“Show her to me again,” urged Ordelas as he stared into the red fluid that pooled in his hands. The only thing that seemed to exist was the faint glow that emanated from the ominous liquid. Everything beyond the highest step of the throne room was cast into deep shadows.
“I can not,” informed a voice only the darklord could hear. Even though the reverberating voice sounded soft, it remained vast and powerful. The voice belonged to Ordelas’s other. It was the voice of Bleodsian.
“Can not or will not?” inquired Ordelas.
“She is beyond my vision. I can show you no more,” explained the spirit.
The king’s sorcery was reliant on the spirit’s aid. Without Bleodsian, he could do nothing. Ordelas provided his companion with anger, and in return, he received all the power he needed. They were two souls within one body, and they had become so closely intertwined that one would be incomplete without the other. They existed separately, yet they shared the same wishes. Where one began and the other ended was a mystery, even to the king himself.
However, that power recently worked against him. His sorcery was fueled by wrath. By its very nature, it wished to harm and destroy. But it failed to reach his opponent, Malendar, and Ordelas became the subject of the backlash.
His spell devoured his own right hand. It should have taken a year to grow back but his domain, blood, was one of the few known magics that held power over both life and death. His hand returned but the pain remained.
It was not his hand the phantasmal wound rested upon but his entire existence. His sorcery came from beyond and born from himself, it did more damage than just his body. It seared his soul and had no one to blame but himself.
Some part of him begged the wound to hurt more, burn hotter. He grew so accustomed to pain that he thought his old scars lost their potency. There was a time when the agony was fresh and compelled him further than any duty. But that pain also distracted and broke through his defenses. If he closed his eyes, he experienced nightmares.
Ordelas closed his fist, causing boiling blood to seep through his fingers. He cursed bitterly in disappointment as the essence of life poured onto the steps below him. He deplored his weakness and the invisible force that obstructed his vision. He looked at the open wounds on the palms of his hands and watched as they closed. The blood on the steps festered until the stonework greedily drank it up, and the red pools disappeared along with the marks on Ordelas’s hands.
“How is this possible?” he asked aloud, already aware of the answer.
“Something is...hindering me.” Ordelas sensed Bleodsian’s reluctance within himself more than he could feel it in his other’s words.
The Darklord knew Bleodsian’s limits. Two possibilities that came to mind were the chance that Malendar’s will was strong enough to dispel Ordelas’s link with his assassin, or the odd chance that Tarica no longer desired to be seen. How could any resolve be powerful enough to sever his and Tarica’s bond? Every time he looked at the pool of blood in his hands, he saw the moment Tarica was crumpled on her knees as if she was about to break.
Many years ago, Ordelas had a similar problem when he searched for a friend who had been captured by the enemy. At the time, everything that his enemies touched was shrouded in bright light. The darklord had gone blind for a short while after he tried to divine the exact location of his former ally. Ordelas had witnessed the presence of an enormous but closed eye and heard a loud, sleeping breath that sounded like a thunderstorm. If Ordelas wished, he could recall a heartbeat in the great unknown, but that was all he could discern.
Ordelas looked up to see his advisor treading upon the woeful faces carved into the stone steps below. He was so preoccupied with the spell that he failed to notice the other elf enter the throne room. For Ceronus’s sake, torches that cast light on the darklord’s face blazed to life as he approached.
Ceronus possessed the build of a more peaceful time. He was not dressed as a warrior but a counselor. A majority of the time he was around the king, he wore a wary smile while his lord was still capable of understanding or an expression of overprotective worry. He possessed the common traits of black hair and brown eyes.
Dark circles complimented his bloodshot eyes from months of wakefulness. He regained much of his old muscle to fill his armor’s ivory plates. His crimson mantle looked more akin to a liquid than any fabric as if a red river flowed from his shoulders. That day, his chest plate displayed the iconography of the outline of six wings as if to remind himself who he was he he gazed upon a mirror. The wings were black that day.
His own Honor Guard wore that emblem over their hearts, a black oval to contain white wings. Wings meant freedom and ascension. Freedom meant death.
Ceronus touched the arm of the throne and practically breathed, “Something wrong, my lord?” into Ordelas’s ear.
Ordelas looked straight ahead. “Yes, I lost sight of her.”
“Maybe she used magic,” suggested Ceronus.
Ordelas turned his head to the side and glared. “Since when did she know how to use magic?” he snarled.
Ceronus put some distance between himself and the livid king. “I do not know, my lord.”
“And somehow her magic is more powerful than my own,” Ordelas added, his voice seething with barely contained rage. After Ordelas’s remark stripped Ceronus’s idea of any merit, there was no need to deny it was utterly impossible for any magic of Tarica’s to be the cause. Ceronus could think of nothing else to say, so Ordelas stared ahead with eyes as blank as a statue’s. Ordelas’s long black hair was as dark as his eyes and made his complexion all the more pallid. The king was tall, but he had the broad shoulders of a diligent smith. His features were sharp and youthful in spite of his two millennia long life. It was as if Ordelas had abandoned time long before it had the chance to leave him behind. Exhaustion, however, had sapped the elf of vigor.
“We should attack before they counter our ploy,” recommended Ceronus, breaking the silence. Ordelas’s brow raised in an all-too-human gesture. “Our ploy?” he inquired.
“I meant yours, my lord,” replied Ceronus with a nervous smile. Ordelas was unpredictable when he was frustrated. He could be perfectly calm one moment and manage the hate brewing inside him before it would violently erupt the very next second. Other times, his mind was racked with guarded paranoia.
“No, you were correct the first time,” answered Ordelas before he steepled his fingers in contemplation. “Ceronus, you have contributed much to the grand plan. To deny your work and effort would be unjust.”
“Everything is as you say, my lord,” answered his advisor ritualistically.
Ordelas viewed his advisor and said, “Sometimes I question the fact that what I say is what you want to hear.”
Ceronus let out a laugh as if his lord was jesting. He regretted it when he saw how his king’s eyes narrowed in distrust. “Your suspicions are unfounded, my lord. We all wish to see what lies beyond the dream. It is only to be expected that we would honor the words you say.”
Ordelas let out a deep breath and calmed himself, but it almost sounded like a hiss. “I also hope to see the vision come true, but I can not accomplish it on my own. It is no longer my dream, but everyone’s.”
“And we are proud to share it with you,” replied the advisor. “We serve you as we served your father. Your will is our own.”
“Do you speak of Alfar?” His voice was devoid of anger or sadness. Confusion temporarily distracted him from such thoughts. “Do you serve me as you served him or do you speak of someone else?”
Ordelas’s attitude towards his ancestry was sporadic. Sometimes he acknowledged the ones that he shared blood with as his parents but he just as often considered Ceronus and the original four commanders to have fulfilled that role whether individually or collectively. The kingdom as a whole recognized Ordelas as the son of Alfar and Narcissa but the two had perished before their child’s first breath. The first person Ordelas would have ever seen would have been the future sorcerer, Kírous, who extracted him from a dead womb.
That alone should have cemented the elder as the one Ordelas most respected, indeed Ordelas tolerated the most from Kírous but the commanders were separated from their lord during his developing years. In that time he was raised in a manner the Dark Elves were uninclined to speak of. The one Ordelas referred to his true father came from that time though the king was no longer worthy of calling out that name. The foundation of his values from those years could not be undone even after two thousand years.
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It was those years that taught him that family was more than flesh and blood. His ideology proved popular among his subjects. Those that fought alongside each other often regarded each other as closer than their own kin by blood.
Ceronus remained silent as his king frowned. The only one Ceronus acknowledged as Ordelas’s sire was Alfar. The king recalled as much and when words next left his lips, it was as if the question was never asked.
“Alfar did not have the same resources that I have acquired.” Ordelas’s words sounded obligatory and his display of humility was for his advisor’s sake. “It is best to wait a bit longer before we attack. Have the commanders reassess the plans. We shall send out our forces soon enough.”
“But my lord...” Ceronus beseeched.
“I have waited for a millennium, and I am content to wait another century if necessary.”
“Our assassin did not succeed. Malendar—” began the advisor.
“Will do nothing,” Ordelas finished. “He is too cowardly to declare war unless he is backed into a corner. Even if my uncle, that irresponsible fool, finds out about my...our...little plot, our faithful “friend” Malendar will hold him back.”
Ceronus had his doubts. “Are you sure Malendar can hold him back? His reputation is not of one that is so easily bound.”
Ordelas growled like an irritated animal but did not lash out at Ceronus. Instead, he merely looked away and let words escape from his mouth like thorns. “I know him less than anyone, thus I understand him more than any other. Malendar will keep him in check. Of that, I am certain.”
His advisor realized he had made a mistake and tried to redirect Ordelas. “My lord...”
“Leave me!” commanded Ordelas as he lifted his hand to silence the counselor. Ordelas’s madness shined brightly in his eyes. He brought his hand to his head and rubbed his temple.
The counselor stepped away and spoke to someone in the corner of the king’s vision. “Vel, bring our lord some wine to settle his spirit,” he instructed quietly. Loud enough to not appear to be keeping secrets but soft enough to not make it a clear announcement.
Ordelas failed to recall Vel being in the room. Did she enter while he was not paying attention? The king raised his head and lowered his hand to focus his eyes on the serf.
Dressed in ordinary clothes but blessed with medium length blood red hair stood a slender elf. She was short by the standard of elves with pale green eyes. She certainly looked like Vel.
“That is Iser,” the king stated loudly and clearly in frustration.
One could tell Iser from Vel from their dispositions. Vel was naturally quiet and still while Iser exuded energy. Iser already was beginning to open her mouth to correct the advisor but her lips settled into a grin at the recognition.
Ceronus bowed his head. “Thank you my lord.” The advisor could say nothing else, to apologize would only make the situation worse. He took his leave.
The king watched Ceronus leave the throneroom, Iser followed soon after. Alone with only the Honor Guard at the doorway, he stepped out onto the balcony. Before him was the mighty city Raven’s Hold. From his view in the central tower, he could see the white expanse of buildings and surrounding areas.
He frequently shared the same sight with Tarica. If she lived, they could still be reunited. If she was dead, it was simply fate that they would never meet again. His soul was tied to Bleodsian. When he died, he would accompany Bleodsian to the hereafter, the way that the spirit had always remained by Ordelas during life. It was inevitable that the king and assassin would part, but Ordelas hoped to witness the end with Bleodsian before he left the world behind.
He looked down upon his kingdom and then gazed at the stars above. It was day, yet the stars still ruled the sky, thanks to his magic. He would see this impure world come to an end, and the stars would bear witness when his plans came to fruition.
He should not have sent Tarica. He should have sent someone else, for now they were separated. Ordelas knew she lived, but what did that mean? Was she captured? If anything had happened to her, Malendar would know Ordelas’s wrath.
His eyes glowed red as burned through all pretense and possibility to behold the future. In that vision he saw a two wings of stretching across the sky to encompass the whole world. His foresight was the same as ripping out all the pages of a book to reach the end. He saw the conclusion of all things.
Even if he did nothing, one day the sun would die and take everything with it. The world was doomed to die, but Ordelas could not suffer it to endure even until then.
His heart pounded within his chest, and the blood flowing inside him grew hot. His eyes turned red as he bared his teeth. Ordelas’s gaze fell upon the railing, and he wished it was Malendar’s neck as his hands crushed the stonework. He would destroy everything the Light Elf had ever held dear. In this world, Ordelas’s image symbolized violence incarnate. He would crush everything.
A roar echoed through his thoughts. “Raise your head, Ordelas,” instructed Bleodsian.
Ordelas turned toward the direction the sound came from. Earlier, during his contemplation of what the world would become, he had mistaken the sound. Now that he had a moment, it was clear to him. He realized what he heard, and though he could not see anything beyond the palace walls, he could sense that somewhere in the north, something was calling for him.
“No,” he corrected himself as a faint smile formed on his face and he began to laugh. “All shall burn.”
Ordelas was the lord of darkness. He was feared by all, but there was someone else that inspired more dread than him. One whose name was said in hushed whispers. Ordelas was the master of shadows, but what the world feared most was the Doomlord, destruction made manifest. While Ordelas was allowed his freedom, the one who could bring death to everyone was sealed away. During attempts to connect with Tarica, an older bond had reached out to Ordelas. After all the centuries, they would finally be reunited. For countless years, whenever Ordelas had tried to make contact, he only heard a faraway heartbeat like the depths of a star. Now, when he listened, the rhythm, eager to awaken, raged louder than ever. Somehow, Ordelas sensed that his forces were drawing close to the source of the mighty roar.
“This is destiny,” Bleodsian stated musically. “The carnage has not begun because it is not yet time. Wait just a little longer, my dear Ordelas.”
Ordelas stared at his hand as he futilely motioned and tried to feel Tarica’s presence. Ordelas’s good fortune gave him the courage to try one more time. While his soul nearly leapt for joy, the news had little value without anyone to share it with.
“Worry not, Ordelas,” soothed the spirit. “Not even a god can stop the inevitable. The world balances on the edge of destruction. When the war begins, all will be gathered. There will be no place for anyone to hide. All will participate in the slaughter. She will come back to you in time.”
“Though I can not speak for all,” Ordelas acknowledged. “I will remain here.”
His conversation earned the attention of others. Ordelas could not see as much as he felt the presence of those who watched from above. Ordelas, unable to leave yet, addressed his hidden audience. “I lost sight of Tarica,” he informed them. He did not look, but he knew they were there. Concealed among the statues that adorned the tower were two lurking shadows. “To you, she is family. I know your feelings for each other well enough. For the time being, I have no new commands for you. Now go, do as you wish.”
He exhaled as they left. He found some relief in trusting Tarica’s two closest sisters to find her where his sorcery failed. When he next inhaled, he caught the scent of raw meat.
He turned to find an elf with red hair and pale green eyes waiting for him with a cup and a vase of wine ready.
She bowed her head. “Do you have any new commands for me, my lord?” she inquired almost intrusively but with enough respect to interpret it correctly as anticipation.
“Did-“ he began.
He could have sworn that Ceronus asked Iser to bring the wine. But the one he saw before him was Run. Was he that far gone that he could not tell the two apart?
“Yes, my lord,” she reassured him. “It was Iser that was set to perform this task.”
The three were the rarest of all elven occurrences, triplets and identical ones at that, at least in body. Even twins were exceptionally rare and most of those twins were fraternal. While their personalities were dissimilar, their mannerisms often matched with each having a unique quirk to identify one from the other. Iser flexed her fingers when angry instead of making a fist, Run held her breath when surprised, and Vel hid her thumb under her fingers when making a fist among other things.
Such a simple exchange should not have made him doubt. They were his proof he was still fit to be king, that he still knew his people. That if he decided to leave his palace, he might be able to recognize previous supplicants and call out to them by name and recall what they asked of him as he used to.
Would he be able to do that? Or would he need to visits the grave markers of long dead foes to recall names and list out grudges he was never able to settle?
He was not sure he could do either anymore. He forgot friendly faces in his five hundred years alone and those he called enemies were so many that he ceased to count.
“Why did you switch with Iser?” he asked firmly.
“I was preparing your pet’s next meal at the time and it proved convenient at the time for us to trade places.”
Run was the most like the others. The best hunter of the three, calm and analytical but also ready to pounce. Iser was the warrior while Vel crafted.
“I have no instructions for you as well,” he stated. “Do as you wish.”
“Then my sisters and I will stay here for if you need us,” she bowed again and poured him a cup.
The king felt something rile in the back of his throat but he held back the venom. He wanted her to leave. He found her presence in Tarica’s absence discomforting.
Before he brought the wine to his lips he let out a call. The repressed venom turned his the simple name into a shout. “Mal-“ He lowered his voice as he heard the commander already making his way up the steps. “-niza.”
His bodyguard’s heavy footsteps were so rapid that one could not discern one from another like the peal of thunder. Fast as the wind, he came to a halt and bowed his head, resting a hand over his heart. “You called for me, my lord?”
“Call for the others. I require them to revise their plans,” the darklord instructed.