It had been many weeks, and still, there was no further sign of the wights. Galiria had sworn that’s what the noise had been, but Alaric was not convinced.

“If they were hunting, don’t you think our own hunters would have run into them by now?” said Alaric.

“Wights are loud. Hear them from all around.” Galiria had vastly improved speaking in the One Tongue, impressing Alaric more and more each day.

It was assumed that the noises they were hearing was from a lone wight that had strayed from its hovel too far. Galiria explained as best she could how young wights have a brain the size of a grain of sand—to which Alaric had taken it to mean their entire head was the size. It had taken near half an hour for Galiria to work out the measurements by fingers—and even then, Alaric had not been entirely sure.

Daylight would come and the daily feast would be underway. The clearing was filled with music, dancing, and fires that stretched as high as twenty feet. Inevitably, Alaric’s eyes would drift towards the back of the crowd of drunken elves to Galiria, who stood at the back in conversation with the same elf. Male elves would often approach her, only ending in embarrassment by the combative swat of Galiria, or, by the words that poured from her tongue in a swath of elvish cursing that Alaric could not decipher. He only saw the looks on the facish of nearby elves who heard the entire transaction, to which there would be a small pause followed by an outbreak of hysterical laughter.

Whenever it was Arokas who approached, it was only then that Galiria dared not embarrass an elf in front of the others. He would raise his mouth to her ear, whispering hot breaths of elvish romances before nibbling on the tip of her ear playfully. Galiria would never smile. Instead, Alaric would watch in silent contempt for the elf, who would bring a grimace to Galiria’s face every time. Elves would pretend not to watch as he would drag her by the wrist towards his square home built along Brymeria’s sweeping foothills that served as a natural border.

It became an odd sort of night when Alaric would not visit Father Nhed. Their conversation of late had grown fascinating for both parties, and so every night Alaric would return. They talked late into the night while most other elves would sleep, and then Alaric would stalk away into his tent until Galiria had peaked her in. They continued on with the sword lessons beyond Brymeria’s Great Tree; learning the ways of the elvish sword dance. In turn, Galiria was quickly learning the One Tongue and she did express her desire to sail to Osknia with him so that she could start a new life. Alaric did not question about her duty to keep up the race of the Elf—she was reminded often enough by the ever-aggressive Arokas.

It was late one of these nights that Alaric was speaking to Father Nhed and the topic of Galiria had somehow crept its way into one of their late-night discussions. Two of the fattest candles Alaric had seemed sat upon an oakwood table in between Alaric and Nhed. Overly-sweetend elvish ale sat halfway empty in Alaric’s mug. He did not wish to be drunk when he dueled swords with Galiria—he wouldn’t be able to use his arms for a whole week afterwards from the number of lashings he’d take.

“What do you think of Galiria?” asked Father Nhed.

“Who?”

“The she-elf…Arokas’ elf.”

“Oh, her? Well, she seems quite kind. I don’t often see her much,” said Alaric.

“I fear for her. I often see her well-being falling into jeopardy—and amongst her own kind. Do you know the decision she faces?”

Alaric shook his head, pretending to be entirely clueless to her existence.

“Galiria is the last she-elf among us, as you know. I do believe that she is in a predicament with Arokas. She has not borne any kids from Arokas’ seed. He tries nearly every night, and he has claimed to have spilled more seed inside of her than water in the ocean. Not once has Galiria became laden with child. I fear it is time we move her on to a new elf, for her days of child-bearing may soon come to an end.”

“What if it is not so much Arokas, but it is within herself that she cannot bear kids,” said. Alaric.

“We mustn’t think that way; elsewise our race is doomed. You see, Alaric, she must be protected at all times. If she were to step outside Brymeria’s borders, all it takes is one swipe of a wight and you may not wake up again. She is strongly forbidden to leave, and the last time she did leave, there was punishment almighty for the one who stole her into the night.”

“Who? What? Someone stole her away?”

“Well, not stole. But she would explore all the land beyond Brymeria with an elf friend named Cheowyn. This was nearly three years ago, mind you, but Cheowyn was chastised by castration as punishment. It was the decision of the council of elves at the time, and it was said that Cheowyn had not spilled his seed inside Galirion yet, but if he had, she may have given birth by now.”

“That doesn’t make sense, why would they castrate an elf who might’ve given Galiria children?” asked Alaric.

A wind swept through the tent at that time, blowing one of the candles out. One of Nhed’s servant elves reignited the flame, taking his leave as he did so. It was beyond the hours that Nhed had demanded him to stay watch.

“It was Arokas’ decision, and no one would challenge him. Most elves stared clear of his way. There have been elves who were caught spending time with Galiria who disappeared shortly after. It can only be assumed—”

“—wait,” said Alaric. “What about the elf she speaks to nearly every day? Does Arokas not feel angry toward him?”

“That is her brother,” said Nhed. He had sounded as if he were to continue on but stopped abruptly after that sentence.

“Oh,” said Alaric.

Alaric had learned more that night about Arokas than he wished to know. He became extra cautious when returning from his trips with Galiria. She would edge out first, ensuring that she would arrive safely at her house before Alaric stalked like a cat into his own tent. There were a few close calls, but most were drunken elves who had not made it back to their homes that night. Instead, they sat by the fire and muttered elvish songs to themselves as they slept. Alaric would tip toe right by, wincing at the slightest of crunches when the bottoms of his shoes would crush an acorn or a stick.

Father Nhed was an old elf—his skin hung like bags from his drooping face and body gave off an odor that kept most elves away from his tent as much as possible. It was Nhed’s orders that kept routine and stability inside Brymeria, and so when Nhed fell sick, nervous whispers filled the air that surrounded the fires many of those nights. After the singing had finished one night and the dancing began, it was Nhed’s turn to whisper as he leaned over toward Alaric, who had become obliged to sit beside the old elf during these festivals.

As if prompted by the throwing and catching of sharp kitchen knives by the dancers, Nhed leaned in to fill Alaric’s ear with his hoarse whisper. “You never told me, Alaric…how did you get that sword?”

The hairs of his neck stuck straight up, and his heart fluttered. Galiria was the only one who knew about its flammable properties and its mysterious aura. Relief washed over him as he remembered when he had just arrived to Brymeria and Nhed had asked about the sword, creating a scabbard for it and gifting to him.

“It was stolen by a smuggler somewhere along their route before they took me captive. It ended up in the wreckage when we crashed through maelstrom into your waters and so I claimed it right then.” Alaric had partially lied. It had been Tillet’s since he had found it drifting along with some black tar when they had docked at Rivertrade to barter with the goblins. It was true, however, that it had ended up in his possession after their ship had been shattered to pieces.

Nhed nodded his head assuredly. Later that night, Alaric had helped Nhed back to his tent. The servant elves had been more than happy to let Alaric walk him back and entertain him. The servant elves took the night off, and so it was just Alaric and Nhed in his tent. The season had turned uncharacteristically cool, and so wind drove leaves and twigs around outside and batted at the tent flips wildly until Alaric tied them shut.

“Why did you ask about my sword?” said Alaric.

“I was only wondering. You said there was nothing special about it, right? Just an ordinary sword—a fine blade rest assured,” said Nhed.

“Indeed, it is the perfect weight. I am honored to have it,” said Alaric.

“I had mentioned the dark elf Golomoth before. Did I never tell you of the Swords of Dread?”

“No,” said Alaric. His eyes widened.

“Allow me to begin then, I hope you have ears for listening.” Nhed gave off a hacking cough and then spit a pile of brown phlegm into a cup. “The Swords of Dread are instruments of a darker sort of magic practiced by the first dark elves. Golomoth himself was amongst these foolish elves, and they had eventually constructed three swords made of the curses that were chanted in a craze underneath a bright moon before the days of the wights. Of these three blades, one was entwined in fire, another in ice, and the third…death.”

“Death?” said Alaric.

“Death. All it takes is a touch from the sword and an elf will melt onto a black ooze and their bones spill to the ground in a clattering that is quite chilling. Some say these bones resurrect as corpses made of bone, but I am yet to see it happy with my old eyes.”

Alaric was staring beyond Nhed, his mind racing a thousand thoughts at once. Nhed noticed his confusion and only chuckled. His chuckle turned into a hacking cough again until Alaric offered him a cup of water which sat on a table at the other end of the tent.

The sound of drunken elves shouting goodnight in high elvish slurs were the amongst the extraneous sounds to fill their pause.

“So, what of these swords? Where are they?” asked Alaric.

“It is said that after these swords were created, Golomoth gave them to his trusted elven lords, and they instantly became his servants. He owned the one black sword—the sword of death itself. He bestowed swords of flames to his servants, and swords of ice to his first wights—for they do not like the heat. He made only one sword of death, and to him it belonged.”

“Where are the swords now?” said Alaric. He had fallen into his mood of unending questions, but Nhed enjoyed his position now, for no other elf would stand to hear him mutter on and on for hours like Alaric.

“It is said that many of them are lost after the last great battle of the elves. However, those swords are not for elves to use—even if they are found.”

“The swords are too powerful,” said Alaric.

“Not just that. The swords once belonged to his servants, who are now known as the Headless Horsemen. When they took ownership of those swords, a part of the magic requires a part of an elvish soul. Those men ride their horses in nothing but armor and half a soul—for the rest of it is contained with the blade.”

“Are you suggesting that if an elf uses one of those blades, he will lose his soul?”

“Sort of,” replied Nhed. “It is more like this—the soul of the Headless Horsemen can influence the wielder of its hilt. I have heard it is a cruel way to die—battling for possession of your own mind. The sword will fight you for the mind, and the elf rarely wins. The sword can truly have a mind of its own. No elf can fight it.”

“I wonder what would happen if a human would possess one of these swords,” said Alaric.

“Indeed, I have wondered as well. If it is in the minds of the spinners of our lives, then perhaps it may happen. I would be apt to imagine that a human could wield the powers of the sword without becoming vulnerable to the sword’s influence. An elf cannot enter the mind of a man, that much is known.” Nhed’s voice had become excited and his posture exaggerated. Alaric only sat a look of doom implanted upon his face. “You are a calm man, Alaric. You must have been a good lord.”

“I’d like to think so. If I should ever make it back, I would hope to reclaim my lands. That is my dream,” said Alaric.

“To sail to another land has never been done from Corpsia. At least, that has been known. Elves have been known to set sail and never return. It has only been assumed that it was a perilous journey, since no one has ever returned—if they did find other land.”

Alaric nodded in agreement. His mind was still hung up on the swords. Memories of Tillet taking down the entire enemy ship with only his flaming sword and Virion Elvesbane swam through his head. Had that been the power of the sword or truly just Tillet’s ability? Tillet cut through seasoned pirates like they were frozen in place, and then burned down the ship and cut the lines. Even Dericore had shown signs of weariness towards Tillet. He was a killer, but he had never been a warrior.

“It might just be that you are here for a reason, Alaric Aymon of Khudril! The elves are in need of divine help. I wonder what part you will have to play in that,” said Nhed. Those words rang through Alaric’s head for many nights. Nhed had seemed to know more than he ought to—even about his own land. Despite claiming he had read nearly every scroll available to him, Alaric kept a note to himself of Nhed’s mysterious wisdom. Even his language was impressive, even stumping Alaric with much of his vocabulary.

From that night on, Alaric continued practicing with the sword he called flamesword. Galiria would clash her steel on his own sword—parrying, beating, and slashing. Not once did the flames appear along his blade any longer. He began to wonder if it ever had at all.

Until one night.