t is no joke, but a true peril we are in," scoffed Caravir at the Sylvan-King, Meneldir so far had been eavesdropping from behind the doorway – his ears wide open and senses alert.

"I am not willing to waste my warriors upon some fantasy!" the king argued back. "There is no evidence of all that. The last time the daemons of chaos truly attacked, our forests withered away and rivers poisoned. You say this time the enemies are thrice as perilous as last time, so where are the decaying leaves? Where are the great spiders nesting within the trees? Where are the fish with blistered scales and dying tree-kin tearing the forest apart?"

"It was already begun, in secret! Fell dragons assail your people, chaos-elves are raiding villages, destroying farms, desecrating shrines, killing innocents . . . with each passing day their numbers grow and yours reduce, satyrs and druids from around the vales are being converted to cultists of chaos and worshippers of Morthaur. Soon enough will the entire world fall to their grasp, and be devoured back into primordial essence, you must take action now or see your kinsmen, the people after whom you've looked for the last three thousand years, face the most horrible death possible."

"Hah!" he pranced about, "do not fear, the daemons are not foolish enough to attack us first. Should they ever come unto our world; their first prey will be the high-elves, and then the orcs. By that time the dwarves will have engaged in battle too, and after all of that will come our time. And then we shall strike and defeat them, for they will then fall like feathers in a zephyr."

"Do you hope to know the mind of Morthaur better than us, the dragons?" asked Caravir. "O fool of a king, we dragons are the children of Kaal Time-Serpent, as is Morthaur Destroyer of Worlds. You should be joyous for our aid against our own kin and nature, not shrugging us off as meagre doom-mongers."

"Do not teach me history, for I am well learned in that," the king replied, "worst case scenario: the past is repeated. Long ago when the Empire of the First Elves stood strong, Morthaur invaded and destroyed their capital, but spared their colonies to grow to greater powers. If this is to happen again, we will be at an upper hand, in a world devoid of high-elves."

...

"But the high-elves will be killed!" Meneldir burst in, "have you no compassion for them? Will you let them all die knowing they're doing it all for the good of us?"

"I thought I made it clear to you that this was a matter of the ancients, and yet here you are, having eavesdropped all the time whilst we talked," he scolded, "as for your questions, yes . . . they will die, and perhaps then they will pay for all the crimes they've done in the previous eras."

"Crimes? What crimes?" Meneldir scoffed at his father. "They waged war against the forces of darkness to secure this world for us, they gave us the chance to follow them to Alímar because they wished good for us. They taught us their science as they wished..."

"You think they did all of that for us?" he neared his son, "listen then: the war against the Aerryan Dominion was not for us but for their own supremacy, they beckoned us to follow them to Alímar because they wanted to mould us into their image, as for arcane? The teachings of the high-folk brought to us nothing more than trouble."

"You cannot say that," he cried aloud. "They're our kin as well; we should aid them, for they've aided us for long."

"Aid?" the king retorted. "Remember: it is because of them your grandfather died, it is because of them that the daemons first dared to come to our world, it is because of them that we all suffer now! What have they brought to us but death and loss?"

"But that was an accident; you can't blame them for just having been there when the daemons first stepped into our world. They lost their king as well!"

"The Fionhen is right," Lord Caravir spoke, "I, on behalf of the world of Alledoria, would deem it unwise to remain idle, especially when 'tis someone as wise in the ways of warfare as you. I am a dragon, a brother of Morthaur. His power is not to be underestimated."

"I believe we've have had enough of this," said the king, "I feel tired now, forgive me, Lord Caravir, but I must leave for my chambers. Feel free to stay here for as long as you wish, and consider this council as finished."

The lord of dragons was unsatisfied, "here shall I not find rest even if my wings were torn, I must leave for my abode." He lifted his wings and prepared to take off, "I should seek council with people who are more reasonable."

"You should," the king whispered.

And so Lord Caravir flew away, Mey prepared to leave too. "No, not you," said the king, "come follow me to my chambers, I need to tell you something – in private."

*****

"So..." the king crossed his arms, his son and he alone in the room, "do you want to explain yourself?"

"Do I need to?" asked Mey, as arrogant as his father.

"Fix that attitude of yours, you disobeyed me, and ran away with your friend, doing errands for him. How can I even accept that my own blood would do this: how low has this generation stooped to disobey their lord and country to consort with the enemy?"

"Nobody but you considers them enemies, may I remind you."

"They are our enemies: bearers of ill and bringers of death, they starve their nobles and peasants alike, your grandfather died because of their deeds, yet you blame them not for it!"

"They had no part in it," said Mey, "it was but an accident most misfortunate, and they suffered for it too in blood and power. And do not blame them for our sanctions, their ways of life are far better than what we can ever hope to achieve."

...

And so they hurled their comments back and forth, the guards standing outside hearkening in worry, their minds racing to the pace of those raised voices.

At last the king lowered his head, descending into silence, "I failed, forgive me for that. I thought I had sired you well-educated, but I allowed you to be brainwashed."

"You failed to brainwash me," Mey complained, "and your hatred is but indoctrination."

"Enough! I have given my verdict. Should you persist on this pointless plight," he lowered his head and leaned in towards his son, "you and your friends will be accused of treason."

"And what will you do? Kill me?" Meneldir argued back, half in anguish and half in fear, "even a goat would not believe you if you said that."

To that King Arvedui ground his teeth, at the end of the day it was true: he could never bring himself to punish his son, but because of that he had deviated from the path he wanted him to go on. Perhaps it was time he needed some educating, yes.

"Nixior!" the king called for his royal guard.

"Yes, my king?" in stepped Lord Nixior.

"Take care of my orders: the prince is not to abandon the palace. Should I return and find him not within the walls of my house, I shall have you begging for the sweet release of death."

And suddenly Mey laughed hysterically, Lord Nixior gulping in fear. "M-my lord, what?"

The king rolled his eyes, "I know what you want to say: 'it is impossible,' but lest you be declared the likes of him, best keep him in check."

"Father," said Mey in a cocky tone, "I have no love for him, next thing you see I shall be hidden in the garden, watching his execution, and then revealing myself, provided I haven't left already. Not like I know few passages in and out of hither."

The king offered a frustrated yet cunning grin to it, "I know, but I also know someone you have love for."

Who? Mey wondered, at first thinking of Vilyánur, but then not.

"Come," he said, Nixior dragging Mey with himself. They exited the royal apartment and entered the courtroom, which seemed to be thriving with people, and a maiden's voice: "we thought of you as a friend, how can you be so obtuse?"

"Forgive us, 'tis the king's orders."

Alright, now Mey's fears were rising, he dared not hope it was what he was hoping to be.

"Her," said the king, bringing Mey into the courtroom. And there it was: his worst fears realised. There lay Niall on the ground, two of his chaos hunters putting her down, Daeron one of them, and the other two held Arial back out.

Now he was fearful, he could feel Niall's tension, and even more of Arial's sorrow – separating the two people who had not spent a day apart.

"I know you will try to escape once I'm gone, which is why I have a backup plan in mind: the moment you stop reporting, her head falls off her shoulders."

"NO!" Arial screamed in terror, sheer unbridled horror in her mind. She was terrified, and so was Meneldir. "Please no!" she screamed, "at least be done with the both of us."

"Oh, no, not that easily," said the king, "and I know, Princess Arial, that you will try to take your own life after this, thus I have a solution for that too: maybe instead of a death sentence, I'll sentence both of you to new lives as slaves in opposite sides of the kingdom, serving the will of a dozen princes and paupers – only if the prince, whom you so dearly follow, decides to be foolish enough."

"No, please!" screamed Arial, then turning to Meneldir with tearful eyes, "I don't know why we ever agreed to join you, we were out of our minds to have done that."

Tears filled in Meneldir's eyes, she is right, I have made a terrible mistake. I shouldn't have ever done something like this.

"Lock her away, and take the other away," said the king, moving the twins away from Meneldir's sight.

Meneldir walked away from the halls with a pale face, "you don't deserve the throne," he whispered back, "you should be poisoned by your enemies."

"Yes, I should be," he laughed back, "but no one will dare do it. I am far too powerful."

"Never has any elf, dawn-strained or woodland-borne, ever caused me to loathe my own kind as much as you did," he said calmly, almost sobbing, "I hate you," he whispered and walked away.

*****

Walking away from the Hall of Council, Meneldir travelled to the Sacred Grove under the eyes of the waywatchers. There he sat alone under a tree with moonlight smeared across his sullen figure.

"Why did this happen?" he questioned himself, burying his face into his hand and weeping endlessly, for hours and hours he wept, asking himself why he was born as a wood-elf. "Have I done more harm than good? Who am I in comparison to the heroes of yore, who am I to think I could even control my own fate? I am stupid."

Maybe in my next life I will be a high-elf, he wondered, drawing out his knife and removing his vambrace to reveal his soft skin below. With tears dripping from his eyes, he placed the knife on his arm, slowly twisting it with no good intentions in his mind. Though at first his pain was dulled away by his hollowness, he stopped it ere something grave may have happened.

Think of Vilyánur, his thoughts said. Would Vilyánur like to know that the one he loved is no more? Can you imagine how much pain will he be in when he hears of your death? At times he denied himself that thought, no, he will find someone better than me to spend his life with. He will not need me, nobody will need me or feel my absence, at least not for more than a week or two.

Mey! Vil loves you! He will not survive if he hears of your death, he needs you to survive, otherwise he will die too. He found himself in confusion, and yet the voice compelled him to live. Just as the Earth needs the Sun to sustain itself, Vilyánur needs you to sustain himself. Don't do this, for his sake at least. The world is in peril, he needs you now more than ever. The world needs you now more than ever.

But I am now confined to my own palace, what will I do here? He questioned himself.

Sometimes a life must be taken to save a thousand, the voice replied back, as for the Forest Kingdom? Do you not think that there needs to be a bit of political revolution?

Shun, he said back, it is but a hopeless plight, this nation is not yet ready for democracy, to them the concept is as alien as flying polyps or the elder things of long ago.

No, I don't mean that, he felt the voice facepalm, I mean: don't you think the Woodland Realm needs a new king – a more efficient one, one who would actually rule and not just squander over it all and watch as it withered away into naught?

You mean kill my father?

He was left speechless, he knew not what to think of it now.

But how . . . how can I muster up the courage to do that?

You do not need courage, you just need to embrace the spirit of change, embrace the force of chaos.

No, he nodded sideways, I cannot do it, for I am too weak, and he will find out about it.

Meneldir, he trusts you more than anyone else in the world, and he loves you too. Should you find a way to betray him, his death will be the most severe and shadowy, in despair and regret will he fade.

I . . . I don't know, but . . . how exactly?

Look at the left side of your belt, the voice replied, he touched it to feel a bottle there – a bottle with a green fluid within. Either 'tis you, Vil, and the whole of Alledoria, or it is your father. You must decide.

Kill my father? he questioned his sanity, am I insane to even think of this? I cannot kill my father!

It's either him or the whole world, the voice corrected, you must choose.

Very well, he said to himself, scrubbing the tears off his face and flying to his father's quarters with the potion in his hand. The room was eerily empty, devoid of bodyguards or maids. He walked about the room for a moment or two, until finally finding a bottle of wine on the end table. Now is the time, he said to himself, with the bottle opened and prepared.

...

He opened the wine bottle and prepared to pour it in, but then he stopped himself. He realised what he was doing, the bottle dropped from his hand and fell to the ground, scorching the feet of the table, boring a hole into the wooden floor . . . the foam of the gallant dew eyed him ominously.

No, he said to himself, I cannot do this. I cannot kill my kin for my own needs. No! Forgive me Kayr, God of Treachery, but I will not, and shall not succumb to the forces whom I have fought so long to resist.

Fool! He felt a strong grip upon his mind, do you not understand? It is either him or you. I am not on Morthaur's side, I am on your side, I want Alledoria to survive, and so I tell you: eliminate him, bring about the revolution, save your world.

As he looked before him, the god personified into a black satyr, his venomous tentacles heading for Meneldir, "Mey, look here: change is a part of life, and sometimes even the most evil decisions are the best."

Mey was left in wonder, tears dripping from his face. "No!"

And so he slipped his dagger out of its sheath, plunging it into the chest of the black satyr. "Thoughts begone!"

The black satyr disappeared in a puff of smoke. But Mey knew he still lived in his heart: the dark taint of Kayr had already plagued his mind, turning his once-pure heart into a blighted wasteland.

"No," he said, "I cannot let this be. Forgive me, Vilyánur, I hope you find someone else who can take care of you better than me. Fare well."

And it was done: Mey drew a sigh of relief. Unbeknownst to him, just standing there and bleeding out felt much more peaceful than he had previously anticipated. His robes were stained red, but the only pain he felt was on the skin, but his heart was lightening.

And so half an hour passed, his body grew cold and his vision black, the sun had merely begun to rise but the light behind his eyes dimmed away with every passing second, his senses faded away and mind narrowed. "Meneldir!" he heard a terrified cry, which was then no more.