Mira’s small feet padded softly across the worn cobblestones of the village, long black hair fluttering in the breeze as she kept her head down. The stares of the elders weighed heavily on her, their eyes filled with a mix of disdain and suspicion. She had long since learned to ignore them, to bury the hurt deep within herself.

It wasn’t their fault, really. They feared what they did not understand.

And Mira, with her grey pointed ears, was the embodiment of something they would never accept.

The children were no different. As she passed by, she caught sight of them peeking out from behind the trees, their faces twisted in fear and confusion. One little boy gasped and quickly ran to hide behind his mother’s skirts when their eyes met.

Mira’s heart clenched, but she didn’t flinch. She was used to it by now.

She had always known something was different about her—something that set her apart from the other elves in the village. But it wasn’t until she grew older that she truly understood.

Her father was a dark elf, one of the last of his kind, while her mother was human. The combination of their bloodlines made her an anomaly—a creature both feared and reviled. The elders allowed her father to remain in the village only because of the king’s orders. He was to be studied, his existence a curiosity, a relic of a past long thought forgotten.

But there was more to it than that. Dark elves, as Mira had come to learn, were not just rare. They were a cursed lineage, one that only resurfaced once every few hundred generations. It was said that the souls of dark elves, once killed in droves for their disobedience and power, would sometimes reincarnate, their darkness tainting a new generation.

Mira had often wondered who she was in her past life. Which dark elf’s soul lingered within her? Which battles had they fought? What injustices had they endured?

She kicked a small stone along the path as she made her way to her usual sanctuary—the village library. It was the one place where she could disappear for hours, mind wrapped in stories and history, far away from the village’s cold whispers. No one dared to disturb her there, not even the elders. The library was sacred ground, and Mira had always found comfort in its quiet corners.

The heavy wooden doors of the library creaked as she pushed them open, the scent of old parchment and ink immediately filling her senses. She exhaled slowly, the weight of the outside world easing off her shoulders as she stepped inside. The stone floors were cool beneath her feet, the tall shelves lined with books stretching up toward the vaulted ceiling. It was a place of knowledge, of history—both of which she craved.

Mira made her way to the back of the library, her small fingers tracing the spines of the familiar volumes as she walked. She knew exactly where she was going. It was always the same corner, the same book.

Her favorite place to hide.

Tucked away on the lowest shelf, nearly forgotten by time, was the worn leather-bound tome that had captured her curiosity ever since she could remember. The title, barely legible from years of wear, read The Fall of the Dark Elves. It was an ancient text, its pages yellowed with age, recounting the story of her ancestors—the dark elves who had once been a powerful force, only to be hunted down and slaughtered for their defiance.

Mira pulled the book from the shelf and settled into her usual corner, curling her legs beneath her as she opened it to the familiar passage.

"The dark elves, gifted with unparalleled mastery over arcane magic, were feared by their own kin. Their power was seen as a threat to the natural order, their desire for autonomy viewed as a rebellion against the High Elves’ rule. The council of elders decreed that they be exterminated, for the safety of all elvenkind."

Mira’s fingers traced the words, her jaw tightening in frustration. She had read this passage a hundred times, and every time it filled her with the same anger. The elves were the heroes in this story, portrayed as protectors of the realm who had rid the world of a dangerous threat.

But Mira knew better.

The dark elves hadn’t been dangerous. They had simply wanted to be seen, to be respected for the gifts they had been born with. But their magic was too different, too powerful. The other elves had feared it, and in their fear, they had destroyed an entire people.

Mira’s eyes scanned the next passage, heart heavy with the weight of her ancestors’ fate.

"And so, the dark elves were slaughtered. Entire villages burned to the ground, their inhabitants wiped from existence. Those who survived were driven into hiding, their lineage fading into legend. But it is said that every few hundred years, the soul of a dark elf will reincarnate, a shadow upon the light of the High Elves. These souls are marked, tainted by the darkness of their ancestors, and they carry within them the magic of the fallen."

Mira closed the book, her fingers lingering on the rough leather cover as her mind wandered. The story painted the dark elves as villains, but she knew the truth. Her father had told her stories—stories of a proud people, of a culture rich in magic and art, of a world lost to fear and hatred. He had taught her that the darkness within them wasn’t something to be feared, but something to be embraced.

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It was a part of who she was.

But the rest of the world didn’t see it that way. To them, she was an oddity, a reminder of a past they wanted to forget. Her father’s presence in the village was tolerated only because of the king’s decree. But she could see the way the elders looked at him—the way they looked at her. They were afraid of what she might become.

Mira stood, carefully placing the book back on the shelf as the sound of commotion reached her ears. The muffled voices of the villagers drifted in through the open windows, and she could hear the heavy footsteps of someone running outside.

Curiosity piqued, Mira made her way toward the door. Something was happening.

As she stepped outside, the village was alive with activity. People gathered in the square, their faces a mixture of fear and excitement. Elders stood in a tight circle, speaking in hushed tones, while children peeked out from behind their parents, eyes wide with curiosity.

Mira’s gaze swept over the scene, her stomach tightening with a sense of foreboding. Something wasn’t right. The air felt thick with tension, and the whispers around her spoke of danger—something, or someone, had come to the village.

Mira’s hand tightened around the strap of her satchel as she made her way toward the center of the crowd.

Mira barely made it two steps before a sudden, sharp pain pierced through her skull. It felt like a blade cutting through her mind, a force so overwhelming she nearly stumbled back. Her hands shot up to her temples, pressing hard against the throbbing agony that was building behind her eyes. The world around her dimmed, the voices of the villagers turning into an indistinct murmur as her vision blurred.

Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

The pounding in her head intensified, and before she could even think, she fell backward, collapsing onto the cold, hard ground. Her knees gave way, and the world spun around her as a sharp gasp escaped her lips.

In the distance, she could vaguely hear the startled murmurs of the crowd. The village elders were turning, their watchful eyes now fixed on her. The children who had once avoided her stood frozen in shock, watching as Mira writhed on the ground.

Images flashed before her eyes—violent, blood-soaked images that sent her heart racing with fear. Slaughter. Death. A battlefield drenched in crimson, bodies strewn across the ground like broken dolls. The screams of the dying echoed in her ears, drowning out all other sound.

Mira gasped, her breath fastening in her throat as the vision shifted. Dark elves, her ancestors, stood at the center of it all—faces twisted in agony, their bodies disintegrating under the weight of overwhelming force. And yet, in the midst of the carnage, there was something more.

Power.

Power beyond anything Mira had ever imagined, a force so natural and primal it seemed to pulse through her veins like fire.

She screamed, the sound ripping through the village square as her body convulsed, unable to escape the torment inside her mind. Each vision was more graphic than the last, each flash of memory more horrible than the one before.

"Mira!" a voice shouted, cutting through the haze of pain. Her father.

She could barely make out his form as he burst from one of the nearby buildings, his silver hair wild around his face as he rushed toward her. But just as he reached out, her vision twisted again, the memories slamming into her with renewed force.

Her father’s face melted into another—a dark elf warrior, surrounded by flames, screaming as his body was torn apart by magic too powerful to control. Mira thrashed on the ground, her sobs of agony breaking through the visions, but they wouldn’t stop.

They just kept coming, each one more violent, more terrifying.

The crowd had begun to shift, turning their attention away from whatever commotion had started in the village square. All eyes were now on Mira, whispers of fear and confusion rippling through the onlookers. Some stepped back, while others stared in frozen shock, unsure of what they were witnessing.

"Mira!" her father’s voice was closer now, desperate as he reached out again, trying to pull her from the grip of the unseen force that held her captive. His eyes were wide with terror, his hands trembling as they reached toward her, but the distance between them felt impossible to cross.

Suddenly, the sound of galloping hooves thundered through the square. Men on horseback appeared, wearing the familiar crests of the king’s guards. They pushed their way through the crowd with brutal efficiency, yanking Mira up from the ground with rough hands. The pain in her head flared again, but this time, it wasn’t just the visions that overwhelmed her—it was the forceful grip of the guards, dragging her limp body toward the nearest horse.

"No!" Her father’s scream tore through the air, hand outstretched as he tried to reach her. "Leave her! Let her go!"

But it was no use. The guards were too fast, too organized. They slung Mira’s limp form over the back of one of the horses, her body jolting with each movement as her vision swirled with agony. Her mind was still trapped in the storm of memories, flashes of dark magic, betrayal, and war clouding her every thought. She could barely make sense of what was happening around her—the reality of her capture and the nightmare in her head blending together in a sickening blur.

Through her tears, she caught a glimpse of her father fighting against the guards, his voice hoarse with desperation. "She’s just a child! Please!"

But the guards held him back, swords drawn as they blocked his path. Her mother, sobbing uncontrollably, tried to push through the crowd, her outstretched arms trembling as she screamed for her daughter. The villagers stood by, powerless to intervene as the king’s men turned their horses and rode away, Mira’s broken sobs the only sound cutting through the heavy silence that followed.

The wind howled in her ears as the horses galloped out of the village, the darkened horizon swallowing them whole. And as Mira’s mind continued to spiral in and out of the haunting memories of her ancestors, a single, horrifying thought solidified in her mind: She was no longer safe. Not in the village. Not anywhere.