And yet…
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“If the Cursed Blade was more than a myth, perhaps he was exactly what she needed—and her greatest gamble yet.”