Mor’iel had rested for days, and was bored beyond reason. His friend and subordinate Wal’en was concerned even though he had assured him he was fine. This time he wasn’t actually feeling unwell, but he had lied so many times in the past that Wal’en didn’t believe him anymore when he told him that he was okay.

The elves were beginning to try and restore parts of the fortress, using the broken pieces of rocks lying about. It was mostly repairing holes in the inner walls, as well as in the castle itself. They didn’t have the expertise necessary to build the towers up again, or the collapsed roofs.

The fortress was so immense that even with a thousand elves, they wouldn’t be able of manning the inner walls, let alone the outer. His commanders had told him that they had counted six walls, give or take one; the walls weren’t in rings around the castle, sometimes they collided in each other at thick watchtowers and other times they assembled in and even thicker and taller wall.

There were no pattern; it was like a labyrinth of thick walls and towers and houses.

His plan was to ally with the more primitive northern clans. They were a bunch of different factions all plotting and warring each other to the joy of the southern people: if they assembled together under one Skandien flag, then their armies would be bigger than even the Tarnorians and Sa’arans.

But that was very unlikely, and Mor’iel hoped that they could gain the favour with some clans by helping them win against others.

A threat less and an ally more, Mor’iel thought.

He was also thinking about naming the fortress. Agnellia was the name of the lands around it, not the ruins themselves. And it was a name with deep history, and none elven to his knowledge.

*

He had gathered the commanders, who had been appointed by Wal’en, with him in the great hall without roof. One of them was able to speak the clansmen’s language. It was called Skandien, she had told him. Her name was Mir’et, an elf with long brown hair, and a round and delicate face. She was shorter than most elves, but deadly with the long but thin sword that hanged at her side.

Few female elves had followed him, preferring his mother, the Queen Ismar’iel due to the matriarchic nature of the elven society. The females had always been the more valuable gender, and almost always more numerous than the males.

One war was enough to decimate the elven population, but as long as there were a few males left they could repopulate within a few centuries, while if the opposite happened and the female population got scarce then the elven people would probably never recover. Obviously polygamy was the norm, as well as a necessity sometimes.

One of the biggest differences between humans and elves was that the latter didn’t marry; each person was independent and only answered to the Queen. Children were raised by the whole elven society as much as the mother herself, and it was always the mother’s name that was passed on; more often than not, the identity of the father was unknown.

Ismar’iel, the queen of the Silvan elves had led them to the forest and remained there, in the fear of destructive conflicts. The elves would never be able to win a prolonged war against humans. The latter had a new generation coming of age every single year, while the elves had new births irregularly through the century.

The elves simply couldn’t replace their losses, while the humans could. Their exceptional skill guaranteed them early victories, before they were soon or later veered down.

This was the main reason for Mor’iel to seek other armies to fight for them, like the northern clans of Skandiva.

“Mir’et, can you lead this mission?” Mor’iel asked and looked at her.

Mir’et look surprised. “Yes of course Sire, may I ask why?” She had assumed that Mor’iel would go there himself.

“It’s obvious. You know their language; in fact, you know them better than any other.” He smiled to her. “If anyone could make an alliance, it would be you. Besides, I have another matter to attend to.”

She bowed, with her palm on her heart. “Very well, Sire.”

“Mir’et? How many warriors would you need?”

“A dozen serving as guards, for the impression.” Mor’iel gave his accord, and dismissed the meeting. Only Wal’en stayed, waiting for the others to leave.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Wal’en asked when they were alone.

“To send Mir’et?”

“No, that was a logical decision, although she hasn’t proven her loyalty yet.” Wal’en said and crossed his arms.

“As far as I’m concerned, the only ones having proved their absolute loyalty are you and your sister, Lys’en.” He said with a smile. “I’m quite sure that my mother has at least a few spies amongst us.”

“I’m talking about the other matter.” Wal’en said. “It’s quite risky, and unnecessary if we secure the loyalty of the Skandiens.”

“The Skandiens will maybe help us, but certainly not fight all of our battles. We need our own army, but I think you know this.” Mor’iel stared inquisitively at him. “What’s the real problem?”

Wal’en sighed. “I just think it’s wrong, Oruks are dark creatures chased from the Halabor Mountains thousands of years ago, by the former king Gala’ad.”

Mor’iel put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, the Oruks respect power and sorcery more than anything else. And I don’t believe that they are dark creatures. all considered, I am pretty sure they will obey me.”

“Or not. We can’t know for sure. And if you die,” Wal’en waved with his hands, “all this dies with you.”

“Don’t worry, I have a plan for that too.” Mor’iel said with a deep breath. “Did you bring the Mithril ring?”

Wal’en nodded. He took out a pouch and poured the content out in his palm. “You won’t find anything in more pure mithril than this.” Then he smiled shrewdly. “Taken from the vault of the Queen.”

“Perfect. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a very import sortilege to do.” Mor’iel said. The ring was actually his, but had been confiscated from his home when he had disobeyed her and left the forest, but few were aware of that.

“You’re not gonna tell me anything, are you?” Wal’en said, disappointed.

“Not yet. You’ll have to be patient.” Mor’iel said with a crooked smile. “And tell them to not disturb me under any circumstance.”

Mor’iel walked through the corridors and mounted the stairs up to his personal room in the thickest and tallest tower. He had the highest room, though that didn’t say much, as the tower was only half as high as it had probably been. The room had an empty fireplace and a bed made of hay with a silk sheet passed over.

He sat down cross-legged, put the ring on his finger and closed his eyes, with his hands resting on his knees. He could immediately feel his soul, the source of his power. This time however, he didn’t want to rip a little part of it out and seal it in his ring. No his objective was to rip his whole soul out of his body and seal it in the ring.

He believed that as long as the ring was in direct contact with his body, the latter wouldn’t die. But in the case that his body was killed his soul would still be intact in the ring, effectively guaranteeing him against death.

This was only possible because he had a soul made powerful enough to exist on its own, any other with a natural soul would die within weeks, while he could last eternally.

Mor’iel took a deep breath and began pulling on his soul. He began sweating, as the pain intensified. He had already located the ring, and only needed to rip out the soul, but it was like ripping out one’s own heart.

With immense willpower he managed to hold in a scream, only heavily sweating, panting and grunting. It lasted for hours, or so it seemed for him until finally the last threads holding his soul back were ripped over, and he put his whole soul in the ring with a last effort.

He made a long and deep sigh and collapsed on his bed, falling asleep.

Alyss struggled to stand up after hours of being unconscious, while tears were forming in the corner of her eyes. She had felt the heat of whatever it was the sorcerer had cast, and feared the fate of her fellow wizards. If they were dead, then the whole Jeidan Order had just been eliminated, with the exception of herself, the grandmaster and three young initiates.

This was a catastrophe, the worst possible scenario. She had to inform the grandmaster, if he hadn’t already felt the disappearance of his peers. This would be a hard blow to the old man, one from which he might never recover.

But right now she was in the middle of nowhere. She had panicked upon seeing the red fire souls approach, and had no idea where her artefact had taken her. In rage, she threw the now useless bracelet as far as she could.

Looking around, she saw only dry plains which extended all the way to the horizon. And a hot sun was burning, quickly warming her up. She took her robes off, putting them under her arm and leaving her only with a thin silk dress on. Choosing a direction at random, she began walking.

*

Alyss had walked for hours.

She was hungry, but that was manageable. It wasn’t the first time she had skipped a few meals. No, it was the thirst that was unbearable. She had tried to extract water from the ground, but there were so little that her power didn’t have any influence on it.

After a while, she had discovered that it was better to put the robes over her head as to protect her against the pitiless sun. But her arms quickly grew tired, and she had to put them on again, to her displeasure.

She could barely believe it when she saw people in the horizon. She began clumsily running, stumbling over every bit of rock. She would have frowned upon such lack of grace a few days ago, but now she didn’t care.

She hadn’t come long before she tripped over own feet and fell as long as she was. It took a few seconds to pull herself up.

Suddenly an idea popped up in her clouded mind.

She fumbled a little with her robes, and then found a fire striker, steel and natural flint. She stroke them against each other, and sparks came out. She missed the occasion, and had to try again to catch the glow with her magic, infusing power into it.

A huge and powerful fire lit up high in the sky, and then disappeared again. She saw a few blurred figures, begin to walk in her direction, and then she fell unconscious. Creating so much from so little was very taxing.

*

She woke up when she felt foreign arms lifting her up, one arm under her knees and the other supporting her shoulder blades.

Princess-carry, she noticed amused. That was what the old man used to call it. Gamel had sometimes carried her like that when she was little. Looking up, she saw a bearded face with black eyes looking at her, with cloth on his head. His skin was dry and wrinkled, witness of a long life under the sun.

After a while, they went in a tent, where the man put her down. He put a few drops of water in her mouth, and she desperately grabbed for more, but the man firmly held her weakened limbs down.

He gave her water slowly and was in total control the whole time. Then after a little time, he talked to her.

“Hello? Do you understand me?” He said in a language she recognized as Sa’aran. She had studied it for years, but it was a little rusted.

“Yes, a little.” She spoke with a thick accent.

“What on earth where you doing so far south, in the Burning Lands?” Her eyes widened. She hadn’t expected to be this far south. The Burning Lands was a desert south-East of Sa’ara, where few caravans passed by.

“A failed ... Em...” She didn’t know the word teleportation artefact in Sa’aran, and helplessly shrugged. “So, where are you going?” She inquired instead.

“To Achid. But we don’t have place for one more person on our camels. We would have to let go of merchandise.” He said apologetically. “We will take you to the nearest camp, a few days from here.”

“No, I can pay...” She searched for something valuable, and then saw the silver threads on her robe, she pointed to it.“With this, plus I can offer protection you from bandits and raiders. I am a mage.” To prove her point, she manipulated wind to circle around, rising dust around her in a little whirlwind.”

Now the man’s eyes widened and his mouth hanged slightly open. “So it was actually true...” He mumbled. A few had seen the fire column, but it was so brief that by the time the others had turned their head, it was gone.

“Of course we will accompany you to the capital.” He nodded to her. “My name is Arif, the chief of this caravan.”

She smiled back, and with a leap of strength got up on her elbows. “My name is Alyss Fey.”