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The Elven province Gra'en had been on a streak of great prosperity for nearly one hundred years. Its royal family, however, was on the verge of political collapse. The prince, and heir to the throne, Azart, had nearly been assassinated on two separate occasions; while Azurig, the Lord and King of Gra'en, had been afflicted by a most grievous strain of seemingly toxin-induced illness, which appeared to wear away at his once keen, but now rapidly dulling, mind. The Lady and Queen of the throne, Iladura, who was under suspicion by the gossipmongers of the city of poisoning her husband, was herself in a state of medical perfection, which was any doctor's nightmare, and simultaneously in a political gray area. Were Azart, her son, removed from the province, or from the physical world altogether, without leaving a trace, she would need only to bide her time and await the demise of her spouse, and she would have complete and utter control of the 'Last Elvin Realm'. If, however, clear and distinct evidence of her son's death were to be left behind she would be removed from regal affairs altogether, under the charge of conspiracy against the throne, and Azart would be given the throne, because of his father’s incompetence to rule, and his mother’s inability to dictate for him properly. As additional misfortune for the schemer would be the triplication of Azart’s constant guarding. Iladura’s daughter, though of royal descent, had disinherited herself of the throne, and had taken up an unsanitary, and somewhat uncanny, liking to military combat, and was often found engaging in open melee with commoners; for the most part, those renowned members of elite fighting rings. On occasion, she would spar with her younger sibling, Azart, and his two bodyguards, usually elite combat experts.
In the main province, as well as most of the fringe societies, fear and chaos became commonplace, slowly causing the economy more pain and suffering than the decrepit state of the internal politics had. Here, a handful of rabble-rousers took advantage of the tumult, and sought to make a lucrative profit. One such man was Durath Linea; having originated on a small farm in one of the fringe communities, he had, on his many visits to the main province as a child, discovered the unusual talent of rewording common arguments to his advantage. He acquired this skill from the thieves and young deceivers of the city in exchange for food. Consequently, he acquired the trust of the thieves, con artists, and thugs of Gra’en. Of late, however, this particularly charismatic speaker had been causing uprisings and raids with his powerful words, which came at a price, of course. This price was more than what made him rich, however, as the unwary entrants to his speeches were easily hypnotized by his natural charm that they failed to notice their own souls being rent from their bodies. Of course, Linea was no form of true demon; he was merely so skilled that he could convince his audience to do whatever he wished, which often included raiding and pillaging in the vicinity of the Royal Palace and it’s surrounding strongholds; imposing towers of finely-cut granite, and it was rumored that they could be breached only by one who is aware of their internal function, and could move around it’s slight gaps of vision impeccably. On this particularly stormy night, Linea was hosting a lecture that was at a price so low, even the impecunious could attend. Because of the expected numbers, he would be holding it in the agora, the center, and, by day, the marketplace, of the city, despite the thunderstorm predicted to happen that night by the High Philosopher of the Royal Court.

Just outside of the bustling, filthy, decrepit, and utterly uninhabitable Main City of Gra’en, an expansive hill lay, perfectly perched, the polar opposite of the beneath cesspool, a great palace; it’s walls made of the fabled metal Orichalcos, said by most nations to be impenetrable, and, true to it’s mythical origins, the walls of the Royal Palace of Gra’en had never been breached. The windows, clear as the finest crystal, were lined with gold, and a large dome, resembling a coliseum, was set firmly in the center of the Palace, while a large window, which was the approximate dimensions of a door, provided a clear view of the dome from the hill. Exactly fifty meters from the door of the Palace, were the granite guard towers, which overlooked the hill, and part of the outlying area. Behind one of the windows, obscured by a black silk veil, dozing beneath layers of silken sheets was Azart, the prince of the Last Elvin Kingdom, Gra’en. As the armor of the guards outside his door shifted ever so slightly, the young noble darted awake, suspecting an assassin to be lurking just outside of his door. Quickly and quietly, he locked the door by twisting a small bronze lock, and slid a steel bar between the iron handles of the well-carved oaken door. His body swiftly propelled him toward an armoire a short distance away from his bed; and he snatched a small red phial off a redwood cabinet, placing it in his pocket with great care. From the armoire, he hurriedly drew a leather jerkin and chaps, which he placed over his royal garments of customary white silk, with a gorgeous gold inlay, portraying his name in Elvin runes, which are known only to the few High Prophets of the Royal Court who choose to memorize information so utterly trivial, and the spies and counterspies of Gra’en and Pherec, as the ancient Elvin runes are a means by which the two would communicate hidden information. The air surrounding him was supernaturally still, almost as though an outside force was acting upon his very perception of reality. As the winds outside began to pick up pace and commenced to howl, he felt the force release him from its grip, and sink into unfathomable darkness, departing as mysteriously as it had arrived. After glancing about for a minimal amount of time, Azart grabbed a sheathed sword, hoisting it up by the jeweled hilt, and strapped the sheathe to his side; giving it a two sharp, swift tugs, to be sure that it was properly fastened in place. He then cautiously called out to his guards, Mirrse and Ōrega, to see if they were still alive and well.
“Mirrse! Ōrega! How do you fare?” He hissed through the small crease in the door. The response that he received, however, was one that he had not expected.
“Why, you are still waking, young prince? You still have no need for slumber?” asked Mirrse, dumbfounded. “We’ve been out here for merely an hour; not many possess the superior stamina of yourself, as I hope you are aware.” Azart was sure that it was Mirrse’s voice, but he suspected that his guard may have been taken captive and was being forced to speak those words.
“Sir, thou already hast the energy for such strenuous activity as roaming these vast halls? Perhaps I have underestimated your capabilities, young Azart.” The friendly, yet stern voice of Ōrega that now joined the conversation. Ōrega was the type of man who would rather die a painful, torturous death than betray Azart, his most prized student in all forms of swordplay, most especially the ancient art of Rapier combat, such as the blade now at Azart’s side.
“Sire Ōrega, I am sorry for the interruption, but could you allow me to visit the living area of my ailing father? I wish dearly to do him a favor, but have not the means without a protective force, such as that of yourself and Mirrse.” Pleaded the prince, honestly eager to visit his father’s room, but with a motive only slightly different from that, which he explained to his protectors. After explaining this to the two skilled Elves, he unlocked his door, and released the bar, no longer fearing that a vicious, cunning assassin was awaiting him just beyond the threshold. As he motioned for the two men to follow him, he felt a sinister presence far above him, lurking somewhere in the high ceilings, and ready to pounce at him. It was for a reason that he chose not to discard the leather vestment that was offering him minimal protection, and for that same reason that he had panicked at the sound of the moving armor of his bodyguard. After nearly having his life taken from him twice, he had learned that sometimes, a paranoia-induced caution could keep a third attempt from occurring, or succeeding.
As he traversed the broad, poorly illuminated passages, Azart was well aware of a sinister presence high above him. The constant sounds of armor scraping lightly against armor coming from behind him, however, were constant reassurance that he was far from death. For Death would have to kill his guards in order to murder him, and the Oricalcite plating that they donned was said to be impenetrable, even by the spirit of Death himself. In one Elvin folktale, a powerful soldier by the name of Nystan, who fought in the Orichalcos War, challenged Death to pierce the Oricalcite armor that he was wearing. After many weeks of struggling, even while Nystan occupied himself with other foes on the battlefield, Death surrendered to Nystan, and gave him eternal life, so long as he willed it. Of course, the myth was told to small children as much as the story of the Orichalcos War was told to the adults and young adults of the Elves, which means that anyone could recite the full tale perfectly by heart. After striding confidently through the halls, lost in his own thoughts, Azart arrived at the Arch, the coliseum-like structure at the center of the Palace. From the Arch, because of the large door-shaped glass panel, one could easily see out onto the Palace grounds. From there, Azart thought he saw shapes moving stealthily through the grass, but ultimately dismissed them as figments of his own uncontrollable paranoia. The slow scraping of Oricalcite against itself once again comforted the prince in such a manner that he felt no fear of any sort.
The young Elf’s imagination ran rampant as sinister shadows were conjured into existence by the relentless bouts of lightning that could be seen through the ornate glass window of the Arch. The marble beneath his feet was perfectly polished, and its unique texture brought him back to a moment that had occurred only four years prior, when he was at the young age of seven, and had been visiting Lord Naï, the ruler of the Human kingdom Pherec. It was at the coming-of-age ceremony for Eiko, Naï‘s son, when disaster had struck, in the form of a horrifyingly expert assassin. As Naï delivered a speech regarding Eiko, a commoner approached his guards, and instantaneously became a flash of light. In seconds, a darkly dressed figure, with an unknown House Crest emblazoned on his chest, was between the guards and Naï, who had not even time to finish revering his son, and delivered a fatal stroke to the old ruler’s throat, also destroying the unwritten praise that was to be rightfully delivered to Eiko. Azart had been standing near the Human prince, who had been listening intently to his father’s speech, and had gazed forth in disbelief as the assassin committed his deed. The brutality of this murder had left Azart shocked, despite the fact that Azart had seen more murder and betrayal than most Humans, with the exception of the veterans of the Orichalcos War, had seen in the extent of their lives. Azart had heard of the Human kingdoms and how their inhabitants' lifespan surpassed those of the Elves by decades. The Elves, however, were said to attain knowledge and adapt at a much more advanced rate.
The halls seemed to grow darker as he grew closer to the end of the poorly lit hallway, through which he now traveled; he felt that the large oak door that he had been moving steadily nearer to was drawing away, slowly and deviously. Before he could stop himself, he panicked, sprinting down the corridor, and telling himself that he was being sloppy; he was drawing himself away from his guards, which would allow an assassin to get close enough to him to deliver a killing stroke, a mistake many lesser men had made, and one that he did not intend to follow in tradition to. The dying, rational side of him began to combat his normally paranoid self in an attempt to convince him that there was indeed nothing wrong with the walls around him and that all was well. This more stable facet of him eventually won over, and he slowed, allowing ample time for his protectors to reunite with him as he pushed heavily on the groaning double doors that opened into the perfectly illuminated sleeping quarters of his father. As the light bathed him in radiance, he moved toward a small table beside his father’s bed, upon which a small crystal goblet resided. Soon, however, the feeling that everything was perfect, along with the crystal goblet before him, shattered at the grim realization that his bodyguards were no longer behind him, and had not been for quite some time. Azart soon found himself bolting back through the hall, screaming frantically for Mirrse and Ōrega. His feet were detaching themselves from the floor rapidly, often only skimming the surface of the marble as he ran back through the hall; having not seen Mirrse or Ōrega, he felt a strange chill deep in the pit of his stomach, which he attributed to the fear of an assassin who could kill combat experts who were wearing Oricalcite armor.
As he approached the Arch, Azart was horrified at the sight that met his eyes. On the opposite side of the Arch, no more that five meters from the entrance Azart had been going from, lay Mirrse and Ōrega, both dead. As he continued to rush towards them, tears brimming on his eyes, he felt his rational self scream to him that there was a trap being arranged, and that his guards’ bodies were bait; this time, he dismissed the rationality, because it had betrayed him moments before. As he approached the corpses, he felt his fingers inch toward the blade at his side spontaneously, and his digits clasped the hilt as he approached the pool of crimson that lay on the opposite side of the Arch.
The sound of padded feet resonated behind him, and he attempted to draw his blade, knowing that he was foolish in distrusting his rational side this time. As he turned around, drawing his blade, he glimpsed his attacker’s face, which seemed to be wrapped in some type of gauze which revealed only his eyes, mere slits beneath the cloth mask, which were black, and devoid of both pupils and emotion; with the exception of hate. As his attacker’s foot clashed with his unready sword arm, depriving him of a weapon, Azart noted that his opponent was swift and limber, which meant that he would have to be combated with similar means. As his blade clattered across the floor, the young noble, not at all unprepared, drove the heel of his palm deep into the jaw of his opponent, which forced the diamonds sewn into the sleeve of the jerkin deep in his opponent’s flesh.
His would-be assassin doubled over, tasting his own blood; and seemed to think that because Azart had won, he would be merciful, but the prince had learned from his former instructor Lord Naï that an enemy left alive would one day rise again. When Azart followed through with this idea, the untrained assassin was obviously shocked, as the prince had not allowed the taste of rust to leave his opponent's unseen lips before folding his hand around well-forged steel, and expertly separated the head and body of his attacker, freezing his foe’s wide-eyed gaze eternally in his death.
Stooping down to investigate the dead bodies of his ever-faithful guardians, Azart felt that something was extraordinarily out of place. He knew for a fact that, compared to other men in his line of work, the assassin who had come after Azart was slow, inexperienced, and to some extent, clumsy. By sparring with his bodyguards regularly, and from what he knew of their background, he knew that no one whose combat experience was so mediocre would be able to kill them, despite the fact that they were fatigued, but only slightly. A chill began to course through him as he realized that he was always incapable of defeating them; the more he investigated the corpses, the more he felt that the chill moving through him was beginning to be afraid. Upon further inspection, he noticed that his guards had not time to draw their blades before being murdered, and yet his foe had been defeated with ease, despite being slightly battered on his right arm. Mirrse and Ōrega’s throats seemed to have been pierced through, from a distance, it seemed; Ōrega’s armor, however, had been shattered around the heart, which was pierced through. For all of his knowledge, Azart could recall no instance, in which Oricalcite had been pierced, which made their deaths even more disturbing. From what he could gather, they had been weakened, probably paralyzed or poisoned, from a distance, and then the killer had used the surprise to its full advantage, slashing Mirrse’s throat, and destroying Ōrega’s armor, simultaneously piercing his heart, and left them to die. Azart’s foe, however, would’ve seemed sluggish in comparison to the speed required to accomplish this task in the possible timeframe, and not quite stealthy enough to fulfill the standard of silence met by this particularly, even fiendishly, skilled assassin.
A sharp, biting pain in the small of Azart’s back brought him to the shocking realization that the murderer of Mirrse and Ōrega was still present in the Palace. He felt a toxin pervade his veins, replacing blood with stone, and with all of the strength, he could muster, turned to face his attacker. These slight movements caused the assassin’s dagger to instead land off target of Azart’s heart and instead pierce the soft flesh of his left arm; the steel forced its way through muscle and bone, until the hilt stopped the progress of the blade when it contacted with the rough leather that was meant to somewhat protect his arm. Azart leant on the blade, unable to take any other action, and silently pleaded for death to come swiftly, and release him from the hell currently overtaking and controlling his very existence. He closed his eyes and awaited a famed Killing Stroke taught only to assassins, feeling somewhat honored that this particular cold-hearted killer would resort to that to finish him. When the blow did not come, he opened his eyes and looked up at the assassin, who only returned a cold gaze; Azart noticed something else in his eyes. Something that he could not help but perceive as fear was showing in the eyes of this cold-blooded murderer. Azart was puzzled, and asked himself what this cold-hearted killer could fear. It took him only a moment to see that the fear was in the assassin because of him. Slowly, Azart realized that the poison had run its brief course, and he attempted to rise and engage this attacker in combat. As he did so, however, the assassin kicked him in the jaw, sending the noble sprawling across the floor. Azart reacted swiftly, rising to his feet in a quick recovery; subsequently, he drew his blade and assumed a unique defensive stance known only to the recently departed Ōrega and himself. The assassin charged in an expert style; one that greatly resembled that perfected by Ōrega, which Azart had never learned to counter. The killer drew nearer, and Azart saw his face, colder and more spiteful than that of the inexperienced assassin who had come prior to him. The assassin was expertly trained, and came charging blindly at Azart, no longer caring about the consequences of a foolish charge. Azart skittered back, and readied his Rapier against the charge by placing his left foot firmly down behind him, and bending his right foot forward. He grasped the blade firmly in both hands; when his opponent came near; he relinquished the blade to his right arm, moved his right foot back near his left, and slashed at the opponent before him. His foe dove swiftly beneath the strike, grabbing Azart’s arm with a grasp of iron. In one fluid movement, he withdrew a small rag from a compartment in his right sleeve, and slammed the compress into Azart’s open wound. He felt the muscles in his arm contract and expand uncontrollably, while his opponent moved gracefully behind him, and began dragging him toward the Arch window at a great speed; before the assassin could reach the glass, the nerves in Azart’s mind, having received too many messages of pain, simply shut down. In his final moment of consciousness, he realized that the stealthy shapes outside the Arch window were not figments of his own imagination, but a small troop, which he acknowledged as he was lifted into the air by the force of the assassins leap.


The deafening sound of shattering glass deeply disturbed Solia’s slumber, as she darted upright, sending her azure hair askew across her face. The sounds of a battle slowly drifted up from the entrance to the Eastern Hall, which was just one of the many passages that stopped at the Arch. Her large silver eyes swiftly adjusted to the darkness before her, a particular talent of the eyes of Pure-Elves. Her soul pleaded that she enter the battle, and, against her better judgment, she gave in to its desires. She groped in the darkness for her equipment, occasionally tripping over her failed attempts at herbal remedies for battle wounds that riddled the floor of her dingy room. Floorboards creaked beneath her feet as she rummaged through a large wooden chest, pulling out a few mismatched, and for the most part, useless items, which to some could constitute as armor. She donned a steel cuirass, which caused her to shiver as the unpadded steel touched the bare skin on her neck, and she latched the leather straps of the cuirass together. She hurriedly but on leather boots, not bothering to be sure that they were secured, as she knew that too much time spent on preparation could get one killed before the battle even started. She opened her door, peering out into the hallway, to be sure that the fighting, like a plague, had not spread so far that she could not reach the weapon depot across the hall. She charged into the door, and began snatching at weapons, picking up and locking in, in one swift motion, a small belt of throwing daggers, and carefully choosing a katarra, a sword used only by the most skilled Elvin fighters, from one of the weapon racks. She locked a thick iron gauntlet onto her left arm, her offhand, to make up for her lack of a shield, as it extended amply, reaching as far as her elbow; although she knew that, even if unarmored and unarmed, she would fight to the death.
Eager to help the guards against the invaders, Solia charged in the general direction of the fighting, barely registering the dead guards and pools of blood on the floor of the Arch, dismissing them as results of the fighting. The marble walls echoed with the sound of steel clashing against steel as Solia continued on toward the Palace entrance. A man who she assumed could only be Durath Linea by the way he incited his followers to do battle with the guards so fiercely.
She charged down the hallways, pausing in the Arch to catch her breath. As she did so, she noticed the bodies of two guards on the floor. After a moment she hurried on, dismissing the corpses as casualties of the invasion, and the third body, dressed in all black, as one of the invaders. The sight that met her eyes at the entrance was, by all definition of the word, shocking: Guards were being cut down in cold blood by what appeared to be commoners, armed with little more than pitchforks and farming implements. From the rear, fully armored and wielding a well-polished broadsword, Durath, shouted words of encouragement to his loyal followers, assuring them that victory was near at hand. Barely stopping to think, Solia charged into the fray, and mercilessly tore through scores of foes before anyone realized that she had joined the fight.
“Come on! You have to fight now, or our kingdom is surely doomed, and may Desklea herself damn me if I allow this palace to be overtaken by mere unarmed whelps!” This seemed to incite the guards to fight with an increased vigor, as Solia was known throughout the Central Realm as the fiercest and best fighter, and her assistance alone was said to be able to turn the tide of an entire battle. The sounds of battle changed quite suddenly from the racket of dying guards to the clashing of steel and iron, as the palace’s defenders began to attack with unbridled force, motivated by Solia’s words alone.
Soon, Solia was covered in blood, a great many of Durath’s followers dead at her feet, and only the cause of the tumult was still alive. As she dropped his last underling, Solia moved toward Durath, who was completely encircled by guards. The moment she turned to walk away, deciding that he would never be able to engage nine of the Palace’s best guards and still survive, a loud din of armor clashing violently with hewn stone echoed behind her. This caused her to turn around in time to see all nine of the guards on the ground beside the walls, dead, and Durath beginning to charge at her, holding his blade high above his head. She responded to his attack by holding her ground, and deflecting the attack by raising her own weapon high above her head, kneeling down for stability, and followed up by pressing against Durath’s blade, guiding it to the ground. She took a few steps back, attempting to place some distance between her and the lunatic before her. He threw himself toward her, moving his whole body to bring his blade in a large circle. She nimbly dodged out of the way, and attempted to respond to his failed strike with a counterattack aimed directly at his chest, but found her strike coldly rejected, and her frame was sent skittering backwards down the wide hallway. As her aggressor landed short of her stroke after stroke, and her blows were deflected, one after the other, she found herself in the Arch.
“Was this your plan all along? To lure me here so that you may flee to the chamber of King Azurig?” She asked defiantly, charging in all futility at Linea, who deflected her straightforward attack with ease. Getting no answer but a strange grin from him, Solia got up, and placed herself between the corridor leading to her father’s room and Linea. “If you want to reach him, you’ll have to kill me first.” Linea seemed to pay her no heed, but looked upward in an overplayed expression of exasperation, placing his hand upon his brow.
“You foolish girl. Your father was never my target. You must think deeper than what lies before you.” Solia prepared herself for an attack, and felt that Linea could not kill her here, but that her death would be brought about by him in the end. He moved slowly toward her, holding his weapon at his side. As he drew nearer, she leapt forward, catching Durath unawares. Her unexpected assault caused a blow to land on Durath’s side, causing him to bleed, but he pressed forward, unhindered, striking at her head. Unable to defend with her blade, Solia raised her left arm, blocking with her gauntlet, which began to give beneath the power of the attack. Solia began to place a great distance between herself and Linea, in an attempt to cause him to charge at her. The moment he began to run at her, however, she felt stricken with such fear that her body ceased to respond. Instinctively, she thrust her blade forward, and as soon as she felt contact, she moved away, narrowly avoiding the cruel steel in Linea’s hands.
Solia paused for a moment, out of breath, and soon realized her great mistake. In vain, she turned, raising her left hand to block the strike. She felt the gauntlet shatter and soon after, felt Durath’s broadsword pierce the flesh just above her navel. The blade traveled deep into the wall, holding her fast. She felt the blood flow from her, and forced herself to stay of her feet, as dropping to her knees would mean certain death. As darkness closed in around her, she saw Durath begin to keel over from the pain of her weapon being firmly lodged in his stomach. She pulled herself along the edge of the blade, until she was close to her dying opponent, and firmly grasped the hilt of her sword. Her blood-soaked hair was matted down upon her shoulders as she tried to draw her weapon.
“I will make sure that you die here.” She gasped, as darkness closed around the corners of her eyes.
“You cannot undo what Rae wishes. He is protecting me.” Responded Durath calmly. “You cannot defy a god.”
With great effort, she attempted desperately to cling to consciousness. The darkness closed around her, and she thought she could hear someone screaming for her to stay awake only a moment longer. As the voice faded from earshot, she felt the blade being taken from her body, and felt that she had not fulfilled her oath to herself.