Adireal watched as the servants cleared the food and plates from the table. He was unsure of what to do; since today was the day that Adonis was named the Heir, most normal functions would be cancelled. It was more of a holiday than an official function, so most of the kingdom would be celebrating. He would have no classes, and certainly no sparring or weapon training. Ranvaas would be hovering over Adonis, so it was unlikely that his brother would be available for anything the old wretch did not approve of. It would seem that, for a while at least, he was left to his own devices.

Adireal nodded to the the servants as he rose from the table. Soon they would be filling these halls with food and decorations for the banquet. He idly wandered through the castle, avoiding the main hall and other places officials and royalty were sure to gather. He paused for a moment outside the chapel. Many commoners would be visiting their shrines and temples today to offer prayers to the gods who protected the Elveen for a bright and prosperous reign, and a successful closing to the war.

Praying for the war to end would be troubling though. Of the four gods who created the Elveen and shaped the lands of Albast, only two remained loyal to them. Laltier was their Father. He made the forms of the Elveen people after his brother Niltuil created the flora and fauna of Albast. The other two gods, Pintil and Lipiteal, were noble thousands of years ago, but had long since fallen into wickedness. Pintil had been the defender of the Elveen; now he was at eternal war with them. While Laltier designed the plants and creatures in Albast, it was Lipiteal who had breathed the very essence of life into Laltier's creations, including the first Elves. Over time, something changed within Lipiteal, and his body rotted away; he only loved dead things now. They called him the Lord of Hunger.

For the war to truly end, and not just with the menfolk that plagued the Elves, the Elveen would have to destroy a part of themselves. Even now, so long after their betrayal, the priests believed that the Fallen still heard Elveen prayers from within these chapels and shrines, though any blessings they granted were twisted and cruel.

Adireal mulled over what to pray for, and was glad there was almost no one there. Since this chapel lay inside the castle, few people came to use it. The acolytes were preparing for the religious parts of today’s ceremony, loading herbs into censors, reciting holy chants, and other such things. Adireal's ears twitched as he heard something out of place. Glancing about he saw nothing; finally looking up he noticed something black in the rafters. A crow, or perhaps a raven, had built a nest in the chapel.

Usually, crowning a Heir was a once a lifetime occurrence, and with Ranvaas hounding everyone, Adireal could only assume that it would have to be beyond perfect. He would have to report the bird to someone, but for now he would just offer his prayers to the Gods. The priests who were working on preparations avoided Adireal as he approached the altar.

The altar was covered with a green cloth, symbolizing the forest from which the Elves came. Scattered across its surface were red berries and white candles, which symbolize the land that was made for the Elves and their lives which slowly flickered away. At the center of the altar lay an unlit brazier with piles of parchment scraps, symbolizing the trees of the forest. A small table to the side held quills, and a mortar and pestle. The mortar was stained red from previous offerings.

Adireal took one of the small candles from atop the altar and lit the brazier, thanking Laltier for the life he had been given. He took a handful of berries and placed them into the mortar, quickly grinding them into a soupy paste, thanking Niltuil for his home and nourishment. He set the pestle down and took up a piece of parchment and the quill. Quickly he wrote out his prayer.

“Laltier, Niltuil, thank you both for the life I have been given. I pray to you that I may take care of my family, as my family has taken care of me.

Adireal Darksbane”

He folded the parchment piece in half and threw it into the fire. An acolyte approached and smiled at the prince. Adireal nodded toward the acolyte; he always felt uncomfortable talking to them. Their long robes and deep hoods obscured most of their features, making it hard to tell whether they were Sons or Daughters of the Forest god. The acolyte chanted while waving their hands in the motions of complex runes. Adireal bowed and shuffled away. He glanced back several times, watching the flames flicker and eventually die, releasing the smoke that would carry his prayer to the gods. Had Adireal watched a moment longer he would have seen a raven hop out of its nest and fly through the smoke after him.

The halls of the castle were still empty; most of the servants were working in the main hall and the dining area. A young man was polishing the floor with a rag. Adireal smiled and nodded to him as he passed by. With nothing else to do, Adireal reluctantly returned to his room. The ceremony was still a few hours off, and he really didn’t want to do anything that might prove disastrous.

His room had been cleaned while he was downstairs. The bed was made and the clothes he had left out were put away. He walked over to his small bookshelf and selected something to read at random. It turned out to be one of his favorites about the Drakkan Wars, when the Elveen armies pushed the Drakkans out of Albast. He lay down on the bed and began to read. A short time later he drifted off to sleep.

With sleep came dreams. Monsters and menfolk roamed the countryside, killing villagers and burning homesteads. They were led by a thin, lanky person. It looked male, though its race was hard to determine; he was pale and scarred and his throat bore a pulsing jet-black mass. Tendrils of this mass wound its way through his face and down into his chest. An Elveen soldier rushed the diseased man, thrusting a spear towards the black mass. The diseased man lifted a large hammer, made of solid stone and longer than four feet in length, and smashed the soldier apart with a single blow.

The focus of the dream shifted and suddenly Adireal could see a squat Gnomish figure leading another army. He rode on the shoulders of a giant metal man. The gnome looked gaunt and pale; even worse than the man with the hammer. His skin stretched tightly over his bones. Behind him was a howling mob of what may have been Elves at some point. Some were missing limbs and flesh, others had obvious fangs and claws. They leapt upon villagers, ripping their throats out and devouring their flesh. Soldier’s spears pierced their bodies, to no avail. The two armies surged towards each other, screaming, howling.

Adireal awoke with a start. He was out of breath and covered in sweat. The bedsheets were torn apart, most likely by his claws. The sun was much lower in the sky. As he peered at the light coming through his window he realized something.

“Shit,” he cried, leaping from the bed. “I’m late!”

He rushed down the hallway and debated which path to take.

“I’d save time going the servants way, but Ranvaas, and maybe dad, would kill me! Shit, I better head the normal way.”

He barely kept from running, which was fortunate. The first corner he rounded he slammed straight into Ysbella. The eight foot angel was solidly built; Adireal bounced off of her as if he had run into a wall.

“Where have you been?” she asked. She looked incredulous and irritated.

“M-my room. I was reading, being good an-and I fell asleep. I just woke up and-”

Ysbella sighed and offered Adireal a hand up. “Come on. They are running behind anyways. Ranvaas had a fit over some of the decorations, said they failed to be legible enough.” Pulling Adireal to his feet, Ysbella dusted him off as she examined him. “Well. No ripped clothing. No stains. You’ve done well enough after all, Adireal. Let us head down.”

Adireal nodded and fell in behind the Seraphim, thankful to have avoided being reprimanded. When they reached the main hall the crowds parted for them, allowing quick access to the meeting hall where the Naming would take place. Silently, Adireal followed Ysbella, afraid he may yet get a scolding or offend someone here. It was now long after the nobility had arrived and this room was mainly filled with commoners. Several cheered as they went by and Adireal felt more than one hand pat his back or his shoulder.

The meeting hall had fourteen tables, one for each noble family and one for the royal family. Sadly, three tables lay empty. Two noble houses had been destroyed by the menfolk. The other was lost to a monster attack, and some whispered that it had been Pintil’s doing. To get to the tables, Adireal and Ysbella had to pass the commons area. It was filled with benches so as to squeeze more people in. Some folk were weeping, though Adireal could not tell if it were for joy or for the reminder of those who had been lost. Many folk were laughing, shouting and cheering. Several people waved at Adireal, though few were so bold as to touch him. Ranvaas watched the proceedings from the Royal table, and the icy glare he wore could have cooled a roaring fire.

Adireal waved back to the commoners, clasped a few proffered hands, and as he passed by the noble families he took a little time to greet each of them. Ysbella stood back a short distance and allowed her charge some privacy while he talked. Adireal already knew most of the people. He had even played with some of their children during other royal events, while the adults had taken care of stately affairs.

He greeted the first table with a bow, and a kiss to the Lady’s proffered hand. Lady Alaisa dressed simply in a flowing emerald gown; her Soulstone and both her and her husbands rings were the only jewelry that she bore. She and her four children represented House Torfel; Lady Alaisa had been widowed when her husband died fighting undead the year before. Lusre and his wife Daussil were at the next table. They represented House Miah, which bordered the lands of Krillith the Wise, the only human lead nation which did not hate the Elveen. Ghaleerin sat at the third table alone; as of yet he was unmarried, and when asked he only mentioned that he intended to remain that way. He represented House Joulot. Young Lord Caldemdian was at the fourth table, alone as well. Both his parents died in a mysterious fire two and a half years prior. He lead House Tallavaun.

Not everyone was happy to see Adireal. The Elve at the fifth table refused to even make eye contact. His name was Lord Vallofia. He was good friends with Ranvaas, practically another stooge like Esventin. He ruled House Daelrech, bordering the Dorven lands. Adireal greeted him out of politeness; at least one of them was capable of doing their duties. Ysbella gave Vallofia a cold stare as they passed, though it seemed that the Lord could care less. His attention was tuned to Ranvaas’s smile. Smirking, he muttered, “That’s right. Take the beast away, Angelkin.”

Adireal gritted his teeth and had to fight to keep his claws sheathed. It was not the first time something like this had happened. Fortunately though, no one else was quite so rude. He already knew which of the older Elves would not want to touch him. His scales disgusted more than a few of the nobility, so he did not offer to shake their hands. The greetings continued for some time, inquiring as to people’s health and how the year had gone. Finally, Adireal managed to get to the royal table.

He was seated across from Ranvaas and Esventin, and next to Ysbella. His brother and his father were absent, which was to be expected. His brother should almost be done getting blessed, and his father would likely be reciting his speeches one last time. Ranvaas gave him another cold stare, accompanied with a sneer.

“The,” Ranvaas gritted his teeth and spat out the next word as if it were a curse, “Boy is late, Ysbella. You are his keeper. I had assumed you could manage such a task. Do we need to find you some help?”

Ysbella sniffed and stared back at Ranvaas, bereft of any emotion. “Had your men but checked his room, Prince Ranvaas, they would certainly have found him. He had been studying history and lost track of time.”

Ranvaas’s attention snapped back to Adireal. “Is this true boy? Did you manage to do something right for once? Who were you reading of? Which era were you stu--” Ranvaas stopped mid sentence when he noticed the frightened look Adireal gave him. “You were reading about the Draakan again.” Adireal glanced down at the floor, hiding his embarrassment. “Your preoccupation with the creatures is disturbing. They were horrendous to our people. Betrayers and vile murderers. It often surprises me at how well you are accepted.” Ranvaas sighed and stared off into the crowd. “At least you managed to not ruin anything today. I am thankful for that.”

Adireal poked his head up and looked at his grandfather. Ysbella also gave him an odd look.

Ranvaas shrugged and explained. “Yes, well, do not let the praise go to your head. Today is a happy day and I suppose even the least of us deserve some happiness.” The elder Elve gave one of his rare smiles and shrugged once more. “Things appear to be going quite well and this pleases me.”

Adireal nodded his head in acceptance; it was hardly praise but if Ranvaas was promising to be civil, Adireal would certainly enjoy it while it lasted. Adireal glanced across the table. Ranvaas was focused on the crowd rather than staring at Adireal. Esventin refused to meet his gaze. “For once,” Adireal thought, “This may actually be a good party.”

A few minutes passed and Argus came into the room. He nodded and waved, shook the occasional hand and came up to the the royal table.

Ranvaas turned his head away from Argus, clearly displeased. “It’s a shame how you act with the common folk,” Ranvaas sniffed as he spoke. “When I ruled, I was respected, not merely liked.”

Argus’s smile drooped for a second, but came back full force with his reply. “It is a shame that you do not know what it is to be liked, old Elve. Maybe one day you could know that pleasure. Ah, but when we pass our stones on it won’t be long until our deaths, will it? Much quicker for your own, since you are what? Two thousand, twenty-five hundred years old?”

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Adireal quickly resumed staring at the floor. The peacefulness surely would not last after a comment like that! Adireal was dumbfounded. His father had never spoken to Ranvaas like that before.

The old Elve stroked his beard. “Perhaps. I find pleasure in enough other things though, Argus. It pleases me to see my plans, and the needs of the people, fulfilled. Hopefully your son will rule far better than yourself.”

Argus laughed. “For once, Grandfather, we agree. I hope that as well.”

Suddenly the musicians started playing. It was time.

Everyone stood when Adonis appeared in the doorway. He was the spitting image of Argus, he even wore a lesser version of their father’s garb; almost a military dress uniform, though adorned with many regal accoutrements. Adonis, who had turned fifty-five this year, stood tall and proud. Barring misfortune, everyone in the nation had known that Argus’s first son would inherit the throne. Adireal tapped the table lost in thought for a moment. It would not be much longer before he himself was named the Crowned Prince, and he would swear the holy oath to protect his brother for life.

As Adonis marched into the room, the commoners bowed their heads in reverence. He strode through the commoner’s ranks and passed the noble tables. Each family fell to one knee and bowed their heads to show their soon-to-be king deference. Finally, Adonis made his way to their father. Argus smiled down to his son, and bowed slightly.

“I, Argus Darksbane, Lord of the Elveen people, King of the Lost Woods, seek the Elve known as Adonis Darksbane. Are you he?”

Adonis knelt and bowed his head before his father. “I am the one known as Adonis Darksbane, your Lordship. I have responded to your summons and ask how my most humble self may serve you.”

“I have watched you grow from a child into an Elve worthy of this land. Tell me, young Adonis, in the years to come what would you see happening to our lands and people?”

“Lord Darksbane, beyond anything I would want to see this nation’s enemies driven from our lands, divided and defeated. Barring that, I would want to keep them from harming our land, our people any farther.”

“Would do this for glory?”

“No, my Lord.”

“Would you do this for the power that war brings?”

“No, my Lord.”

“Why, then, would you seek to further war with our enemies?”

“For peace, my lord. The peace and safety of our people.”

Argus bowed his head; he looked tired, and, above everything, Adireal noticed for the first time that his father looked old. His body didn’t age much, thanks to the power of the Kingstone, but he looked haggard, worn.

“My time for this world, young Darksbane, grows nigh.” Argus reached into his robe and slowly pulled a sheathed sword out. Falling to one knee, he held the blade out in front of him, balanced between both his hands. “I would have a defender of our people who is firm and just, and yet still kind, take my place. Adonis Darksbane, I have chosen you to succeed me when the time comes. What say you?”

Adonis reached out and gently took the blade with both hands. “I will defend this land to my dying breath, my Lord.”

“Rise then, Lord Adonis Darksbane. When you have reached the age of sixty, and become a full Elve of the realm, I shall pass my crown to you. The next five years of your life will be harrowing; I hope you meet them with as much grace and dignity as you have shown me today.” Tears rolled down Argus’s cheeks as he rose.

Priests and acolytes rushed forward, censors lit, chanting prayers. The head priests of Niltuil and Laltier quickly took the blade from Adonis and fastened it to his belt. They then used juice from the berries kept in the chapel to paint runes on Adonis’s face and hands, signifying purity of spirit and action. It took more than ten minutes of rituals, performed by ten clergy-members, before Adonis was prepared for the next part of the ceremony.

Argus nodded solemnly, having long since composed himself. “From now on, it shall be you who sits by my side, to learn of the people of our nation. You shall be included in the matters of the realm, and you shall serve me as if you were my right hand. Come, Lord Adonis, and sit next to your king.”

Argus and his heir walked to the table and sat down. The first part of the ceremony was over, the Naming had been completed. Now it was time for the banquet. Adireal looked about him, and almost everyone was happy. Esventin looked nervous, as always, as if something were about to go drastically wrong. Ranvaas kept scanning the crowd, yet he wore one of the largest smiles in the room. As the royal family rose to depart to the dining hall, a loud clatter sounded on the far side of the room.

The hall quieted as Elves looked about. Adireal spotted the problem quickly; a raven of some sorts had made its way into the hall. He laughed and pointed it out to his family. “Look, even the birds have come to give praise to Ado-um, Lord Adonis.” Ysbella’s face turned grave as she rose. The bird had perched atop a suit of displayed armor, and had somehow managed to push the helm off. It ca-cawed, almost as if it were laughing, and bounced back and forth from one foot to the other.

Ysbella approached the bird as the commoners rose and left the room, though all of the nobility stayed to watch. “Go, and bring us none of your ill-fortune today. Take your leave.”

Adireal glanced about again. Everyone, save Ranvaas, looked alarmed or at least perturbed. For some reason, the old Elve looked happier then ever. The bird hopped off the armor and fluttered down to the helm. It hopped about until it was looking at the Seraphim, then with a flick of its tail feathers it defecated on the helm.

“That’s it,” Ysbella snorted, “Leave.”

Again, the bird took to wing, its raucous laughter echoing in the hall. “Ca-caw! Ca-caaaaw! Caw caw caw!” Quickly, it darted through one of the windows and out into the courtyard.

Several of the nobles exchanged worried glances as they rose from their tables. Mutedly, the group headed out into the main hall and then into the dining hall. Servants had already laid out food of all sorts. Fresh fruits and berries, roasted boar, roasted goose, an herbed salad containing some of the rarest plants from the forest. Honeyed mead was served at room temperature, while fine wines were served chilled by magical means.

There was a mainly filled with desserts and sweets, kept almost separate from other groups. Piled high with a variety of pastries, custards, pies, and other sweets, this was table was mainly prepared for the local Rakkins, rather than being a proper dessert spread. Rakkins typically came up to an elve's waist and their fur was always the same shade of grey, with dark splotches around their eyes and tails.

Generally they held the temperament of an elve in their twenties; too young to understand social niceties and grace. The small animal folk loved sweet foods, and the Elveen nobility had learned long ago that it was easier to keep the creatures full than to deal with their displeasure. Their wrath tended to be more mischievous than malicious, though often they did not know when to pull their punches.

Everyone ate, yet the crowd was still subdued. Even the little Rakkins were unusually quiet. While the adults quietly talked about trivial things such as the weather and whom was marrying whom this year, Adireal took a chance to whisper with Ysbella.

“Ysbella, what happened? Why is everyone so sad all of a sudden?”

The Seraphim pursed her lips. She had no need to eat, yet had picked an array of fruits to sample. So far they were mainly untouched. “It was the raven, Adireal. Do you know what a raven symbolizes?”

“It’s, um, a carrion eater. It eats dead things?”

She nodded. “It is a symbol of Death, and is commonly associated with War. Neither of whom are welcome here today.”

Adireal thought for a moment. “Are you saying it could have been a messenger for Lipiteal or Pintil?”

Ysbella nodded. “You have been listening during your lectures after all. Yes, that is exactly what I am saying.”

Adireal poked at his food and thought to himself for some time. His appetite had faded, and, for once, a single plate lasted him an entire meal. He drank little of the mead; the alcohol had no effect upon him and he discovered that he had no taste for the beverage. He drank several glasses of a sweet berry wine, which he found appealing, and had a few mouthfuls of the boar. Soon enough, the meal was over.

The royal family moved into the throne room. A second, smaller, throne had been placed next to Argus’s throne. Adonis would literally sit at Argus’s right hand. Ranvaas took his place to the left of the king, while Ysbella stood a short ways behind. Normally, Adireal and Adonis would sit a short ways away; for today though, Adireal was forced to sit next to Esventin.

After the royal family had a few moments to prepare, the noble families filed in. Once they were seated, the commoners were allowed in. The final part of the day had begun, and the next several hours would be filled with those who were present swearing loyalty to their future king. Each noble family came and knelt before Argus, and knelt again before Adonis, reciting ancient pledges and prayers. Each family took almost fifteen minutes; the process went on for two-and-a-half hours.

The sun had already set and servants lit the torches and tapers in the halls. The last part of the ceremony had begun; now the commoners would bring gifts and well-wishes to their king-in-training. This part of the ceremony took up to three days, depending on how many Elves wished to participate.

The petitioners could be seperated into four broad groups. The first were people who brought goods and wares. Owners of vineyards brought their finest bottles of wine. Many peasants brought cloth objects; there were a great deal of woolen scarves and shirts. Those with enough skill embroidered the objects with the nation’s emblem, a giant tree embedded with hundreds of emeralds. One little Elveen girl gave Adonis her favorite doll.

Those who smithed brought special pieces they had forged for the holiday; knives, shields, small trinkets, and jewelry. As far as implements of war went, the most impressive gift came from the Dorven ambassador. Of the four Dorven clans, the Wind Chisels were the artisans, the Razor Claws performed militaristic duties, the Eternal Seekers sought out lore and hidden artifacts to the far reaches of Albast, and the Wardens of the Essence kept the balance between mortals and nature. The clans had come together to make a suit of armor for the new Lord’s gift. The armor was composed of an old alloy whose recipe was kept by the Seekers, which had to be cooled in exotic oils to maintain the metal’s property. The Wardens retrieved the plants and minerals needed to make the oils, while the Wind Chisel clan forged the armor. The design itself came from one of the Razor Claw’s head armorers. The armor was a deep blue, the color of the sky on a cloudless day, or perhaps the color of the deepest waters of the ocean. It was made of a material old Dorven Drakkan hunters had used; azentam was said to protect against the elements as well as magic.

Though nothing else was as fancy as the Dorven armor, the rest of the gifts quickly piled up next to the thrones. The Rakkan tribe even brought something. Their chief was an old widower; he presented his wife’s old hair combs to Adonis. Made from tortoise shell they looked well-maintained, and Chief Razzletail claimed they were a family heirloom. With a smile the chief chuckled as he presented the gift, telling Adonis, “This will be very, very handy for you one day! Keep it safe, keep it clean. For your future love, or perhaps your future daughter!” The rest of the Rakkin watched in rapt attention; it was always hard to tell when a Rakkin was playing a prank of some kind, even if the rest appeared to hold the situation in reverence.

The second group of petitioners were those who offered prayers. Many prayed and wished for the end of the war. Some wished for a long reign filled with happiness and hope. A few echoed Razzletail’s sentiments and wished for an early marriage and heirs to the throne. They beseeched the gods for hundreds of favors, crushing berries and burning prayer paper after prayer paper. Between constantly clearing ashes and fetching more berries and holy paper, the acolytes had to work with a fervored pace.

The third group were those who tried to entertain Lord Adonis. Some told stories, and others told jokes. Some sang or played instruments. A few danced. One troupe asked for some time during the next day’s activities to perform a play. Often these ended up being the lengthiest petitions.

The last group offered services. The Dorven ambassador hailed from the Razor Claw clan; on top of the gift of the armor, she offered to train Adonis in strategy and warfare along with personal combat. Some mages offered him private schooling at the Royal Academy of Magic. Ranvaas himself offered to tutor Prince Adonis so that he might become a perfect regent, and “hopefully be far superior to some of those who had come before recent rulers.”

It didn’t take long for Adireal to grow bored. Stuck in a corner with a smelly boor, Adireal’s only respite was when some of the entertainers were actually amusing. When they failed to amuse he took to watching his family. Argus always took such things in stride. He offered to arrange schooling or apprenticeships for a few of the folk. Adonis mainly looked uncomfortable. Having lived in the shadow of his father for so long, it was unusual to have so much attention piled upon him. More than one eligible maiden suggested, or in a few cases practically demanded, his courtship. Adonis could only manage to blush and shake his head before stammering out an apology. Ysbella remained composed and indifferent as always; having served the Darksbane family for more than eight-thousand years, and having lived longer than even that, gave one a different perspective, Adireal supposed.

Finally, he watched his Grandfather. Ranvaas’s good mood was coming to an end, as was evident by his faltering smile. His face eventually grew from sour and turned to an impatient scowl. He examined each petitioner with a look Adireal knew well; a callous stare that measured their worth, and the worth of their boons. The old elve’s fingers tapped upon the table and he continuously checked the crowd.

Some time passed and Adireal began to feel drowsy. He began to slowly nod off, his head tucked between his folded arms, when something caught his attention. A person strode through the crowd, slipping past this elve, sliding between another two, and so forth, quickly cutting through the line. Oddly enough, no one seemed to mind. Adireal tried to watch him, though after a moment he was forced to wince in pain and look away. Every time Adireal glanced at the petitioner, his head hurt a little more. Adireal leaned up off his arms on the table and shook his head to try and clear it. He looked to his family, but it seemed as if no one noticed the unusual activity. He did manage to catch Ranvaas and Esventin giving each other an unusual look.

Turning his focus back to the petitioner, he peered again. Yes, with a bit of concentration, Adireal could tell that this rude guest was of menfolk, not of the Elveen. He tried to stand, to point out the man, but it was as if someone was squeezing him harshly. He could not move, nor take a deep breath.

The man strode to the front of the line, his chest thrust forward and his head held high. He looked about in disdain as he awaited his turn, while some juggler performed. Quietly the man unsheathed a knife. Adireal struggled for breath; his lungs felt as if they were on fire. The juggler eventually finished and the man stepped forward.

“My Lord Adonis, if it pleases you, I would love to be able to show you some of my craft. I have studied magic for quite some time and wish to put on a short display.”

No one noticed that this was a man speaking. Adireal could see everyone’s attention turn to focus on this supposed magician. Though, as Adireal struggled for breath it struck him: This man being a magician made perfect sense and certainly explained what was happening.

Adonis, looking bored, waved his hand. “Certainly, good sir, you have my permission to display your craft.”

The man lifted his knife and the tip glowed brightly. “Well then, my Lords, observe the wand and how it moves and flows. Watch as I pool my power, and let it spread and grow!” The audience gasped and applauded at something Adireal could not see. His chair pushed back as he barely managed to get to his feet.

“See the terrible Draakan, whose mate Delin Darksbane slew so long ago, rear his ugly head and obliterate you all with his magical powers!”

The crowd shrieked and jumped, pointing to the ceiling. Many yelled about the roof ripping open, and more than a few dived under their seats. Still, Adireal could not see or hear anything except for the man with the knife. The magician progressed towards the thrones, less than six paces away now. Adireal managed a step forward, and then another.

The man practically screamed now as he waved his arms. “FEEL THE SHEER TERROR STRIKE YOU AS THE FATHER OF DRAAKANS ROARS IN DEFIANCE!” He spun to face the crowd, with his arms thrown wide. Peasants and nobles alike continued to scream, and many started to flee the hall. Laughing, the man turned to face Adonis, standing less than three paces away now. Adireal could barely move his feet, yet he had a little bit of momentum on his side now. Esventin had stood up at this point, and pointed to Adireal and shouted, “M-Master! The Beast, he is loose! He will ruin everything!”

The magician shifted the grip on his knife and raised his arm over his head. The royals were mesmerized by something, their eyes locked onto the glowing tip. “And now, Lord Adonis, I give you my true gift. Sleep well.” Adireal’s legs screamed in agony as he forced the last few steps. The man must have noticed something moving from the corner of his eye. He smirked and plunged the knife down.

Whatever had taken hold of Adireal seemed broken. His clothing ripped as he extended his wings, flapping them once for an extra bit of momentum. He finally caught his breath and screamed, “I won’t let you hurt my brother!” The royals sitting near the thrones also seemed to have shaken whatever had possessed them; Argus and Adonis gasped and tried to move, still sitting upon their thrones. Ysbella rushed forward, far too late to be of any help. Ranvaas no longer looked amused, and barely drew in enough breath to scream out in a frightened pitch, “Guards! The Beast, he-he has gone mad! Detain him! STOP HIM!”

Adireal collided with the magician’s hand and he felt the blade sink into his shoulder, easily piercing his scaled flesh. The young Elve screamed in pain and lashed out at the man’s face. Claws bit into flesh, then bone, ripping the magician’s jaw from his face and slashing his throat. The man fell to the floor, gurgling and writhing, blood spraying everywhere while his jaw skittered across the ground several feet away.

The guards stationed outside the hall had finally pushed their way in. Those who were stationed inside had either been busy helping the masses or cowering in fear. Seeing the blood by the throne, the newcomers pushed their way through what was left of the crowd.

“Th-the Beast, he attacked this poor Elve,” screamed Ranvaas. “Get him away from the King and his Heir! TAKE HIM TO THE DUNGEONS IMMEDIATELY!”

Adireal slumped to the floor, gasping for breath and groaning loudly. Ysbella and Argus reached him at about the same time, long before the guards arrived.

Argus fell to his knees and grabbed the young Elve by his shoulders. “Adireal, my son, wh-what madness has struck you--”

It was hard for Adireal to focus, but Ysbella stood out to him. Almost always stoic, it was rare to see her show much emotion. As she pushed her way to the throne though, her face was contorted in borderline rage. She grabbed hold of the Argus by his royal vestments, lifting him into the air with one hand, and flung him several feet back. He landed with a resounding “THUMP,'' and she turned to Adireal as she spoke. “Respectfully Argus, sometimes you are a damnable fool.” She stared at the approaching guards and shook her head. All but five guards halted in their tracks; those who were brave enough to still approach avoided her and went to examine the magician instead.

Ysbella gently rolled the prince over. Adireal’s scales, and what skin he had, had lost considerable color, and his eyes had dilated. The injury wasn’t the worst that Adireal had ever suffered, yet it bled with an unusual ferocity. The Seraphim ripped the clothing around the wound, allowing her better access, and chanted slowly in Malachim. Ysbella shook in irritation; the wound failed to react to the magic.

Ysbella withdrew the knife from Adireal’s shoulder and flung it into the ground, right between Argus’s feet. “Would you quit being useless, your Highness, and call for the healers? I believe your son, on top of being stabbed while saving the Heir, has been poisoned.”

Adireal’s hand blindly grasped the air before him, his eyes trying to focus and failing. “Y-Ys- . . . beeeella . . . Izzat you?” He labored for breath and tears tracked down his cheeks.

She clasped his hand and drew it to her face. “I’m here. It will be fine Adireal, just stay with me.”

“Ysssssss . . . I luff . . . you . . .” His head fell to the side, and his body lay still.

Ysbella held him close as the King screamed for his healers.