The throne's cold bit deep into weary bones, an anchor after a small march.
"I hate this seat, so uncomfortable," I thought with a small frown.
Their gaze clung like poisoned moss—the Heathens. Carrion birds circled a dying sun: the Lord of Light weaving lies into vulnerable minds, the Pale Child's laughter like ice shards on stone, the Merlin King's salt-froth gnawing my shores, and the heavy, root-deep silence of the Old Gods who had abandoned one of their ancient children in this rotting wood. Vermin. Scavengers. "Heathens," I rasped.
I'd witnessed their holy fires, heard the hollow thunder of their sermons. Kingdoms reduced to ash-strewn tombs, mothers rocking cold, unfamiliar corpses with eyes hollow from borrowed grief, fathers forced to watch sons dragged shrieking into monstrous jaws, rivers choked thick and slow with crimson. Only we bled for us. Only we remembered the cost. The Mother Tree seared this truth into me eight winters past—my race's faded glory, its desperate, blood-soaked future, its profound solitude.
My gaze, heavy as mountain stone, swept the unwavering ranks of the First battalion of the First Legion—five hundred strong, spears planted deep like a forest of cold steel in the loose, dark earth, bronze scales whispering faintly.
Then it pierced the ranks and found her: a small form radiating ancient weariness, clad in a shirt of perpetually green, rustling leaves and breeches of supple dark bark, skin the warm brown of forest loam, long ears twitching, slitted amber eyes burning with unnatural red fire. A Greenseer. Forsaken. Left to the creeping dark.
I leaned forward, obsidian pressing against my forearms, my thoughts sharp as shattered glass piercing her mind: "You. Cast aside. When the cold death devoured the forests, turning heartwood to ice, your kin fled like terrified vermin across the broken Arm of Dorne. Left your clan to rot in the corpse of the Endress forest. I smell your sour fear. I feel your dying Weirwood's weakening pulse. You watched us from shadowed eaves. Learned our words. Speak what I demand."
Her response was instinctive and prepared: a three-thumbed hand with black obsidian-shard nails scratched the dark earth, pressed palm flat, then she prostrated, forehead to cool soil, fractured Elvish thick with disuse tearing from her: "Astal mána túlëa! Neoth ëa ninna!" (Loyalty until the end! Neoth witnesses!)
A soft Ding—silver striking crystal—resonated deep within my skull. The Sleeping System stirred.
Now. The Ifequevron, forsaken millennia before their name echoed. As the vast Endless forest fell, that stretched from the bones to the shores west ,the Old Gods retreated westwards like rats.
The Wonder could awaken. "Arise—" I began, only to stop cold as runes ignited across the titanic base of Nehk-Astor, the Ninefold Covenant. Golden light erupted, defiant as a captured star.
"Showy," I muttered. Nine colossal steps rose; only the first tier blazed—smooth obsidian etched with writhing Elvish runes promising loyalty and shared doom. The tiers above were voids, inscriptions blurred. High above, nine vast, empty thrones sat hollowed by wind and shadow. No king ruled there. The true seat lay buried deep within the pyramid's heart—black basalt fused with veins of living silver root.
My throne. Bound by the crown. None above me. None dared.
The Elvish light pulsed, dimming and flickering. Suddenly, the second tier convulsed. Stone tore as weirwood branches thick as thighs erupted, weeping rivulets of crimson sap, coiling fiercely around the lowest summit throne. The pyramid groaned, a deep vibration felt in the chest, while thick, white roots snaked downwards, questing towards my buried throne.
A guttural curse hissed in my inner ear: "Thief! Thief!" Instinctively, I tugged my hood low, shrouding my face, hiding the eyes they craved as windows for their overrated magic.
"Arise!" My command cracked the air. Above, the sky darkened further, the sun smothered. Persistent vermin. "Give it up!" I snarled upwards.
The Child pushed herself up and stood. Her vivid red eyes flickered wildly, fading to a sickly yellow. Her skin withered, becoming papery and dry, yet no scent of fear rose—only desperate resolve clung to her, the knotted weirwood bow secure on her back. Her gifts, her very life essence, were being ripped away, draining fast.
Neoth would provide his gift. alas Vigilance was my shield. I gave a subtle nod towards the deeper shadow pooled at her feet. It writhed—a ripple of absolute darkness. My Tûrhên was ready, the only dark elf, master of shadows.
She gasped, a ragged, wet sound, hands flying to clutch her chest. Then came the eruption: thick, luminous indigo blood fountained from her eyes, poured from her nose and ears. She choked, coughing violently, spraying dark droplets that stained her leaf-shirt and bark-breeches. He was close. Neoth stirred.
A voice vast and resonant with epochs boomed through my form, making my ribs shake: "DON'T BE AFRAID."
She screamed, a raw, animal sound, back arching violently, head thrown back towards the oppressive dark sky. As if on cue, five hundred spears slammed the earth—CRACK-THOOM!—and a hundred drummers stepped forward from the rear ranks, heavy mallets raised, faces grim masks.
I rose, power coiling within me, for I need to show my kin my acceptance and my promise to her clan "THOU SHALT ASK THY KING FOR JUSTICE!" My roar shook the air as I leaped down Nehk-Astor's first step, landing hard.
The drummers struck. Together. BOOM. A physical blow, thunder devouring the world, silencing groans, screams, even the air itself, resonating deep in chests and marrow.
BOOM. BOOM.
Two more colossal impacts followed, shaking the earth like the footsteps of primordial war-gods. I landed jarringly on the second tier. "THOU SHALT ASK THY KING FOR MERCY!" My command sliced through the fading echo.
Drums erupted into frenzy.
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK! Sharp, rapid-fire beats like snapping bones tore the air; drumskins shrieked high-pitched.
The deep THUD of war drums collided with the harsh CLANG! of bronze on iron—a discordant swarm devouring order, replaced by furious, unpredictable chaos.
"THOU SHALT ASK THY KING FOR POWER!" My voice, imbued with golden power, cut through the maelstrom, eyes blazing like captured suns. Pure, overwhelming chaos followed.
Frantic beats crashed into deep, dragging pulses like mountains collapsing and skies tearing open. The sheer volume became a physical pressure, vibrating teeth, scraping bone, filling skulls with relentless, roaring power.
Behind me, the pyramid's apex ignited with a cold blue sun, casting stark, leaping shadows—light offering no warmth, only sterile illumination.
I reached the base tier and seized her convulsing head, cradling it. My palm split as if cut by an unseen blade, golden blood welling to mingle with her indigo flow. The incessant whispers of the Heathens ceased utterly.
"Hes here " I said softly as I noticed everyone fell on one knee praying to neoth Above .
Profound Silence fell, the heathen's whispers ceased, a vacuum within the storm.
"I SEE THE END, BUT NOT THE PATH," Neoth's voice, vast as the void between stars, spoke through me making my jaw quiver
"I SEE THE PATH," I declared, golden light erupting down my arms to engulf her small body in blinding, purifying radiance.
"I AM THE WAY." I whispered.
"HE IS THE END." his cracleked trough my jaw again,Lightning seemed to arc within her flesh, illuminating stark white bones.
A sickening series of cracks echoed—SNAP-SNAP-CRACK!—like dry timber yielding. Her spine arched backwards impossibly, tendons straining. New fingers sprouted from her three-thumbed hand, tearing skin—five long, slender digits ending in sharp black claws. Her ears stretched, elongating, points sharpening.
With a cry of agony and ecstasy, she slammed her forehead onto the unyielding stone with a sickening THUD! Her shriek, unbearable, tore through the drumming, instantly answered by a chorus of distant, agonized wails rising from the forest depths. "WHAT IS MY PURPOSE?!" The plea ripped from her.
"IN DEATH, GLORY," Neoth pronounced, absolute and final.
"LOYALTY!" I replied back, the word a command, a vow, a forge-hammer on white-hot iron. The blinding golden light didn't fade; it imploded, sinking deep into her transformed body, absorbed into bone, sinew, and spirit.
The piercing screams cut off abruptly. Silence crashed down—thick, heavy, expectant, like the stillness after lightning strikes or the moment before blood spills.
Slowly, trembling, she raised her head. The grotesque arch of her spine eased as new bones settled with faint, wet clicks. The new fingers flexed, claws glinting dully. Her withered skin smoothed, regaining vibrant strength, now imbued with an inner light. Her eyes snapped open—no longer yellow or merely red, but burning red suns radiating power and terrible, focused awareness. She stared, transfixed, at her transformed hand—five fingers, black claws—flexing them experimentally as they fell making way for normal nails.
Then her gaze lifted, locking onto mine. Her voice, when it came, was clear, resonant, vibrating with ancient, terrible power: "Neoth Protects. God is with me."
I smiled, turning away. Neoth's final command resonated like bedrock shifting, deep and irrevocable: "ARISE" The drummers froze as one.
The chaotic fury died, its last echoes fading, leaving a void filled only by the steady, mournful drip… drip… drip of crimson weirwood sap weeping onto the dark stone of the Covenant, echoing in the sudden, charged quiet where the air hummed with spent power and the promise of storms to come.
I turned my head fully towards her and smiled. The cold blue sun behind me winked out, vanishing instantly.
I answered before her new, sun-fire eyes could form the question: "Mira Genevine is your name. Reverent Redemptor of the Obsidian Thorn is what you shall be known as." I pointed towards my own eyes, where flickering gold light still danced within the depths. "I see it."