Spellbound

It’s a cool winter’s day in the lush forest of Gryu Tuidan, the country housing the most powerful elven establishment on the planet. The pale blue sun has risen to the mid-section of the teal sky, wisps of ash-tinted clouds dispersing left and right. A thick grey fog lingers between the burgundy skyscraper trees and shrouds the forest floor. Thorny vines of poison dangle from branches as tossed rope, and the multi-colored vegetation below dominates the minute walkways amidst the trees. The foliage is freshly dripping with dew, the dark green rolls of the tall, grassy floor weaving up and down and stretching to the border of the land. Touching the border of the lively and lush territory is an unmapped forest, dead and brittle, scorched and desolate. The remnants of trees point upward, naked and sharp as blades, dreary and intimidating as the tales of otherworldly beasts treading the nearby beyond. Tumbleweeds litter the wasteland, along with the endless skeletons from wars passed. Accompanying the dead is a thin, translucent shield hidden amongst nature, invisible yet glowing with a distinct, tantalizing, black aura, forbidding—though tempting—a mortal’s naïve interest.

In the reaches of the Tenyael Forest, bordered against the tainted, uncharted land laden with centuries of bloodshed, a small elven woman kneels from the treetops, her concentration at its apex. Her knuckles rest on the branch below her knees, tightening her hold on her bow’s grip. Her sapphire eyes sparkle in the sun’s light, narrowing in on her target. Her white and gold hair is as long as it is luscious, braided in a circle around her temples and behind her neck—where it coils up into a thick silver bun—with a heavy stream of her bangs drooping from the left side of her face down to her shoulder and up behind her ear. Her focus: a small fox-like creature bounding gleefully below, nearly completely hidden in the grass. The elf relaxes her breathing, a taller masculine elf watching her strategically from afar. She focuses her eyes on the twitching ears of the mammal, lifting her weapon from the bark and plucking an arrow from her quiver. The arrow is in place, its aim upon the image of its target just as the animal peeks out from the greenery to check for predators. The wind dispels and the frolicking leaves silence. The elven woman gradually releases her breath and allows the deadly steel arrow to fly. It tears through the silent fog, slicing the air with deafening speed. The creature senses the sudden impending movement, its snout and ears twitching. It instinctively moves to dash away, but the arrow intervenes, zipping through the thicket and diving into its body. It yelps from the impact, the arrow surging through its insides and ripping half-way out the other side. Its blood sprays the surrounding forest, crimson misting the floor. The added weight from the weapon and shock from the blow forces the creature to stumble into a neighboring shrub, quickly collapsing with a final exhale.

The male elf smiles proudly at the clean kill. “Well done,” he says from the grass below, moving to reach the hunted animal with a strong, confident stride and a quick jerk of the arm. The woman from above releases the tension in her arms and shoulders, dropping them to her sides. She takes another breath, her sullen gaze finding the branch beneath her feet, the inevitable remorse of the animal’s death hitting her in the gut like a bag of stones. She quickly composes herself and shoulders her bow, washing her face of expression and climbing down the girth of the giant trunk with ease, reaching the ground with only a hushed hyup. She steps away from nature’s ladder, adjusting her beige, form-fitting turtleneck and tight leather chaps to dispense with the unsightly wrinkles plaguing her attire. While appearing to be consumed with her apparel, she sneaks glimpses at the oblivious male elf nearby, covertly watching him lift the animal’s corpse from the thicket, she herself unknowingly analyzing his every gesture.

“Did you bless it before picking it up,” she asks him in a quiet, soft voice. He nods in response, tying twine around the feet of the animal and attaching it to the side of his detailed, scale-like body armor. His dark crimson eyes meet hers, an invisible blush hinting his cheeks and a pot boiling with anxiety in his core. He retains a stern frown—a difficult feat, given the gut-wrenchingly loud rhythm pounding against his ribcage, that which was ignited by a mere gaze upon the ethereal princess. The highlight of the sun’s kiss lightly washes over his fair complexion, a dim blue hue complimenting the pigment. Reflective freckles sparingly decorate his flesh, as with all the elven-blooded, and his short cherry blonde Caesar hairstyle pulls everything together. He stands tall and rigid, a wall of muscle and prestigious training, a minimum of twice the size of the petite princess as well as one of the most proficient soldiers in all of Xyrizzin. Removing the weapon from the small animal knotted to his hip, he leans closer to the woman, catching a hint of her ambrosial fragrance while gently returning the arrow to her quiver. His heart thumps madly in his chest as his fingers graze the rim of the leather container, careful not to let his hand linger a moment too long. His fingertips pluck the feathers of the arrow like a string to an instrument when he fervently yanks his hand away. She gives him a small smile, to which he momentarily pauses, but then instantly corrects himself and moves from her proximity. He remains well-composed, holding his hands behind his back once the hunting site has been tidied up. He looks down at the petite woman with a blank expression, waiting for further instruction, daring not to let a single iota of the forbidden ideal slip from his bound and sealed vessel. She stares into the taller man’s gaze, the two able to communicate without a single utterance. They break eye contact and begin the journey back to their village in unison.

With little time having passed, the woman grips the bowstring at the center of her chest. Her brow-less eyes sadden as she walks, watching the wet grass stick to her leather chaps with each progressive step. Worry has inundated her thoughts ever since the recent bout with the king, her brother’s rage still ringing freshly in her ears. It pains her to defy the wishes of the one whom raised her, but there are facets of life that simply cannot be satisfied within the castle’s border. For the entirety of their existence, the inseparable royals have enjoyed the blithely life behind a safeguarded fortress, and it was to the King’s shock when it was revealed that T’vehl rejected the idea of persisting with that life. It was the King who taught her everything she knows, instilled her with the drive to live up to their parents’ legacy and ensure the flourishment of the Xyrizzin Empire. He wanted only the finest for his precious kin and showered her with as much love and affection as the people passionately share. He provided her with protection, luxury, and a royal mount to venture the kingdom’s roads with ease—to alleviate some amount of her solitary-related frustrations. He wanted her safe and comfortable, but not ignorant of her destiny to society or the weight of her role, and to understand the calamity that would inevitably unfold with the absence of a robust governmental reign. The most renowned scholars in Eneshall are members of King Xharlon’s council—declared ‘renowned’ for their talents and shared ideology with the King—and they played teacher while T’vehl enjoyed the seemingly-untroubled, dedicated, and unsympathetic journey that is a royal childhood.

“Vaamhyr,” T’vehl calls the elven warrior’s name, getting his immediate attention. She pauses a moment before continuing, conflicted if the subject tormenting her mind is worth mentioning. Vaamhyr has already affirmed his conviction more than once, yet the conflict of interest has T’vehl’s mind muddled with apprehension. The King is not bashful with the headsman's ax, and many once-loyal guardsmen have tasted its bitter steel to a minor infraction—speaking outright against the throne, neglecting to participate in the morning and evening prayer, remaining silent amidst a ceremonial chant, or crossing paths with Xyrizzin’s soldiers without proper respect and acknowledgement are all viable reasons—which torments T’vehl with even deeper guilt. Her hairless brows furrow with further thought, a crease forming between them. The idea of Vaamhyr enduring the explosive fit King Xharlon would indisputably throw troubles the elf to her core. The towering soldier merely waits with patient silence. “I wanted your view on a matter,” The small elven woman speaks, her full, coal-painted lips sealing as she pauses. “This…” she motions between them as the two meet each other’s gaze once more, the elves continuing their voyage all the while. “The hunting… I am honored you chose to further my tutelage, but you realize that would entail the betrayal of our majesty. Are you certain of your decision to continue?”

Vaamhyr doesn’t say anything, merely blinking to her inquiry. In his mind, there is no controversy with teaching combat techniques and emergency medical procedures to the Princess of Xyrizzin. If she were to be in a dangerous—or even fatal—situation, and he was absent, then she would at least hold a chance of survival with this knowledge. However, the King sees it differently. He demands the Princess always remain within the Kingdom walls, and always with a constant watch in tow. No threat or chance-encounter will befall the princess while on Xyrizzin soil, and that is exactly as the King decreed it would be for the remainder of his reign. Now Vaamhyr has rolled the dice on his reputation and mortal life with the King, the people, and the Guardian Council from this transgression. Because the Council represents the peak of elven military excellence, no number of offenses is tolerated—and all guardians guilty of defying the kingdom are sentenced to have their minds thoroughly remolded—often causing emotional instability and explosive homicidal rages—or to a dishonorable death in the Chasm, an endless cylinder-shaped pit within the Tenyael Forest, used to sacrifice the scum of society to the famished devils in the abyss below. The people would retain even less compassion than the Council, believing strongly in the law of the King’s word, and any offender is thus deserving of their sentenced punishment. With those facts weighing on the scale, Vaamhyr faces forward, pondering his current predicament, scanning the stretch of their grassy trail for anything out of the ordinary—a habit so ingrained in his psyche that keeping a constant guard requires no instruction. “Princess T’vehl, the King may be ruler of the kingdom, however I answer to you. I am meant to serve you and do all in my power to ensure your safety.” He quickly closes his mouth, letting his thoughts drown into silence before permitting anything unsavory—or, incriminating, rather—to slip further from between his thin lips. T’vehl is oblivious to the blatant, flattered by his awe-inspiring drive to uphold the name of his Guardianship, though she’s troubled by the risks. She has known Vaamhyr all her natural life, his destiny to be her Guardian bestowed at her birth when he was four. Is hunting worth the death of a close friend and protector?

“Of course, I would never reject your duty to the Kingdom, Vaamhyr. My brother and I are byproducts of our royal lineage and the final remnants of my parents’ good graces in the world of the living.” She pauses a moment, “And… as Xyrizzin’s Guardian Angel… your priorities only make sense.” T’vehl genteelly ends the conversation, unsure of how to properly express her concerns to him without immediately fleeing from the opportunity. She’s unaware that her notion stung Vaamhyr to a degree, as his loyalties truly—though covertly—lie with her alone. He watches her briefly before analyzing their surroundings once more, curious of the tales being told behind those sapphire eyes. She stares at their trail as they persist towards their village, her mind filled to the brim with unease. Deep down, T’vehl feels as though she can confide in Vaamhyr with worries and issues regarding her role in the kingdom, but when it pertains to her worry for him, she finds it increasingly difficult to find the proper words. The sensation within her is unexplainably foreign, as being uncharacteristically uncharismatic is considered uncouth when regarding the royal family. And, though these doubts and feelings impact her with a vehement jab to the chest, T’vehl deems it unworthy to be mentioned outside the sanctum of her mind—for fear of the embarrassment that would inexorably unfold, as well as the later glower from the people and their wavering hearts, thus shattering her role as the radiant emblem of Xyrizzin’s good fortune. A princess is not meant to be inept, conflicted, or weak. She is meant to be as confident, strong and capable as the King—and with her added blessing from the Gods, T’vehl is held to even higher statutes. The entirety of personal thought in which visits her mind on the daily is thoroughly shoved to the side for appearances, for the illusion of an adept symbol of society who is immune to the tortures brought by her royal responsibilities. Her emotions are to be stifled and her demeanor graceful yet cunning. She must always stretch her spine, meet another’s gaze, retain unflinching elegance and speak with dominating influence. A princess is always adorned with the finest fabrics and gemstones inside the kingdom’s border, served the most extravagant meals and pampered beyond belief, but T’vehl has learned over the years that every luxury adds a ball and chain to the ankles of her spirit.

This overbearing commitment made at the moment of her birth weighs her mind and body with burdening debilitation. T’vehl scorns the frustrations with her role in society and banishes them when they arise, however, recent examples imply their surfacing helm over the sea of obligation and accountability. In her heart of hearts, T’vehl was joyous to learn of Vaamhyr’s intentions to persist with their secret hunting lessons, for it was a small, simple rebellious option with little consequence—for her, that is. She, in no way, wished for Vaamhyr to aid her in her minute and inconspicuous plot to vaguely undermine the authority of the kingdom. More so, she would prefer it if he weren’t so willing, especially given the fact that Vaamhyr has always been the voice of justice, duty, loyalty and responsibility to T’vehl as long as they’ve known each other. He would easily be able to sway her from this path with only mild convincing, as all he would need to state is the reminder of all those whom depend on her leadership. Though, with his mute reprimands, it has become apparent that something has changed within Vaamhyr as well. The two are no longer children, no longer bound by innocence to remain gleefully ignorant of the troubles in the waking world, and the methods used to condition their young minds amidst their childhood has since lost its potency. While T’vehl and Vaamhyr are both still leashed by their duties, they secretly make their own judgements deeply hidden in the well of their cranium, silently and subconsciously conspiring to overthrow the current damnation of their destiny.

The sun beams brightly from the summit of the teal dome above, the once-calm forest bustling with life at the touch of the blue light. Creatures leave their nests in need of prey, critters converge upon the greenery of the forest floor, and the skies are littered with clusters of families taken to flight in search of a haven. The heavy fog of the early morning has lifted ever-so slightly, a mildly-thick haze somewhat blurring the image of the army of trees. The diurnal flowers peel back their petals and release a thin, fine powder into the air, painting the forest with lash and flamboyant colors, filling it with fresh, sweet smells to mask its musk, and providing a quaint tranquility only found on the one unknown sliver of land across the Wynfell Ocean.

T’vehl listens to the whispers of the wind and feels its tender caress, now capable of seeing the crown of Xyrizzin’s fortress barely surface above the horizon. The firm, intimidating stance of the dominating limestone battlements traces the border of the village, lines of soldiers patrolling above at all hours of the day. Each brick built in the wall is etched with the names of honorable sacrifices in the past, so none may forget those who gave their lives for the blessing of their societal flourishment. Giant metal doors as tall as the forest trees keep outsiders at bay, with a melded display of crimson, coal and lashes of forest green. Golden flames rim the border of the doors and their frame, gravitating towards the center at Xyrizzin’s golden crest—two claw-like hands encompassing a central orb, with thorns extruding from the fingers. The two towering, threatening Guardian statues on either side of the gateway warn wary travelers of the strong military presence within, and that every rebellious act will be caught by a pair of eyes. The roads are constructed of smooth, engraved stone depicting Xyrizzin’s symbol, decorating the village with a fluid and elegant design beneath each footprint. The buildings are tall, clustered and bustling with activity, though no less regal and sophisticated. The people are given the best of architectural expertise, buildings made with a custom dome-like peak, floral-engraved stone walls, thick, heavy metal doors adorned with stained glass of a divine depiction, and stubborn manufacturing that shall outlast any natural disaster. The well-distributed wealth makes an impression that leaves Xyrizzin with a reputation bearing greater compliment than any other nation—save, perhaps, the golden beaches of Praivahnia halfway across the planet.

T’vehl witnesses the gleam of the sun’s smile upon her homeland and holds her chest out with pride. Xyrizzin is a jewel after all, an establishment worthy of praise and honor, so the following bolster in confidence is natural. However, despite retaining the top position in the national hierarchy, seeing its magnificence brings a terrible dread. This momentary diversion with Vaamhyr is about to meet its end, hence the continuation of T’vehl’s forced pacification, the concealment of the hidden truth, and the preparation for upcoming discrepancies. Aside from the daily council meetings, troop movements, and battle strategies, T’vehl is charged with the task of maintaining relations with neighboring elven kingdoms. Though, this day proves to be like none before it, a disastrous storm brewing just beyond the horizon, and the two elves are truly unprepared for the events that are about to unfold.

Vaamhyr approaches the back of the village with the petite princess at his side, aiming for the royal escape tunnels weaving through the underbelly of the kingdom, walking as confident and proud as an Elite Guardian should be. Yet, when he takes the young female elf by the waist and hoists her up to the entrance platform above their heads, he can’t help but feel a tinge of dismay. Setting the princess down, he resists the urge of grappling her chaps and pulling her back down onto him, rolling in the meadow together just as in his wondrous dreams. Then, as the scene plays through his mind, Vaamhyr speedily steps back, aghast and ashamed for even the thought, disgusted with the perversion of his role and relationship with the Princess—or, more generally known as the Messiah. These damnable thoughts have strengthened their persistence, their frequency deterring him multiple times a day. His fists clench at his sides as he stares into her pure eyes, wondering how his mind can venture impossible likelihoods when the training meant to empty him of this emotional uncertainty was so grueling, and purposefully so. A part of him recognizes the dilemma he battles and deems to rectify it as he should, by allowing their team of professors to repair his mind. The other part strives to bury these intrigues and never permit them to see the light of day. For him to be one of the best soldiers Xyrizzin has to offer, he must not be fractured, divided or personally biased—yet that has never been the case for Vaamhyr. From his first plummet into the freezing depths of Taunsor Lake to the brutal massacre of a nearby hostile encampment, Vaamhyr has always pinned these secret truths to his heart, never to be released, a forbidden secret known only to himself—a small pill of rebellion.

The taller elf swiftly lifts himself onto the entrance platform and the two quietly stroll into the dimly lit tunnel. The ceiling barely reaches above Vaamhyr’s head, strings of cobwebs tangling in his hair and adhering to his face with great irritation. Their steps echo down the cave and back again, droplets of condensation dripping in the distance. Contorted vines dangle drearily from the cracks of the neatly-aligned bricks above, with some bursting their way through the assortment below. Amidst its later development, Xyrizzin held swarms of criminals so vast they needed to construct solitary confinement cells in the tunnels for more egregious offenders. A wall of the vacant cells are blocked off by rusted steel bars, those condemned to death awaiting their due. Cursed scriptures are carved above the rooms, condemning the sinful through the Gods’ eyes. Piles of skeletal remains decorate the prison cells, telling the many stories of forgotten souls left to rot in a decrepit, crumbling cell one tier below the sewers. An unpleasant musk permeates the air, the gut-churning sweet and sour smell of old decomposition making T’vehl nauseous and leaving Vaamhyr unaffected. She pinches her nose, grateful they have the entirety of the escape maze memorized, along with any and all traps set for intruders, making the journey back into the village a feasibly brief one. Her eyes regretfully graze the dusty corpses of those accused of treason, their bodies bolted to the castle walls with a metal necklace, their bracelets crossed over their heads, left for days of starvation before their bones were later smashed from a bombardment of rocks, battered until their hearts finally silenced. Thankfully, there has yet to be a serious offense in over a decade of harmony.

As T’vehl and Vaamhyr venture further inward, the dim presence of the sun continues to wane. Vaamhyr flicks his wrist with a muster of concentration and magic, a ball of flame benignly floating in his palm, lighting up their surroundings and making the tunnel maze seem slightly less bleak. The air changes with the influence of magic, its essence flowing through their bodies like warm, melted butter and leaving the lasting burn of its elemental kiss on their nervous system. T’vehl’s eyes perk up at the sight, both her and Vaamhyr’s speckled faces seldomly reflecting the light with a faint glimmer. Her gaze lowers slightly, “So, you have learned to conjure fire, then?” There’s a distinct note of jealousy in T’vehl’s surprise, Vaamhyr only having learned to aggressively manipulate—as well as combine—water and air just a fortnight ago, meanwhile she still battles the slightest gathering of static.

“Barely,” Vaamhyr admits, “it’s significantly more trying than water, and if I miscalculate the amount of energy I need to emit, I’ll set my arm aflame.” He speaks practically, first unaware of T’vehl’s plight, but once his eyes set on the sullen features of the princess, his demeanor changes. He allows for a moment of silence, then speaks tenderly. “Princess T’vehl, I must say your willingness to shun your own achievements is most disheartening. ‘Tis no competition, the level of our abilities or measure of our magical prowess. My talents are but a tool to ensure your survival, thus the feats you claim I achieve are rightly void and of little importance anyway.” Vaamhyr faces forward, his posture unwavering. T’vehl glances at him for a brief moment, knowing his words to be the thoughts of every Guardian and soldier within Xyrizzin’s walls, but struck to actually hear the statement. His brows furrow with further speculation, displeased with T’vehl’s current mentality. A slight frown grows on his lips as he begins to speak with a quiet, stern voice, “You should not be comparing yourself to the likes of me, Princess T’vehl. I am not worthy.”

T’vehl snickers at his statement, earning a quick warning scowl from him. She swiftly stifles her amusement and composes herself, wiping the grin from her face. Still, the lighthearted flutter in her voice remains. She can’t resist shaking her head as she speaks, Vaamhyr’s oblivious reception of the King’s praise tickling her madly, “Oh dearest Vaamhyr, I never thought a statement so remarkably untrue would ever befall my tipped ears.” She chuckles some more, “What do you suppose my brother meant by ‘a representative of the entire Xyrizzin military?’” She smiles wide, staring into his crimson eyes. Her glee baffles Vaamhyr, making him unable to grasp what her quote is supposed to elicit—though he is not one to reject her infectious delight. T’vehl’s apparent joy makes him smirk slightly and ever-so briefly, the display quickly reforming into an unreadable, stone-faced expression. This moment of weakness is absolutely prohibited on Xyrizzin soil. The defilement of a Guardian’s mental state is one of the highest of travesties, for it is seen as a form of treason.

As the law dictates: “To corrupt an extension of the government is to declare war on the entire Kingdom.”

Vaamhyr keeps a light-hearted tone to retain the current emotional appeal, but speaks matter-of-factly, “I suppose he was referring to my role as your guardian, as opposed to just any guardian.”

T’vehl quickly scoffs at him with a smirk, “Yet I am the one who neglects to give myself merited praise?”

At the end of the tunnel—the back entrance to the castle’s garden maze—a band of several guards loiter with metal scepters. A long straight blade—or metal pummel, depending on the soldier’s combat techniques—reaches out the bottom of the staff, and a reaper’s scythe—with the blade curving outward, above the soldiers’ heads—a battle ax, or sword is stationed above it. Elven is etched into the metal of each staff, blessings so that the Gods may grant them victory in battle, and a minute figure of the Divine Emperor is tied securely at the base of the weapon-of-choice. Only a couple of soldiers carry shields, as the training instilled in each soldier should prepare them for battle without falling into a submissive, defensive stance, so only the newer trainees or Juggernaut Soldiers require them. The guards are suited with heavy-metal armor, every inch of their bodies sheathed in tenacious defense, all except for their eyes. Their helmets are flat against their profile, having an intimidating slated face with minute slices for visibility and respiration. Reaching over and around their scalp, pointed plates overlap each other and angle upward at their crown like a scorpion’s tail. Xyrizzin’s helmets and armor are custom made for each individual soldier as a sign of respect and value, custom-fitting the dimensions of their suit, helmet, the vacant cylinder for their ears, the span of the eye-holes and a religious scripture of their choice engraved into their chest plate, written neatly under the large symbol of Xyrizzin. The crimson-tinted body armor reflects the light of their hefty imperial torches, made of limestone and lined with spirals of gold, with a dome of the spirals widely encompassing the flame, and Xyrizzin’s symbol carved into its base.

T’vehl and Vaamhyr slow down with cautious apprehension. The Guardian instinctively distinguishes his magical flame with a glower and a twist of his arm, veiling their presence with the shrouding darkness. The escape tunnels remain vacant outside of the night watch, unless prisoners are present, so their presence bears a level of unease in T’vehl. A part of her wonders if the King discovered her whereabouts this early morning, and she now also dreads the resulting conflict she voluntarily brought upon herself. Vaamhyr slows his stride, encouraging T’vehl to do the same with a slightly subconscious brush down her arm. T’vehl ignores the titillating feeling this foreign sensation inspires, her mind occupied with outside concerns.

Two of the soldiers lean against their body-length weapons with drool hanging from their chins while the rest remain casually alert. The clear leader stands ahead of the group with a wide stance, one hand on the handle of his bladed scepter, the other on his hip, on the lookout for movement. He wears decadent armor, extra heavy with an intricate royal design and golden wisps highlighting the small areas of the pattern. His weapon is larger than the rest and his slated helmet has horns curling up and backward, parallel to the floor. His scripture reads: “Spare i wicked onlime ana embrace i heinous. Alter enmitime minna claritime,” or, “Spare the wicked only to embrace the heinous. Alter enmity into clarity.” T’vehl and Vaamhyr continue still, anxiety starting to swell from within them—and, as luck would have it, the leader spots them. He doesn’t do anything to visibly alert his men, but in a mere moment the entire battalion springs up, raising their weapons and chanting “An I valaina emperor!”

Vaamhyr reacts immediately and bolts in front of T’vehl, holding her back while instantaneously whipping out a dagger hidden in the compartment of his thigh. He holds out the blade in a threatening manner, quickly scanning his surroundings, having already counted the number of foes, calculated all escape routes, scrutinized the area for weapons outside his person, sharpened his ears to hear the faintest of sounds—in case of an ambush—mustered magic in his core to make casting swift, and always remaining aware of T’vehl. In a mere instant, he is prepared for any attack. His golden body armor shimmers against their flame, and his anger is matched by their surprise. Their assault has stopped before it ever began.

The leader quietly gasps, abruptly getting nervous and sweltering with restlessness, a sudden fear put into him. “It’s the Elite,” He says sternly to his men, his tone censored from emotion, making the men quickly rethink their attack. They pull their weapons back and rest the end of their scepters on the stone floor. Then they bring their fingertips to their forehead, bow their heads, and stretch their arms down with a slight bend in apology and respect to Vaamhyr. The Guardian eases his stance, returns to a formal demeanor with the Guardian’s stationary pose of their hands locked behind their back and their acute attention forward, and moves a step behind T’vehl. The soldiers then take that same extended hand, form a fist, lay it across their breast while still bowing their heads, kneel on one knee, and remove the fist from their hearts to the ground in greater respect to T’vehl. They are not meant to make the slightest bit of eye-contact during a formal bow, as it displays uncertainty in the act of reverence and devotion, and that form of disrespect is not tolerated in any elven civilization. The guards then rise and ensure to make eye-contact with T’vehl upon standing, as well as slightly nod in acknowledgement with a genuine smile hidden behind their masked helmets. As the leader of the force, the Commander lifts his arm for the Princess’s hand before he is able to rise. Her hand hovers over his, and he does the motion of pecking her soft flesh as any worthy of speaking with T’vehl would, despite his helmet blocking the motion. Even were his headwear to be removed, this display of respect would be performed without making actual skin contact—because it is forbidden for anyone, including the King, to lay a hand on the Gods’ blessed child, as decreed by the elders of the Church.

“There are many of you,” T’vehl says softly, her face as empty of emotion as Vaamhyr’s.

The Commander tenses at her statement, suddenly uncertain and insecure. He wishes to immediately explain himself yet ensures to only mildly speed up his respectful bow, disallowed to speak while kneeling. Upon his stance, he responds with conscious civility and general pleasantry, his unease masked by the gruff in his voice, “My deepest apologies, Divine One. I wished only to secure your discretion. I believed a small mass of my finest and most loyal soldiers would be sufficient while also remaining inconspicuous.” The anxiety from within the Commander has yet to dwindle, still unsure if he’s been forgiven for his oversight. He and only two loyal soldiers would stand guard within the tunnels, waiting for Vaamhyr and T’vehl’s forbidden venture to end—but, more importantly, they waited for the Messiah’s return. Originally, the Commander scorned the idea, as any in the village would. Allowing the treasure of their kingdom to leave the sanctity of their stronghold is more nonsensical than permitting demons to waltz into their homes. Then, as T’vehl spoke, explaining her strive for freedom without revealing her deepest, darkest prayer to the Gods, his conviction wavered and his heart softened. “Perhaps the leash is a smidgeon too tight,” he thought, his resolve for aiding the Princess in her foolish and reckless decision to challenge authority. And with Vaamhyr watching her every move like a hawk, chances are low that the worst would come to pass. Any attempt to thwart their plans would be futile anyhow, as Kealen has tried to reign-in the wandering elves by sending a small squad to limit the distance of their travels. Although, they proved to be more of a hassle when paired alongside patrolling rival forces, the hunters capable of losing Xyrizzin’s soldiers—as well as the enemy—deep within the forest, leaving the scene as the two parties initiate a battle of wits. And while he has accepted the duty of integrity and confidentiality, the Commander’s status does not nullify the impending repercussions for said actions. That reality weighs heavily on his mind with each departure. The Commander furrows his brows as he lowers his gaze, bowing his head slightly to her. His eyes draw to a close and he brings his fist to his heart, speaking with the greatest of shame, “I beg your forgiveness and your blessing, the Gods’ child. I have disgraced you.”

T’vehl suavely inserts a calming statement, gesturing with a kneading motion, “Still yourself, Commander Kealen.” The tenderness in her tone influences the Commander to lift his gaze and meet hers. His command stands at attention, all positively impacted by the sweet sound of the Angel’s words. Despite the straight expression on her face, Kealen can feel the distress melting away due to her voice. She continues with heartfelt compassion, cupping her hands elegantly in front of her midsection, “The Gods would not wish this unrest upon you. Calm your mind and ease your spirit, for you could never disgrace me.”

Her blessing drains the Commander of his quandary, bringing a relieving and thankful—though sheathed—smile to his lips. He regains a firm grip on his weapon, reinvigorated by the Princess’s forgiveness. The smile from before quickly vanishes as he turns to his soldiers, dropping the fist from his chest. They recover their strong stances, clicking their heels together with their weapons in their clutches, ready for instruction. He has no orders at the present, only the inclination of reaffirming their instilled devotion and displaying it as such. His attention returns to T’vehl, removing his helmet so that he may speak with her in a more deferential manner. The older man’s short maroon hair falls back on his face as the metal headdress lifts, his bangs reaching below his thick brows. The body of his locks is shaved at the nape of his neck, layers of red spikes flying every which way at his crown. He looks downward at the petite Princess, his golden eye highlighted when matched with the ashen pigment of his skin and the faint glimmers speckling his face. He wears scars from past battles, one wound reaching from the peak of his temple, down across his face, through his lips and below his jaw—the cause of his left eye’s vacant socket, sewn shut prior to rehabilitation.

“With my last blunder in allowing the secret of your travels to be revealed, I aimed to compensate with a greater number of eyes and weapons. However, in retrospect, perhaps my judgment was a trifle flawed… and certainly rushed…” He bows his head once more in further acknowledgement of his mistake, then raises his gaze to meet hers. “Always know that we stand with you, Divine Princess, and none under my command shall allow misfortune to befall you.”

T’vehl nods, no change in her expression or tone. “You have my praise and my thanks, Commander Kealen. Though, if you will pardon my haste, I must attend a conference soon.”

“Understood,” Kealen blinks once in recognition and turns sideways to his men, stretching his arm out to address the line of warriors crowding the stairwell. “Soldiers, make way for the Princess.” Without a single utterance, the entire throng moves as one, pressing their backs against the engraved limestone walls in order to create a pathway for her. She looks upon them with pride and gratitude, but also with a tinge of disdain. With these many soldiers separated from their current duties, the King is no doubt aware of her departure. With that in mind, she briefly hesitates in her venture, but quickly smothers the apprehension while remaining visibly strong, undivided, unworried and resolute. She walks forth and Vaamhyr follows closely behind her, his hands behind his back and lips sealed. His brows sink to give him a stern face, that which is much needed when labeled as the Elite of all the Guardians. As such, he is also the only Guardian with privilege—namely with the fact that, unlike the rest of his guild, Vaamhyr needn’t wear his helmet inside the Kingdom.

The identities of Guardians are concealed behind their armor from the moment of a successful Fidelity Trial during their early adolescence at Taunsor Lake. Outside of the Guardian Den, they are weapons of war, killing machines built to slaughter and obey. The Guardian Council ensures to retain the rigidity of their teachings in each champion during the scheduled times they must converge. Through daily scripture readings, reciting of the Guardian Vows, physical trials, and isolation, in addition to offering spiritual and emotional devotion to the Divine Emperor, the Council is able to keep each Guardian firmly and securely tucked under the government’s wing. Nevertheless, as the King professed, the prodigy of military excellence needs a face if the people are going to justly honor him.

Making their way up the stairwell, Vaamhyr’s unwavering focus is as vigilant as ever, keenly able to catch nervous—yet excited—glances from the soldiers despite their still posture. What he has failed to decipher is if the tittering ganders are for T’vehl or for himself. He’s highly regarded amongst the forces, every young recruit eagerly striving to be the next Vaamhyr while older veterans honor him within their nightly prayers, all of them anticipating the day they may fight alongside him. Although, it isn’t an extravagant moment to meet a single soldier, no matter his feats or faith—as the common folk only hold honor for their sacrifice and nothing more. To see the Guardian Angel, however, grants blessings and good fortune, with the reassured notion that her presence proves the Gods’ approval.

As the two begin to reach the peak of the stairwell, Vaamhyr hastens his stride slightly. He walks to the top of the stairs, ahead of T’vehl, so that he may open the door to the chamber awaiting them. Within is but a strong metal ladder reaching to heavens, decadent with strokes of gold upon the beige, and riddled with scriptures for the royal family’s safe passage into the savage beyond. A smile creeps on T’vehl’s face as she walks with even-footing, her hands in her lap and her eyes met with Vaamhyr’s, uncertain why she seems so pleased by the image before her. With the aid of a mere blink, she regains her calm placidity, washing away her joy for apparent neutrality. T’vehl steps inside the chamber, to which Vaamhyr closes the door behind them, blocking off the other soldiers. He then lifts one hand in offering, patiently waiting for T’vehl to accept so that he may help lift her into her descent. She takes Vaamhyr’s hand and he leads her to the ladder, lifting her by the waist with careful hands and shamelessly stealing awkward glances of the visual as he follows her up. They climb the ladder for eons with only the sound of their grip on the rungs for company. With the band of soldiers awaiting their departure from below, Vaamhyr and T’vehl ensure to keep conversation to a minimum.

Upon reaching the surface entry, Vaamhyr finagles his way up to T’vehl’s side. He grapples the lever sealing them in, his body lining the side of T’vehl’s, the distraction proving to be most flustering. With a full-bodied heave, the immense stone and steel vault door lifts with a hiss. Using all of his might, Vaamhyr needs both arms to force the door up. T’vehl observes the scene as with every display before it, curious about the amount of time necessary for her to be able to accumulate such brute strength. As the light of the morning spills into their enclosure, the awe has yet to waver. Vaamhyr shoves the door off his chest with a stifled grunt, flipping it onto the garden floor, sending critters scattering. He swiftly lifts himself out, immediately stepping to the side and offering his hand once more to T’vehl. Before she fully climbs out, Vaamhyr withdraws his hand with great apprehension and stuttered movement, finding it difficult to place behind his back again. T’vehl looks upon him early enough to capture his behavior.

“Apologies,” Vaamhyr whispers with a bow and a turn of his head, eyes closed, and brows furrowed. He returns to a strong stance, continuing with the stationary pose, watching the Princess cumbersomely drag herself out of the tunnels without any offered assistance. She stands before him, wiping the dirt and wrinkles from her outfit. They make eye-contact for a moment, then tally onward through the lush garden maze.

The colorful labyrinth only occupies the far half of the royal garden, lining the border of the inner wall encompassing the castle. Flowers crowd the hedges, grass softly sways at the elves’ ankles, and minute, man made rivulets flow gently along the ground. The water paths interweave through the soil with decorative glass plates to seal them, traveling below the hedges, together depicting Xyrizzin’s symbol when looking upon the entire garden from afar. In front of the maze is a vast open field of grass, limestone pathways slicing through the valley with elegant bends and curves throughout. Shrubs with flourishing blossoms trace the pathways, small mammals making their reservation within, occasionally scuttling out of their thicket fortress to cross the walkways. Pools of water reside between the walkways, stretching from the end of the castle’s patio to the far reaches of the garden, where the trail meets the maze. Fountains are lined along the back of the garden, all of the different Gods sculpted into towering structures, almost to act as the guardians of this sanctum. In the center of the garden, in front of the hedge maze, is a giant statue of the Divine Emperor. Trickles of water leave the cavities by the Emperor’s feet into a large pool, the surface of the water painted with a variety of floral petals and scented herbs.

T’vehl inhales deeply, delighted to finally be free from the vile reminder of death’s reality—and the events leading to which—the impact plaguing her senses with great persistence. A chill runs down her spine as she traverses the maze with a measure of haste, visibly pristine and driven though emotionally unbalanced. Vaamhyr trails behind her without a single word, his attention on high alert, scoping the area with concentrated scrutiny. Neither let a word slip as they somewhat rush to the back entrance of the castle. The two quickly escape the maze, entering the main garden grounds. T’vehl slows only to give her Gods the respect they deserve, stopping at each statue to give prayer. Continuing to the center of the gorgeous valley, she doesn’t even allow herself to drink in the beauty of nature’s morning delight. She instinctively approaches the Divine Emperor, looks upon him and stares. His stern expression weakens her, like the Emperor himself is looking down upon T’vehl for her selfish antics. Vaamhyr glances between her and the Emperor, able to guess what T’vehl is thinking. He sees the tormented look behind her plastic expression and curses himself for holding his tongue. His crimson eyes wander their surroundings as T’vehl sinks to her knees, unable to watch the guilt in her prayer. His eyes briefly graze the line of Guardians tracing the outside of the castle, each of them heavily armed, ready for anything. The Guardians have long since learned of the two elves’ secret travels beyond the wall, however they’re bound by sacred law to a life of silence and servitude.

T’vehl dips her fingertips into the Emperor’s water and touches them to her lips, closing her eyes while pleading for the Emperor’s understanding and for his compassion. She feels as though she’s unworthy to make such a request but knows that the Emperor is as forgiving as he is wise, and that if her actions were not truly dastardly and shameful, perhaps she hasn’t disgraced him.

The back entrance of the castle creaks open, the heavy, decadent door making a loud thud as it rests open. A group of three elven women clutter the doorway. They wear simple beige gowns lightly hugging their form, with fabric lining portraying a cloister of flowers shrouding small, scattered symbols of Xyrizzin. They wear their long hair up in elegant braids twisted around their head, the mass of their locks tightly coiled in a bun upon their crown. None of them wear makeup, shoes, jewelry or anything outside of a skirt.

“There she is,” the middle-aged brunette says with a sigh of deep relief. The other two maids scuttle out of the castle, down the stairs and onto the wide-open porch, approaching T’vehl while mild caution, careful not to disturb her prayer. The brunette stares at the kneeling princess, no visible expression on her face. She blinks, taking a glance at Vaamhyr before composing herself and stepping downstairs. The oldest of them steps in front of the rest, cupping her hands in her lap. She bows her head, closing her eyes before she speaks, “Lady Divine…”

T’vehl pries her eyes open, her sapphire orbs peering up at the Emperor once more. She removes her fingers from her lips and slowly rises, turning to face her servants. Nodding once in recognition, T’vehl permits the maid to speak. The golden-aged woman meets her gaze, her expression full of concern. Wrinkles form between her brows and shape around her mouth as she talks, “your Majesty is awaiting your presence for this morning’s council.”

“Yes,” T’vehl closes her eyes for a second, gripping her cupped hands, then quickly reopens them, rolling her shoulders with a silent sigh to ease her tension, “will you help me prepare?”

The ladies bow, each of their hands cupped in their laps. “Always, Lady Divine,” they say in unison. Ensuring to keep their heads down, they wait for T’vehl to depart before raising their attention. Immediately as the princess starts walking, Vaamhyr darts to her side, with the ladies left standing at the fountain. Once T’vehl has fully crossed their path, they lift their heads and follow far behind her. One pair of eyes watches her with curious speculation.

Stepping through the gaping doorway, light taps from T’vehl’s leather shoes reverberate off the mountainous walls, carved and sculpted with religious and historical visuals. The morning sun beams against the smooth marble floor, ribbons of beige, gold and silver splaying every which way in an elegant design. Corinthian-like pillars mark the entry into the throne room, stationed in front of T’vehl as she steps inside the rear vestibule. A moment of dread overcomes her before tearing her eyes from the archway leading to the throne room. Turning to her right, she strolls up the servant’s staircase—an austere, claustrophobic corridor used to somewhat feasibly enter the royal wing. The ladies scurry from behind, trying to make their way closer to T’vehl, but Vaamhyr blocks their path. They aren’t able to reach her side until after trailing the endless stairwell, unlocking and relocking three sets of doors, and cutting through the royal library in order to reach the tower. All the while, countless Guardians watch, with most of the den posted across every square inch of the castle. They never speak or acknowledge the group’s existence. They keep their weapons firmly in their grip, their focus constantly sharp. The small group tailing T’vehl follows her up the spiral staircase of the tower and spills into the hall, veering around Vaamhyr to reach the young maiden. They hastily make way in front of her, opening any doors in her path and initiating her undress. The brunette unravels and takes T’vehl’s royal corsage while the busty blonde whips out a brush from seemingly nowhere, running it through the Princess's gold and silver hair. The older woman moves to open the hefty tower door, a threatening display welded upon it. The chilling image of a lanky Phaix, a demon embodying the forbidden, is sculpted into the stone barricade. Its three tails twist around its robust, bird-like legs, with thick 6-inch claws reaching out, towards those whom approach. Large horns contort out of its shoulders like wicked, charred branches, and four more extrude from its forehead, reaching back to its crown. A whip-like tongue curls up at the end, dangling down to the end of its sternum. The older woman ignores the spine-tingling grin on its face and pushes harder at the door. Vaamhyr then slinks in next to her and lightly nudges at it with his palm. With their combined strength, it swings open. Without hesitation, the three women rush T’vehl inside, urging Vaamhyr to close the door for them—what with already being behind schedule and the princess still needing her bath and all. The Guardian does as needed and waits in place with his hands behind his back, his eyes never tearing away from the brunette maiden. T'vehl senses his stern focus and unusually protective demeanor, threats typically being nonexistent within the kingdom's walls, yet all she can do is trust in his judgement for she has no blips on her radar.

Positioning a woven divider before the golden-lined, ceramic tub, the ladies strip T'vehl naked. Just as the brunette quickly swipes an unknown object from the dresser drawer, Vaamhyr zips at her side with a harsh grip on her wrist, straining it before it breaks. She struggles quietly, in a sudden panic. The other two suddenly notice the situation and pause their ritual. T'vehl peers over her shoulder, her long hair covering her body down to her knees, only to discover a scalpel in the brunette's grip. Vaamhyr confiscates the weapon in a hidden compartment of his armor, and two Guardians from the hall rush in to take her to the basement. "No," the elven woman cries, "this must be done! She is a plague upon this planet--!" Her voice muffles as one of the Guardians gags her with cloth whilst the other locks her arms and neck in a metal pillory. They remain professional and refuse to slander the assassin, as to adhere to their vows, bringing this criminal to the powerful hand of justice without comment.

"My word," the senior elf says, breathless, "the danger was so close, and we never knew." Her sullen crowsfeet eyes fall on Vaamhyr, "Bless you, Guardian." He gives her a respectful nod and recedes to the door once more.

The busty blonde whips her hair, "It's too bad their men and women of God. They sure could use a good time, and I know how to provide that much." She giggles, which in turn makes T'vehl chuckle. The old woman glares at the other lady to hush her, which only works on the surface. Throughout T'vehl's bath, she and the blonde chat about the lady's daily life, but then the subject changes. "So, Lady Divine, do you have your eyes on a suitor yet? I know the kingdom is anxious to see you wed."

T'vehl shakes her head bashfully, "I'm afraid my priorities aren't about men, Wymersu."

She scoffs, "I've known you for years now, and yeah, while you help the King run the place, you can't tell me that's all you think about."

T'vehl shrinks into herself, a blush forming, "Well, no, but--"

"Aha! I knew it. Spill the beans, you can trust me--I won't tell a soul! I just have to know who the future Sir Divine will be!" She shrieks with giddy enthusiasm, scrubbing down T'vehl's body with a soapy sponge. Vaamhyr tunes in, his eyes on the floor and hopes set too high for a man in his position. The pot of anxiety begins to stir within him once again, and now his impulses tell him to wait, focus and prepare before the pounce. “Well, Lady Divine?–I’m waiting.” Wymersu smiles deviously, eager to get the scoop on the latest royal drama and details. “At least tell me what he looks like, no names required.”

T’vehl shakes her head with a small smile, “Sometimes, you can be too much. I am not even sure if I have a type of man in mind. I can admire a man’s attractiveness, but honestly I don’t give the subject much thought.”

Wymersu shrugs, “Well, there’s nothing wrong with that. So, what kind of man has caught your eye before?”

The senior lady chimes in, “Stop grilling the child. For the Gods’ sake, leave her be.”

T’vehl exhales with relief, the blush starting to finally fade, thankful for the woman’s input. However, Wymersu is a stubborn one, and with a mere look she demands a response. T’vehl decides to bite the bullet and suffer through this small embarrassment, mumbling so softly Vaamhyr nor the ladies could hear. The Guardian’s ears perk up, his curiosity reaching new heights. Wymersu has a grin growing on her face, “So, you’re into military men then? Interesting.”

Vaamhyr’s eyes almost bug out of his skull at the sound, but quickly composes himself, the act seeming impossible. “Did I hear that correctly?” He thinks to himself. “Certainly, as there is no question of what’s said when Wymersu speaks.” His thoughts race like a stallion in the meadow, and the prior anxiety bursts through his body like wildfire. Although, despite the recent development, he must retain his rigidity. He is breaking form at this point and it poses a problem for T’vehl’s safety. He corrects himself with a huff, irritated at his own faults. Afterall, why is he getting so excited over the news? She could be referring to any one of the thousands of strong, capable and handsome men serving the King–even Commander Kealen, Gods forbid. As for himself and the other Guardians, they’re bound to the Gods, and thus aren’t even an option for marriage. And with that, his zeal is crushed as quickly as it sprouted.

After her bath, T’vehl is gowned in a royal dress, a form-fitting white with excessively long sleeves, and a splayed skirt with a small train for elegance. It’s trimmed with gold floral designs around the neck, bust, wrists and hem of the skirt. Her hair sways in the light breeze, silky smooth and reflective of the sun’s light. Her slippers are cream with golden toes, a leafy design stitched into the body with glimmering pearls scattered about. She is ready for the council. Cupping her hands in front of her, she begins the trek to the upper level of the throne room. Vaamhyr follows closely behind her, meanwhile the ladies are in front and opening doors for her. T’vehl’s stride quickens as her thoughts turn to her brother. She can only avoid facing him for so long, and excessively late is worse than fashionably. Facing his wrath is an inevitability at this rate, so there is no reason to postpone it for longer than it already has been.

The ladies hustle in front her, reaching the final double doors before the throne room. They’re tall, white, and wooden with gold flares of fire and outline. The two of them heave open the set simultaneously and end with a bow to the ground, getting to their knees. That is the end of their inclusion until nightfall, when T’vehl needs to change for slumber.

Straight ahead is the balcony overseeing the entire kingdom. There the King waits, his hair mirroring T’vehl’s. The red fur cape clamped to his shoulders with gold sways as his body turns to face the entrance, knowing T’vehl has arrived. She slowly takes a step, then another, and finally kicks herself into treading towards the balcony, swallowing her angst. She reaches the wide archway of stained glass, releasing her held breath. The King looks upon her with a smile, his pearlescent eyes greeting her with warmth. He swoops open his right arm to invite her over, “Ah, Sister, you’ve come.” He fashions a white long-sleeved musketeer shirt with a golden ‘V’ design upon his chest. His tight pants and knee-high boots match that of charcoal with a plain design. She smiles in return and approaches him without hesitation. He keeps his arm around her without touching and gestures to the people of the kingdom, all of them patiently waiting for T’vehl’s entry. They release a wave of cheer at her arrival. With the drop of his arms, the crowds are trained to silence. “People of Xyrizzin,” He begins, “our Lady Divine has arrived, and as such, will lead us in the morning prayer today.”

This was to be expected. King Xharlon rarely tolerates any indiscretion, let alone tardiness–and T’vehl is no exception to this expectation. The first time she was late was her first outing with Vaamhyr to the Tenyael Forest, and it also turned out to be her first time leading the morning prayer. She was a nervous wreck, stumbled over her words and ended it in a rushed, flustered mess. This is the typical routine, and afterwards she’ll be reprimanded once again. Only time will tell if King Xharlon will keep forgiving her. With his reputation of being a hothead, it’s a miracle she’s gotten away with this much.

She opens her arms wide and faces her palms down towards the people, a gesture they adore as it’s a motion of blessing. “Sons and daughters of the Gods, let us bow our heads out of gratitude for this day. A blessing that is every breath, a miracle that is every life, we must cherish them all. Today will bring greatness to our land, fortune to our people, and food to the hungry. Together we unite as one, consecrated and protected. Those lost will never be forgotten by those still here, and we will honor them with prosperity. Together we will defeat the evil in this world, people of Xyrrizin, and then we may finally know serenity.” She drops her arms and cups her hands in her chest, kissing her knuckles and sending her prayer into the universe. The people mimic this behavior and share a moment of silence for the departed.

King Xharlon raises an arm afterwards to disperse the crowds. He leads T’vehl back inside, where Vaamhyr keeps watch. “Now that we have completed the morning ritual, care to explain why it took two hours for you to grace us with your presence?” His smile is dead.

T’vehl gulps down her panic, “There was a problem in my quarters...” Usually, she would go with a believable fib, however this morning‘s events have given her the material needed to circumvent the issue of her delay.

“Oh?” He looks skeptical, almost as if he knows where she was before sunrise.

She lowers her head, her mixed emotions leaving her torn. “While I was prepping for the day, one of my ladies in waiting attempted to assassinate me.” Xharlon narrows his gaze, his immediate fury palpable. He opens his mouth to say something, however T’vehl lets her thoughts air out, “Luckily I had Guardian Vaamhyr to rescue me, but truthfully I wish I needed no saving.”

Confused and irritated, Xharlon tilts his head with shrewd eyes, “Are you saying you wish you throttled them yourself?”

She meets his gaze, “That is exactly what I’m saying. I want to be able to protect myself–!”

Xharlon waves off her declaration, “T’vehl, we have spoken of this already. ‘Tis a foolish idealization, and the fact that you are so hell-bent on being a symbol of violence rather than peace worries me. The Gods have blessed you and you wish to fight? That is for mortal men to endure, not religious figures such as yourself.” T’vehl sulks, but Xharlon ignores it. “To take your mind off of that, join me in the council. There’s much to discuss without this nonsense rattling in your brain.”

She knows better than to argue the contrary, and lets him lead her to the council room just to the right of the balcony. Four of the six board members are present, those here belonging to the church. The Head Guardian Nardual and Commander Kealen have yet to arrive. The high priest waits by the open double doors, dressed in his white holy garb with the sacred writ in his hands, the book pressed dearly to his chest. He greets T’vehl with a warm smile and slight bow, hearing her approach. His blind eyes face her general direction, almost covered by his white bangs. Xharlon gently takes one of his hands and plants a soft kiss upon the priest’s symbolic ring, thanking him for his presence, then strides into the room. She waits for her brother’s leave before speaking, “Good morning Father Eilneiros. I hope all is well?”

The warmth in his facial expression wanes, “Yes, Lady Divine, however I’m vexed as of late. The issue is not too concerning for those outside of the church, and thus I’m torn if I should make the King aware. I can’t explain the details outside of a private setting, but I would love your input if you will give it.”

“Well, Father,” she begins, “if it’s occupying your focus I would suggest telling King Xharlon. No matter the size of the problem, my brother wants everyone in the kingdom at their best, and if you are worrying about something, you’re not putting your all into your role. That would be what I have learned over the years, at least,” She nervously chuckles which makes Eilreinos smile brightly.

“You are right, young divine, as always. Thank you heartily for the counsel,” He reaches out to grab her hand as thanks, out of habit, and almost brushes her skin with his fingertips—if it wasn’t for the diamond-like mist that always hovers around T’vehl. Typically laying under the soles of her feet, this unidentifiable element protects T’vehl from any and all contact. From when Vaamhyr lifts her into the escape tunnels to the bath earlier this morning, this shimmering dust takes shape around her form and hardens to an invincible shield. Being born this way is a clear blessing and warning from the Gods: that their child must be protected and never defiled. Father Eilneiros immediately retreats his hand as the other priests gasp in horror, realizing his mistake.

King Xharlon slams his hands on the table and shoots to an intimidating stance, “What in the Divine Emperor’s disgrace is this?! The Lady Divine is not to be touched! Not even by the priesthood. Have you forgotten yourself, Father Eilneiros!?!” His roaring voice makes the walls tremble.

The high priest cradles the sacred writ with shaking hands, “Forgive me, King Xharlon, I–!”

“You should be apologizing to the Gods! Do you realize breaking the solemn vow could incite their wrath?–or do you wish for all the people of Xyrrizin to die for your misdeed?!” Eilneiros quivers at the intensity of the King’s rage and fumbles over his words, unable to defend himself. T’vehl glances between them, unable to bear this spectacle but too set in her ways to step forward. Without a response from the high priest, King Xharlon motions for one of his Guardians, who place a royal sword in the King’s grip. “I refuse to let a blasphemous charlatan roam amongst us. Say your final prayers, Father.” He walks around the table and slowly stomps towards the doorway. The priest cowers helplessly, the others pretending not to see him and praying into their pearl rosaries. At this very moment, he is dead to the priesthood. T’vehl just can’t stand here and watch as her brother slays one of their own, and intercepts the King’s path with her arms open in a defensive stance. Silence befalls the room. Vaamhyr steps forward but stops immediately after, unsure of how to proceed. He’s never had to intervene in T’vehl’s actions before, because she normally knows her place and remains there, so this display has him deeply confused on what to do.

“Have you lost all sense?” T’vehl questions with desperation in her voice, “Eilneiros helped raise us!”

“T’vehl,” Xharlon snarls, “get out of the way! You may not understand the gravity of this transgression, but I do, so I will not repeat myself. I am the king and you will listen to me.”

“No!” She doesn’t hesitate, “Don’t treat me as if I am a child, I understand everything you do. Unlike you, I value the lives of our people, all of them. I’m not going to let a simple touch end a man’s life, especially when my skin was never felt—so no vows have even been broken!” She takes a breath, her words reaching King Xharlon. She lowers her arms and speaks with more tenderness, “Dear brother, I know you only expect the best but we all make mistakes. Being compassionate and understanding will serve you well in the future, just as it does me now, with you and everyone I have been blessed to meet in life. For instance, there was a child who tripped on the tile in the plaza and fell in my arms. Again, the gods protected me from contact, so no vows were broken. Would you have him slain too?”

The king keeps his hand on the hilt of his sword, seemingly unconvinced but touched nonetheless. He lets a smile show, “Today is your lucky day, Father Eilneiros.” His eyes fall on T’vehl and a small smile appears, “Well said, Lady Divine.” He retreats to his seat at the end of the table and returns his sword to his guardian. Vaamhyr moves back to the doorway on the inside of the room, calm once again. The Head guardian and commander finally arrive simultaneously, noticing the tension in the room and wondering what just transpired. As the king sits he notices them, lifting an arm to greet them and invite them inside. “Finally, we can begin.” Everyone takes their seats, T’vehl at the King’s right, and the commander’s left. Vaamhyr suffers through the sting of jealousy for Commander Kealen and remains composed just as the other Guardians. King Xharlon motions to the High Priest, “We shall Start with the church, if you’ll please rise Father Eilneiros.”

The holy man flinches at the opposite end of the table, taken aback by the request, then slowly moves to a shuttered stance. He starts with respect, “Thank you, King Xharlon.” There’s a slight tremor in his voice, “I’m happy to announce that all of the students in the Academy have graduated to priests and priestesses, meanwhile the junior students have a few slow starters, but I’m confident they can enter the Academy with extra tutelage. Currently, the people’s morale is high due to the spiritual guidance we provide, however…” He gulps before continuing, “there’s been talk of juveniles creating a band of resistance fighters in back allies.”

“To fight what?” The commander steps in, eager to crush threats to the kingdom.

“...Us, the board and especially the King. They believe there is a way to run a kingdom with universal freedom rather than our structure of stipulations and predetermined roles. Truthfully, I don’t understand it much myself, because our system works and overall the people are happy.” The holy man brushes his fingers across the bind of the sacred writ, disheartened by the rebelling youth.

The King, once intently listening with his fingers intertwined in front of his lips, leans back in his chair while fiddling with a ruby, “Fret not, Father Eilneiros, Commander Kealen will squander their efforts, won’t you?” His eyes slide towards the red head, who nods firmly in response.

“Yes, King Xharlon, I will have a number of Crest Warriors patrol the city after curfew and arrest anyone appearing to train for combat.”

“Not good enough,” the King cuts in, “I expect the people to understand these rules are in place for a reason. From this day forward, anyone caught outside after curfew will be brought to the dungeon and I will choose their fate. Fines are obviously not enough, and these rebellious fiends seem to be so brave as to not be afraid of jail time. Therefore, I want to look over their records, their Academy scores, and current social standing to make an informed decision, and change their attitudes… if they are amenable to that.” A thick silence suffocates the room, the ominous tone in his voice implying torturous methods to be used on the stubborn. “Was there anything else?”

“No, Sire,” Father Eilnerios bows his head and sinks into his seat.

The other three priests divulge their issues, that which consisted of the adolescents stepping out of line, not reading the scriptures and complaining to their parents that their ideology makes no sense. They fear the new generation will consist of atheists. That explodes a huge debate between the holy men on what is the best course of action, before engaging with the king. The room overflows with bickering and T’vehl refuses to participate, even as the holy figure she is. When the room is filled with so much politics, it is difficult for her to state her opinion, because she has been met with animosity for purely speaking her mind. Instead, she’ll simply wait for her turn and speak only of the things that bother her. King Xharlon quickly interrupts the argument once it’s breached 15 minutes, “Fathers—! I understand your distress, this is uncomfortable news for me as well, but we do have methods to change people's minds. I’ll hand the floor over to Head Guardian Nardual.”

High Priest Eilneiros blesses the Guardian to protect him from the consequences of speaking. Nardual thanks Eilneiros, then glances between the other fathers, “I realize that not everyone in this room is aware of the trials guardians go through in order to become what they are, but they are very convincing and impossible to break. Every guardian is a holy man and woman, bound to the Gods through sacred rituals that spiritually tie them together. It can be voluntary or forced upon the individual, once enrolled they cannot be dismissed. So, if today’s youth doesn’t change their way of viewing the church, we can remain in control and change their minds for them. A second wave of guardians would benefit the kingdom as a whole, and perhaps take the place of the current patrolling Crest Warriors.”

The notion sparks unease within the princess. Hearing everyone on the board talk so casually about altering another elf’s mind, just to maintain their way of life, is making her sick. It’s apparent on her face, and the King takes notice. He places the ruby in front of her, which silences the rest of the board. They all know what that signal means, and it is simply that T’vehl has the floor. “Is there something you would like to say, Lady Divine?” There is no smile, there is no warmth. The King is very irritated that she has a problem with this, but is open minded enough to hear her out. She grabs the ruby and looks deep into the core of it, knowing exactly where this originated from, and it brings tears to her eyes.