For many days the sky had raged. What once was a blackness gentle as the night shifted and swelled. What was not thunder roared overhead like an army of injured beasts. The unnatural weather mirrored the land’s returned king. However, the capital was spared the worst of it as it sat in the center of the storm.

The land outside the walls of the palace Tarica found herself occupying forgot the terrible light of the sun. A Veil rested over the land, protecting it, not with clouds but solid shadow born from their lord’s will. Some acclaimed the darkness was cast by his wings but Tarica had yet to see those six wings for herself beyond the occasional portrayals of him possessing them.

All that they knew before the storm was a faint halo, like an eternal eclipse where its outline was tolerated to be seen. By the calendars of those outside the Veil the king erected, their kingdom had been sheltered from the sun for approximately a thousand four hundred years. In that time, the stars reigned during both the night and day. Elves were notorious for not keeping record of the passage of time and the Dark Elves who were liberated from the sun were even more detached from such concepts. They, like their kin, only noticed the completion of the year through the cycle of seasons.

The lack of strong light failed to bother those that called the kingdom home. Tarica like others that lived beneath the Veil appreciated the beauty of starlight and shadows over the sting of the sun. The moon was still visible by the grace of their lord, for its ability to change and provide variation to the sky but nights where it remained hidden were often considered most wondrous.

She had been raised to serve the one that brought such beauty into the world. Unfortunately, when she finally met her king after he returned from his imprisonment, he left her with doubts. The second time was him telling her of her responsibilities and introducing her to the Honor Guard. It would be the third time they crossed paths that she would believe her faith was rewarded.

The day he met was the day he gave her a role. The second encounter gave her a title, the Deer. Her new title matched well with her past experience. Tarica often found herself compared to a deer by her own family. Her hair and eyes resembled the fur of a doe’s.

A figure seemed to materialize in front of her. It was as if a gale transfigured into flesh and polished metal. Along with the shortlived encounter came a single instruction. “Go to the throneroom,”

The commander had been sprinting in a blur of motion then came to a complete stop to deliver his message as clearly and deliberately as possible.

The next moment, he sprinted away, his red cape billowing behind him.

To try to keep pace with him was to race against the wind. Still she did her best, losing sight of him as they went up the wide, winding stairwell that ran through the central spire. The tower was the tallest of a set of five. reaching towards the heavens.

The staircase came to an end at the second last floor. Instead of being divided up like the levels before, it was all a single nearly empty room without even a door for the narrow ascending passageway on the opposite end she came from. The walls were lined with dull hooks that gleamed in the candlelight provided by the many small candles that adorned the circumference so there was no hidden corner.

Instead of the usual guardian, a pair of fully plated elves garbed in garish gilded cloaks barred her path with their spears crossed over each. The bodyguards of the king almost always operated in pairs or more when protecting their lord. One to defend their liege and one to pursue their enemy. Each wore a golden ring. Adorning the band was a smooth crimson jewel. It was almost like a liquid, as if a drop of blood could be suspended in place.

A majority of the palace conformed to the king’s tastes. Most of the rooms were small, uncomfortable for those that might be claustrophobic. Among such exceptions were the throneroom. Tarica's own new quarters, being on the ground floor where visitors might be expected was among such exceptions along with the four commanders' towers that surrounded the main spire and this floor immediately below the throneroom.

After countless bouts of sparring against various opponents, Tarica developed a knack for assessing potential foes. At the very least, she could often tell if someone was faster, stronger, or more skilled than her simply by how they carried themselves.

The Honor Guard were consummate soldiers, the one advantage she had was that she would be swifter than them while they remained in their armor. The one weakness she detected was that their every movement suggested that they anticipated to be in a group.

These were soldiers that gave their lives before ever setting foot in the grave. At the late stage of the siege, when they left their posts at the palace, they stemmed the enemy’s assault. Even the enemy knew a charge against them was suicide.

Wordlessly and without being even a measurable heartbeat out of sync, the guards lifted their spears at the sight of her as she approached. She passed through without issue.

The king had told her the Honor Guard would never bar her way unless he told them to but this was the first time she witnessed their compliance to that order.

Her second meeting with the king had been dedicated to that very detail. After a blood ritual, he summoned each and every member of the Honor Guard to memorize her with threat of shame or death if they ever failed to recognize her right to enter. Hundreds of her fellow elves knew her by sight now.

She resembled a large number of her kind. A majority of her kin had dark hair, usually black but hers was a common variant of brown like deer fur that was about as light one might expect among her kind. Her eyes were a darker shade of the same color.

What might have helped in one noticing her in a crowd was how short she kept her hair. It was a common fashion even among those in active service to grow it long but she kept it short enough that she never needed to fear it obstructing her field of vision. Long hair was often a statement that one perfected their technique and concentration enough to not let such small details hinder them and she dared not believe she reached that pinnacle.

The final, short, passageway to ascend was narrow with only enough room for two to walk side by side at best. One person could easily hold their ground and use it as a chokepoint against invaders.

More members of the Honor Guard were there to silently greet her as she exited. Two Honor Guard members stood with their backs to the lip of the passageway while four were at the sides of the grand doorway to the their lord, grouped in pairs. A short arching corridor ran parallel with the door to serve as a sort of additional waiting area if the way had been shut as it often was. However, the heavy iron doors to the throneroom were already wide open.

She hesitated to enter. Even if invited, even if ordered, it was not a place to thoughtlessly enter. From outside, what was most immediately noticeable was the formation of Honor Guard in the center of the room. They were arrayed by the sacred number, six by six.

Her king stood in front of the throne with the commander, Malniza, at his side, overlooking nearly two score armored warriors arranged in rows. Behind the warriors were three distinct figures.

The Honor Guard disturbingly reminded her of golden torches, their cloaks illuminated by even the faintest light. One would have to be blind not to notice them. Hidden beneath the abhorrent gilded cloaks were the king's true colors as seen in their silver plates edged with onyx.

The Dark Elves often garbed themselves in the colors of death. The three sacred colors encapsulated what they valued most. White for destruction, red for passion, and black stood for unity. They had other meanings: black for the sky, white for the stars, and red for the horizon.

Other than their varying statures, the Honor Guard shared near identical likenesses. They varied in height with some being extraordinarily tall by elven standards with broader shoulders to match but they all seemed large in their full plate and helmets and armed with twohanded spears always in one hand when at rest. They were always prepared to fend away enemies while their bodies shielded their lord, each with a one handed sword resting by their side.

A narrow path of barely lit silver braziers cut a path through the dark to the throne. The flames made the shadows beyond their reach seem even deeper as if there were no walls or ceiling, simply a void. The illusion was only broken by the open entryway to her left that led to a balcony overlooking the south and gave her glimpses of the land beyond.

Standing behind the formation, in stark contrast to the uniformity of the Honor Guard were the three she had been told in recent days to consider as her sisters. Only one she had met but the others matched the descriptions she had been provided. She recognized the first of the three to be her new sister Hílainno. The other two were still strangers to her.

Furthest to her left was Hílainno dressed in bright, colorful garments, in the middle was a slouching elf cloaked entirely in black wearing a four sided skull mask, and to the rightmost was one in a formal dress giving no more sense of passion as Tarica would find in a statue.

She entered. Her supposed sisters were the only ones to show signs of sensing her approach. The ones on her left and right turned their heads to her footsteps.

Hílainno’s light brown eyes, like her kind smile, betrayed no malice or bloodlust.

Her sister stood out like a flower blooming in a snowfield. She appeared nothing like an assassin, so she was an ideal killer.

Hílainno’s robe was adorned in floral patterns. Her long sleeves hung loosely at the elbow so it would appear as if she possessed wings if she spread her arms wide.

Her long, dark auburn hair seemed like Tarica’s own but with faint red highlights? Perhaps if Tarica tinted her own hair and her eyes brightened, she might have resembled her new sister.

Her hair flowed over her shoulders in waves. Her winding auburn hair shifted shades with the angling and light. Tarica imagined herself watching the tide of a dark red sea.

Her rightmost sister tilted her head to regard her. The assassin kept her hair at a medium length but that mattered little to Tarica whose attention was immediately drawn to her eyes. Her sister’s emerald eyes betrayed no particular interest.

She would not be able to describe why in that moment but it felt as if the elf standing in before her was not even a person. A person carried a certain warmth but Tarica only detected a cold, alien intelligence deep behind those emerald eyes. Tarica might think it was something reptilian but that would be too primal. What was there was measuring and predicting Tarica’s every movement.

She recognized Hílainno and if the one clad in black was Ruhin, the third one had to be Syicho. Syicho, the monster, the only Dark Elf to ever be called such a thing by their own kin.

Not the faintest twitch of Syicho’s lips demonstrated interest or discontent. “Is she our new sister?” she inquired with a smooth voice flat as her expression.

Her sister’s every word chilled Tarica’s heart. With the discomfort came a pange of guilt. Who was she to make such assumptions of one that came before her? If there was something missing, it had to be within Tarica herself to not appreciate who stood in front of her.

What came from her centermost sister did not even sound like a voice but rather the shrill cry of an insect somehow stringed into words. “Indeed she is.” Her sister made no movement, the only proof those words came from her was the testimony of Tarica’s own ears. How such a noise could come from anyone’s mouth challenged her imagination. It reminded Tarica most of the earsplitting screech of a cicada.

Her middle sister had to be Ruhin, the rumored masked assassin. Ruhin’s cloak ran from her shoulders to her heels. It was only short enough to not drag on the ground. It concealed her arms and her legs so it seemed like any side of her mask could have been the one she was looking through.

All that could be seen beyond the skull was blackness. She must have been wearing a second mask beneath made from see through fabric or the eyeholes were expertly covered.

If Tarica stared hard enough, she could detect the faint outline of a hood tucked under the folds of her cloak. It must have been for when she was being covert. The stark white mask stood out noticeably against the black garments but if she hid that, she could undoubtedly melt into the shadows.

This was not the company Tarica ever dreamed to be among. She had spent nearly four hundred years of her life cultivating her combat skills. She was a weapon but when her value was finally recognized, it was not for her potential on a battlefield but as an instrument of murder.

Fortunately or unfortunately, there was resonance between her training and her allotted task. Warriors might need to be covert in their operations so she was as competent in stealth if not more so adept than most of her kind. Elves by their nature blended with their surroundings. They were connected to the land and were as much a part of their environment as a waterfall.

She, like her mentor, was talentless. That meant her destiny was undecided. Those granted too powerful of an affinity found themselves tied to their calling. Still, there was a difference for what she prepared to be and what she was to become.

Just by being near them, she could sense the gap between their skills and hers as easily as she might see a river cutting through a gorge. They were true veterans of their craft.

There was a difference between pragmatic and dishonorable. Her new profession walked along the border between the two and more often than not would have her stray towards the latter. Her own master, after voicing his initial opposition on that same day, stated that she was suited for her role. She was better with her knifework and barehanded brawling than she was with a sword. If she refreshed her memory of using a bow, he would have recommended she become a ranger or simply become part a raiding unit as was intended.

She brought her eyes to the throne. Sculpted from silver and resting upon bone white marble, the throne resembled a set of many wings as if sprouting from the lord's back if the king had been seated. Many of the individual feathers caught the light of the braziers and appeared themselves to be on fire.

Upon the steps were engraved many faces, all looking up towards the heavens in either rage or torment depending on the angle of the braizers’ light.

The king still stood with his commander. The king’s matching dark eyes and hair seemed otherworldly against his pallid skin and, at that moment, bonewhite armor. Sometimes, the plates seemed to be glistening silver but that day the metal was dull. He chose not to wear the mantle of leadership or crown on that day.

Odlig, her mentor, warned her the only comparison her lord readily accepted for his eyes was polished coal. The description was apt. His irises were solid black yet shined with a consistent sheen as if rejecting all light rather than reflecting the rays. His pupils were like concealed, empty wells, walled off from world by the black bands.

There was a youngness to his features even as an ageless anger clouded his vision. He was youthful yet ancient at once like a youngster trying to imitate an elder. His currently lean face appeared more sharp and refined than gaunt.

He was noticeably thin in the few places his armor failed to cover him from spending his years in a prison, even elven muscle atrophied after five centuries. Otherwise, the white plates edged in black made it appear as though he fared well in those times. The shadows around his already coal black eyes against pale skin made it seem as if she was looking into the empty sockets of a skull if not for the anger nesting within them.

There were many interpretations of what their king truly was. Some thought him to be a prophet, others their savior or avatar of their true god. Her parents raised her to view him as an infallible king. A concept difficult to take root when her lord was captured in her childhood five centuries ago.

Her mentor seemed to believe their king was a savior but in a strange grounded way only one who had witnessed his lord's every failing could. To be certain that while his lord was part of something great, he was not infallible. Her time with her mentor led her to adopt a similar outlook.

Tarica was not sure what she thought anymore after meeting her lord for herself. There should have been something more to a savior and a prophet would not be so shortsighted as to mistreat his greatest allies. All she knew for certain was that he was her king.

As king, his will was the kingdom's will. Her people were not prisoners, all but the most essential personages were free to leave. Her land's creed was that it was better to be alone than beside someone one can not trust so there was no meaning in keeping the disloyal. That her people stayed meant they accepted his rule. To oppose him was to reject her kin.

His return should have been a time of celebration, to have their liege returned to them. For most it was, but those that knew him realized their king came back hollow. Tarica saw it for herself. Where there was not anger, there was disinterest and apathy. The king did not muster anything more than the simplest greeting when reunited with her mentor, one of his faithful commanders.

Even without their lord to direct them, the Dark Elves were not slothful at least by the standards of elves. The kingdom had five hundred years to prepare for its master’s return.

Tarica herself spent over three hundred years training under her mentor, Odlig, in his efforts to ensure there was a disciplined force ready for combat in case their first orders were to join battle. Those orders had not yet come.

Her lord was hostile but his hatred was unfocused, regarding friend and foe equally. She had been warned but her first meeting with her king was beyond her expectations. He was wild, an unsheathed blade ready to cut anyone who drew close, even her mentor. The gathering gave her hope though. He seemed animated at least regarding this.

She was a bystander, an example of her kind’s dedication in his absence. She watched as the first exchange between king and commander after five hundred years became an argument. Yet no harm came to anyone, not as far as she was aware, at that time.

The commander, Malniza, now that he was still enough to be properly observed, could be seen as lean but unlike the starved king, his body was the result of surviving a different hardship. He possessed the black hair common to her kin which he kept short and silver eyes opposite to his lord’s.

Malniza’s body type appeared thin at first glance but was actually deceptively toned. The type of build that did not let the onset of muscle weigh one down. His long, strong legs, his persistent sprinter’s posture, the way he leaned his upper body forward with his shoulders pointing in whatever direction he was heading the moment he quickened his pace all spoke of someone who survived through swiftness rather than strength.

The only details that would make Tarica think differently were two choices of gear, his heavy armored boots and the red cape that trailed behind him. The latter garnered little suspicion from her in that regard, though it likely caught the wind, it was far better about that than the cloaks his subordinates wore. Otherwise, his choice of attire matched the uniforms of his Honor Guard with some modifications.

If her mentor’s form was that of a martial artist, one that purposefully trained and shaped oneself. Malniza possessed the body of a true warrior, his every muscle had been nurtured and shaped through necessity and combat rather than discipline and exercise. What had brought him victory and survival in countless battles had been agility. Even the greatest of their kin might struggle to overpower an orcish or dwarven champion in a contest of strength but elven warriors were expected to outpace their opponents.

While it might have been debatable, one was not proclaimed as the Dark Kingdom’s greatest warrior without adequate cause. That cause was certainly not boasting on the bodyguard’s part. All tales of his prowess came from witnesses rather than the commander himself.

The king’s voice reached her ears. He did not trouble himself to whisper but it was obvious from his stance that he was addressing the commander rather than those gathered. “Is this everyone?” he asked, his voice low and morose.

“Yes, my lord,” the commander answered quickly and solemnly. There was a swiftness even in his speech pattern, slowed to a steady pace only for clarity by rectitude. “Thirty-six of the best Honor Guard currently within the palace as you ordered. With your companions included, that would be forty. Are you certain you can bring that many under such conditions?”

“I must,” the king stated, every word punctuated as if they were complete within themselves. “Escort Kírous here and prepare another thirty-six in case I require them.”

Malniza rested a fist over his heart and lowered his head. “Understood, my lord.”

Ordelas raised his hand and shadows spiraled out of his palm, encompassing everyone gathered. The air grew cold like all warmth was plundered from it. It was a deep chill, worse than ice, that dug deeper than her skin and threatened to reach her soul with its frigid embrace.

The world distorted and Tarica felt sick. Shapes and colors melted together into black emptiness. For a moment, all consciousness ceased.

The next instant they stood in a scene of desolation. The damage was unlike anything Tarica had seen. She thought for a moment that they arrived to the aftermath of an earthquake but the structures had all collapsed inward and what remained of the bodies outside were crushed as if placed under extreme pressure. Tarica thought she would she see a similar result if the place had been instantly transported to the bottom of the ocean.

“Secure any and all survivors!” the king thundered.

The words reached her ears as she still processed what she witnessed and warmth creeped back into her skin.

The scent of blood slowly drifted through her nostrils and settled into her skull. Her beat faster as the metallic aroma flooded her mind and alerted her every sense.

Gloom rested over the area. Even night knew the lustrous lining of the moon and starlight through clouds but only a few stars in the distant horizon graced the land. Everything above was missing. It was not choked away like with clouds but completely eaten away.

The sky there still roiled. The shadows above swelled and swayed violently like a turbulent sea, swallowing the stars. Tarica imagined for a moment that something vast might break through and crash down upon them.

The king offered no further explanation. Tarica struggled to catch her breath as her vacant lungs gasped for the air stolen from them. It seemed as if only herself and her belongings had been moved and all else was abandoned. The dead air spoke of no lingering fragrance, only blood and dust.

“First time being carried by the king, I see,” Syicho observed.

“You will become accustomed to it,” Hílainno reassured her with a kind hand on her shoulder.

She flexed her toes to confirm she stood on solid ground. Her hair brushing against the tips of her ears while the wind softly caressed her face. She walked through the ruins of the village as her mind came to accept her abrupt displacement and listened.

She directed herself to wherever there was no one else. The Honor Guard were sweeping forward with the attention to detail scholars might use to scan over a text. She placed herself as far ahead of them as she could, placing herself on the opposite side and worked back towards them.

It was then that she heard something so faint that she could have imagined it. She stopped moving and closed her eyes, focusing all attention to what her ears had to share with her. Voices came to her, distant shifting of rubble, footsteps, the gentle rasps of the wind came to her but offered nothing that she sought.

Then came a set of low, feeble noises stringed together and broken apart by moments of silence. She knew then she could not have imagined it. What she detected was more than a single sound, there was a pattern.

“There is someone here!” Tarica declared.

In the blink of an eye, Ordelas was beside her and gripping the visibly largest remnant of the roof and walls with both hands as he crouched. As swiftly as he appeared, he froze. His arms showed no signs of strain. He held himself back.

“If you move it too suddenly, my lord, more might become unsettled,” Tarica confirmed his unspoken concern.

The whimpering began again, a wordless cry for help. The king must have heard it as well, his fingers clenching into claws. Honor Guard were approaching but he seemed blind to everything except what was immediately before him.

“I will lift this enough for you to crawl underneath,” he stated. “Retrieve whoever is there.”

Tarica nodded.

The king’s irises flashed a solid red and the air around them lost its warmth once more. That time it was not as terrible as the moment she was carried away but she expected frost to flower upon his armor.

He lifted the rubble slightly with apparent ease in an impossible feat of strength. For the effort he showed, the stone and wood might as well have been a sheet of parchment for him to roll away. Yet, at most, Tarica could only hope to fit her fingers through.

“No, you do not need to,” a sweet yet firm voice interjected. It confused her to find no one else had joined them. The source of the voice was the one beside her, the words were escaping from her king’s now smiling mouth as the back of his eyes flickered with a baleful light like crimson lightning raging through a stormy sky. “Why be so cruel? Let them be free.”

This was not the first time she had been acquainted with this aspect of her lord but this was the first time she heard the voice of the one inside him on its own. The time he yelled at her mentor, the two screamed out as one.

“My lord,” she addressed, unsure what else there was to say in a confused plea. “What are your orders?”

He still smiled as he turned his head but his eyes were full of contempt. “You can-“ it began before it grimaced as the unnatural light slowly faded and her king’s eyes regained their ebony shine.

“Save them,” her lord finished weakly as he lifted the rubble higher, enough for her to slip through. “Your orders were to save them. Those instructions remain.”

“Yes, my lord.”

She slid into the opening and crept her way to the center of it all. There were many obstructions in her way but none that she could not overcome or circumvent. If Ordelas let go of the slab he was holding onto then Tarica would be trapped as well.

A number of voices were gathering behind her, the Honor Guard undoubtedly joined their lord in holding the burden steady. They could probably lift it entirely but what still rested over it would pour onto her.

What Tarica found was a cocoon of debris. It was holding the weight of that above so she could not so carelessly undo it. Instead she dug a hole into it while leaving the topmost part intact.

She broke through into the hollow, just enough to fit her hand through. She felt flesh as she reached in but it was cold. She was too late.

She had to be wrong, Ordelas heard the voice as well and it was too soon for the body to have lost its warmth after that moment. She widened the hole.

“Is anyone in there?”

A reply came in the form of faint shuffling.

“I am here,” called Tarica. “Take my hand.”

Someone did take her hand and she pulled the outline of a small child out from the hollow. Layer upon layer of shadow cast the child as a silhouette, the sheen of her hair stood out as just a deeper shade of black. The close to absolute darkness concealed everything but the child’s shape from even Tarica’s eyes.

Tarica smelled congealed blood, how much of it was the child’s was difficult to discern.

“Follow me,” Tarica instructed gently.

No response reached Tarica’s ears. She did not trouble herself to ask if her charge was unharmed. One could not have experienced this disaster and remain unscathed.

Tarica thought to maneuver around and have the youngster follow. Instead, she she took one of the elf’s small hands in her own and crawled backwards. She felt her way back with legs the way she would have shuffled through with her arms. It made little difference, she might as well have been blind either way she chose.

The child that had remained enshrouded in darkness escaped into the weak light of the few stars that broke through the tumultuous Veil above. The girl’s long black hair was similar to the king’s darker even than shadow but the color of her faintly wooden brown eyes was like freshly split sap against bark. To Tarica’s relief, she was covered in dirt and blood but appeared unharmed. Whatever injuries she endured was minor enough for her elven physiology to mend in the time it took to rescue her.

“Thank you, Tarica,” the king acknowledged as a pair of Honor Guard pulled the youngster away as if the collapsed structure hungered and might swallow her again.

His words were not insincere but they were empty.

She was expecting Ordelas to show some sign of relief but his features remained stern even at the sight of salvation. It took her some time but she came to understand that saving one was not enough. He was not about to rest until all were counted. This was the king she had been waiting for.

“Are there any others?” he asked.

“No, my lord,” she replied sadly.

He let go of his burden with less ceremony than one would dispose of refuse. He simply ceased holding it. It surely would have dropped violently if not for the Honor Guard still gathered who lowered it instead.

The king returned to the search, his eyes scanning for any other signs while betraying a trace of fear in the erratic urgency of their movement. Tarica saw for herself that the child was the only survivor they found. The rage she came to associate with him still existed, it tainted the air around him, filling it with a hundred invisible daggers. But in that time, all those daggers were pointed inward.

He should so close that she could finally ask what troubled her. “What caused this?” She could envision no disaster that could cause the devastation she saw.

He frown but his voice expressed surprise. “No one told you?”

“I did not have time to ask.” She lowered her head in apology.

Ordelas looked into the distance, not seeing her or the ruins around him. “I caused this.”