Exactly five years had passed since the night the world shook.
Inside the royal chambers of Ellassara Castle, the morning light filtered through the open glass balcony, illuminating the soft silver leaves and blooming pink flowers of the living cedar walls. The capital city of Yggdrasil was peaceful, but inside the private dressing quarters, a silent, psychological war was being waged.
"Hold still, your Highness," Head Maid Melawin Dah Analight cooed softly, her voice patient as she adjusted the heavy pleats of a resplendent royal elven gown.
The five-year-old princess stood perfectly rigid on a velvet stool, her long purple hair tied back, her tiny white-fuzzed bird ears twitching in absolute, localized despair.
Internally, my thirty-five-year-old modern Earth-man brain was screaming in pure, unadulterated agony.
That's right. I was reborn as a girl. Let that sink in for a second.
In my past life, I was a corporate man whose biggest daily stress was Excel spreadsheet errors and picking a lunch spot. Now? I’ve been entirely re-rolled by the cosmic system into a female elven child. And not just any random girl, either—a full-blown royal princess of the Befredon Matriarchy.
You’d think being a princess in a magical world tree metropolis would be a luxury, right? Wrong. It’s an absolute logistical nightmare. Every single morning is a grueling endurance trial where Melawin forces my limbs into three different layers of suffocating royal silk, heavy embroidered lace, and golden buckles that feel more like a high-tier armor set than clothing.
I hate this gown. I hate this silk. I used to wear comfortable cargo shorts and t-shirts to the office, and now I am being forcefully zipped into a multi-layered fantasy dress like a high-tier porcelain doll! System, I am begging you, grant me a tailoring skill bypass right now!
But honestly? As much as I loathe the royal silk, it’s nothing compared to the absolute psychological warfare of my first few infant years. As soon as I was old enough to register my surroundings, my adult brain was hit with the ultimate indignity: diapers. I couldn't handle the crushing embarrassment of having a kind-hearted elven maid clean up after me. So, the second my stubby toddler legs could support my weight, I staged a solo palace rebellion. I snuck away and tried to use the royal bathroom like a grown man. Do you have any idea how hard it is to maintain thirty-five years of masculine spatial geometry when your anatomy is completely different and your center of gravity is that of a top-heavy potato? It was a disaster. I nearly fell straight into the porcelain basin twice, and my pride never recovered.
And don't even get me started on the lack of modern amenities. One afternoon, I successfully managed a solo bathroom run but completely forgot to use a wet wipe afterward. The primitive palace leaves just didn't cut it. For the next three days, I developed a terrible, relentless itch that drove my internal adult mind to the brink of insanity. I had to waddle around the throne room like a malfunctioning penguin while trying to maintain a stoic, majestic royal expression. It was pure torment.
On top of the physical challenges, my brain was completely blind and deaf to the world's basic communication when I first arrived. Everyone was speaking fluent Norse and reading jagged Nordic runes—a language system that my old English-speaking modern brain couldn't compute. Thankfully, my father, King Artwin, didn't leave me to flail in ignorance. Every three days, without fail, he would sit beside my crib or rocking chair, holding massive, heavy leather-bound royal tomes. He would track his finger across the glowing ink, reading stories of the 82nd era aloud to me with his booming, gentle voice. It took an intense amount of mental mapping, but by listening to him connect those deep spoken words to the complex symbols on the pages every three days, my adult mind successfully deciphered the global tongue. I managed to become fully literate in Norse before I even shed my toddler fat—a silent academic victory I had to hide so the court wouldn't think I was a total freak.
By the way, as you can probably tell by now, Befredon elves are absolutely not your normal, standard fantasy elves. If I had to describe our race using the old tropes from my past life, we are essentially a high-elf variant of wood elves. We have that deep, instinctual druid earth-magic of traditional wood elves, but we aren't primitive forest dwellers living in tents. We possess the towering, space-piercing architecture, massive magical reserves, and cutthroat high-court noble politics of an elite high-elf superpower, all tightly coupled with our unique beast-soul synchronicity. We grow grand, obsidian-infused tree fortresses instead of building traditional stone castles. It's a bizarre, high-society woodland empire, which means the expectations placed on my fragile frame are ten times heavier than normal.
Melawin chuckled warmly, entirely misinterpreting my flat, stoic grunt as simple childhood impatience. She smoothed down the embroidered boundaries of the dress, ensuring the delicate fabric didn't pinch her massive, well-endowed bust as she leaned over to fasten the golden buckles. On Melawin’s shoulder, her raccoon beast companion let out a soft, rhythmic purr, its tiny paws patting the maid’s collar.
"There we go, all finished," Melawin said, stepping back with a proud smile. "You look absolutely majestic, Princess Kirra. Your father will be delighted when he sees you at the courtyard gathering today . Especially since you have finally survived the tofu years."
I shuddered slightly at the mention of food. Elf physiology on Ranoka is weird, but Befredon dietary traditions are downright insane. Because our bodies harbor a synchronized animal spirit, Befredon elven toddlers are kept on a strictly neutral diet of bland tofu from the moment they are weaned from breast milk until they reach their fifth birthday . Tofu keeps the digestive tract clear while the underlying beast soul stabilizes .
But today was my fifth birthday. And that meant today was the day of the nightmare: The Horizon Feeding Ritual .
In our culture, when a royal child turns five, their parents place three distinct platters right in front of them—a dish of fresh vegetables, a dish of raw animal meat, and a horrifying, squirming dish of live insects. Whichever plate the child instinctively lunges for reveals the eating habits and exact classification of their dormant beast soul: carnivore,omnivore, herbivore, or insectivore.
My corporate human brain was practically begging for a nice, normal salad. But as I stared at my reflection, I could feel a terrifying, wild growl echoing deep within my soul corridor. I had no actual idea what my mysterious beast soul even was—nobody would until my fifteenth birthday—but the underlying hybrid cravings were already threatening to turn my stomach into a literal war zone. I was genuinely terrified that the second I sat at that ritual table, this unawakened entity inside me would completely hijack my motor skills and force me to swallow a handful of live beetles right in front of the elven high court .
I carefully stepped down from the stool, my little legs moving with extreme, calculated caution. Walking with an adult brain inside a five-year-old body was a constant exercise in balancing logistics. My hidden beast soul gave my skeleton a bizarre, natural flexibility, causing my head to wobble with an overly fluid, owl-like tilt if I wasn't careful. Navigating a heavy silk train at this size required serious focus. Every single step across these polished cedar floors felt like walking on a patch of frozen ice—a past-life memory that still made my adult brain jolt with a violent phantom headache.
Just keep your balance, I told myself, staring down at the floor. Left foot forward. Right foot forward. Do not trip over the lace. If I face-plant in front of the high nobility at my own birthday ritual, I am going to delete my own system profile.
took a deep breath, centered my top-heavy toddler balance, and carefully pushed open the massive grown-cedar doors of my bedroom chamber.
And There was absolutely no missing him . He stood tall and unyielding, a legendary vanguard warrior whose short, vibrant emerald-green hair practically shimmered under the palace fay lights. He was clad in full, gleaming Mithril armor that reflected the morning light with a blinding, pristine silver brilliance. Resting heavily against his hip was his massive primary weapon, but what always caught my eye was the peculiar, heavy ring resting on his right hand. It was forged from an ancient, indestructible material and carved into the distinct, textured shape of a turtle shell , of course, standing guard right outside my room was Kristorf.
That ring wasn't just a piece of flashy royal jewelry. In our unique Wood-High-Elf culture, when an adult warrior fully master-synchronizes with their internal companion spirit, the leftover spiritual energy can solidify into a physical heirloom . That heavy obsidian-colored band was the literal physical manifestation of Kristorf's beast soul: a massive, armored Snapping Turtle.
It explains his entire combat build. Kristorf is a human fortress .When he activates that snapping turtle soul, his defensive multipliers skyrocket into the upper brackets, letting him tank planetary-tier physical force without a single scratch on his armor . Having a living cheat-code for a tank standing right outside my bedroom was incredibly reassuring, even if my five-year-old bird ears still twitched nervously at the sheer size of him.
But there was a heavier reason behind his constant presence. In the five years since I was born, Kristorf had practically become my permanent shadow—he almost never left my side. My corporate-honed reading of human psychology told me everything I needed to know just by looking at the tight, unyielding line of his jaw. He felt deeply, profoundly responsible for my mother's death. When the ambush happened, he wasn't even in the capital city; he had been miles away traveling with my father, King Artwin, on that urgent diplomatic mission in Arcaneya. Because he was away on state business instead of guarding the palace gates, the Queen was forced to unleash her multi-target barriers and face her killers entirely alone. That geographical twist of fate had forged an unbreakable obsession in him. He blamed himself for not being there to serve as her shield, so now he would rather let the entire planet Ranoka burn to ash before he allowed a single hair on her daughter's head to be harmed.
"Hitting that fiftieth-year adulthood milestone changes the entire playing field for a Befredon elf. Before age fifty, you're a child, and your body physically displays your beast soul's animal ears and tails whether you like it or not. But once you hit fifty, you gain true baseline mastery over your dual souls. It’s the breakthrough point where you can freely separate your beast soul from your physical body, letting it manifest as an independent entity, and then seamlessly absorb it back inside your core at a moment's notice. Until I hit fifty, though, I am stuck with these fuzzy, unidentifiable bird ears permanently attached to my head, telling the whole world I'm a complete genetic anomaly."
The moment the doors swung open, the Green-Haired Guard Captain snapped to attention, his armor clinking soundlessly. He looked down at me, his sharp eyes softening into a respectful, protective gaze as he prepared to escort the First Princess of Befredon down to the grand royal dining hall .
The heavy silver-and-Mithril boots of Guard Captain Kristorf clinked in rhythmic precision beside me as we navigated the twisting palace corridors. I kept my gaze locked forward, pacing my tiny, five-year-old steps to match his long strides while carefully managing the heavy silk train of my birthday gown.
As we approached the grand double doors of the royal dining hall, I couldn't help but look around and think to myself: no matter where I go in this colossal castle, it never actually feels like I'm inside a building.
Coming from a modern Earth background where architecture meant cold concrete, steel beams, and square drywall, Ellassara Castle was an absolute trip. There were no carpenters or stone masons here. Every single piece of furniture—from the towering arched doorways down to the massive chairs and tables—seemed entirely grown naturally out of the World Tree rather than built by hand. Even the most intricate royal engravings, swirling decorative patterns, and sylvan crests lining the walls weren't carved with a chisel; they were molded by high-tier druidic magic, with most of their borders still beautifully covered in living, textured tree bark.
It was a breathtaking, hyper-luxurious woodland greenhouse masquerading as a royal palace . But the sheer majesty of the Befredon elf craft didn't do anything to calm the violent, unawakened growl currently rattling my stomach as the massive dining hall doors finally loomed right in front of us.
Woven seamlessly into the living bark of the wall directly behind King Artwin’s high seat is a colossal, masterfully rendered fine-art mural. Rather than using artificial canvas or standard frames, the palace druids used pigments made from crushed glowing mana crystals, painting the lifelike image right onto the smooth cedar surface of the grand dining hall.It is a breathtaking, sacred tribute to the late High Queen Layressea, serving as a permanent memory of her unmatched power and maternal protection.Here is exactly how the grand painting looks on the dining hall wall:
With a sharp, synchronized metallic snap, the heavy palace guards flanking the entryway stepped aside. They were gleaming in their full Mithril armor, masterfully engraved with glowing orichalcum Nordic runes that hummed with defensive wards. Together, they grabbed the grand handles and pulled the massive grown-cedar doors wide open.
As the threshold broke, my five-year-old crystal blue eyes locked onto the far side of the monumental chamber.Woven seamlessly into the living bark of the wall directly behind King Artwin’s high seat was a colossal, masterfully rendered fine-art mural. Rather than using artificial canvas or standard frames, the palace druids had used glowing pigments made from crushed mana crystals, painting the lifelike image right onto the smooth cedar surface of the grand dining hall. It was a breathtaking, sacred tribute to the late High Queen Layressea, serving as a permanent memory of her unmatched power and maternal protection.
In the painting, she was seated majestically on a grand earthen throne grown naturally from living tree trunk roots, sitting with unmatched, quiet imperial authority. Her head rested gently against her knuckles, her deep, knowing eyes looking forward with a mixture of unbreakable steel and soft maternal warmth. She wore a resplendent, flowing royal purple gown that pooled beautifully over the stone steps below, the heavy silk intricately woven with glowing gold embroidery that displayed ancient Nordic runes and protective sylvan script along its entire trim. Translucent, shimmering silver silk veils draped from her shoulders like gossamer starlight, and her long, pristine snow-white hair flowed past her front, intricately braided with delicate gold and silver threads that caught the light. A beautifully crafted gold orichalcum tiara rested gently upon her brow, accentuating her elegantly pointed elven ears.
Resting heavily right behind her throne in the mural was the colossal, mountain-sized manifestation of her snow-white Polar Bear beast soul. The creature was fast asleep, its massive fur-covered head resting on its giant paws, looking far more like a fur-covered small hill than a living entity. Its white fur was detailed with extreme, lifelike precision, broken only by the elegant gold orichalcum armor plates etched onto its massive forehead. The beast’s colossal presence formed a solid, unyielding wall of white behind the Queen, perfectly symbolizing her absolute, impenetrable defense. Rising directly from the back of her earthen throne was a majestic, sacred tree that arched over her head like a divine crown, its delicate white branches blooming with shimmering silver leaves and vibrant pink flowers that seemed to rain soft petals down across the marble floor. The painted background opened up into a monumental, ethereal woodland sanctuary where colossal tree trunks functioned as majestic columns and purple banners hung from the living arches. The entire scene was bathed in a magical, shimmering atmosphere—filled with floating blue fay lights and twinkling cosmic stardust that made the entire painting pulse with a soft, living luminescence.
The mural was an absolute masterpiece, but what caught my corporate-trained eye next was how strangely empty the room was. I had expected a massive, suffocating crowd of backstabbing elven high nobility waiting to judge me. Instead, the only other people present in the entire grand space were the palace chefs, a quiet lineup of royal maids dressed in traditional Western-style maid outfits, Head Maid Melawin, and Prime Minister Subwin Dah Silverwood standing faithfully by the head of the table.
As we approached the head of the table, one of the younger royal maids stepped forward. She was a Befredon elf who hadn't hit her seventy-year adulthood milestone yet, her physical features vividly displaying her synchronized animal spirit: a Mouse. She possessed short rosy cheeks with delicate whiskers poking out from them, bright grey eyes, and long, rich chestnut hair intricately styled into braided pigtails. Soft grey mouse ears twitched from her hairline, and a long, slender rodent tail flicked soundlessly from beneath her apron, accentuating her notable B-cup bust.
Extending her hands, she channeled a soft pulse of druidic mana directly into the floor. Right then and there, a beautifully polished, elevated wooden high chair grew naturally right out of the cedar floorboards, positioning itself precisely to the right of my father’s high seat.
Talk about living luxury. I didn't even need to wait for a butler to pull out a chair; the house staff literally grew a customized booster seat for me on the spot.
Kristorf and Melawin carefully helped me up onto the velvet cushion of the high chair. As I fully settled myself into the seat and smoothed down the heavy lace of my birthday gown, I looked sideways at my father. King Artwin sat tall, a mountain of a man whose fierce, battle-hardened face usually struck terror into rogue warlords. But right now, as he stared down at me sitting in the shadow of his late wife’s massive mural, his grand composure wavered. I spotted a single, silent tear escape his eye, rolling slowly down his rugged cheek before he quickly blinked it away.
Even the strongest warrior in the continent can't hide his grief. Seeing me hit age five under her portrait was clearly hitting him right in the soul. I wanted to say something comforting, but my corporate stoicism locked my jaw, leaving me to look back at him with an unblinking, serious toddler stare.
Before the emotional weight could suffocate the room, Head Maid Melawin stepped forward to initiate the countdown. She carried a resplendent, oversized silver platter, its contents completely hidden beneath a heavy, gleaming domed silver covering . My stomach let out a violent, agonizing internal rumble as she set the massive tray down directly on the wooden table before me .
The Horizon Feeding Ritual was officially live. Under the painted, starlit gaze of my mother, it was time to lift the dome and face the ultimate, bug-infested culinary nightmare.
With a slow, dramatic flourish that matched the gravity of a centuries-old tradition, Head Maid Melawin reached out and pulled the heavy silver cover away.
I leaned forward slightly, tensing my stubby toddler muscles, fully bracing myself for a swarm of squirming beetles or a chunk of bleeding, raw meat. Instead, my crystal blue eyes darted down to find an assortment of completely bizarre, strangely shaped fantasy fruits and vibrant alien vegetables neatly arranged across the silver surface.
Wait. Where are the insects? Where is the steak? Did they change the ritual menu just for me?
Before my corporate-trained brain could logically process the unexpected menu, the sweet, earthy aroma of the strange produce wafted up into my nose. The reaction from my body was instantaneous, visceral, and utterly violent. My unawakened beast soul recoiled in deep, instinctive disgust inside my soul corridor. A wave of pure, unadulterated physical repulsion hit my throat so hard that my face contorted into a flat, green scowl.
Oh god. Ew! Get it away! My corporate human brain loves a good salad, but whatever primal monster is sleeping in my core absolutely loathes vegetation! It smells like toxic waste to my body! If I breathe in that scent for one more second, I am going to violently throw up all over this pristine royal silk gown!
Melawin’s sharp, experienced eyes instantly locked onto my greening face and my twitching, flatly pinned bird ears. Recognizing my immediate physical rejection before I could cause a royal mess, she didn't say a single word. With the lightning-fast reflexes of an elite head maid, she swooped in and took the tray away swiftly, whisking the offending sylvan produce out of my breathing zone before a single drop of vomit could ruin my fifth birthday.
My throat cleared the second the toxic smell of those fantasy vegetables vanished, but I barely had a moment to catch my breath . Head Maid Melawin was already spinning back toward the serving cart.
Then, she brought out another similar dish. Setting it down with an unyielding clink, she grabbed the silver handle and lifted the lid in a dramatic fashion.
This one contained my absolute worst fear. Piled high across the gleaming silver surface was a mountain of dried and candied bugs of varying types—beetles, crickets, and bloated larvae shimmering under a heavy glaze of sweet royal syrup.
The visual assault hit my modern thirty-five-year-old Earth-man brain like a flashbang. At the exact same moment, my newly inherited biology took absolute, predatory control. My uncoordinated infant muscles suddenly fired with a terrifying, liquid grace, forcefully snapping my head away by twisting my neck around a fluid, unnatural hundred-and-eighty degrees—
Nope! Absolutely not! I am a human being! I am a corporate professional from the United States! I spent three decades eating burgers, fries, and pizza, and I will literally starve to death before my mouth chews on a candied cockroach! Look at my face, Melawin! Look at how grossed out I am! Take it away!
—and squeezing my eyes shut to look as absolutely, completely disgusted as humanly possible.But while my conscious mind was screaming its corporate defiance, my underlying physiology completely betrayed me. The second the rich, savory, and sweet scent of the dried insects hit my system, my stomach let out a massive, thunderous, and profoundly hollow growl that echoed loudly across the quiet dining hall . A sudden, uncontrollable rush of saliva flooded my mouth, my unawakened beast soul practically clawing at my soul corridor to force my tiny toddler hands to reach out and scoop up a fistful of crickets .
No! Bad body! Stop salivating at the beetles! You are ruining our entire reputation!
Melawin paused, her sharp eyes scanning my twisted, over-rotated face before looking down at my violently rumbling stomach. She smiled slightly and nodded knowingly to the King, confirming that my hybrid biology had just passed its second major classification baseline. Rather than forcing me to take a bite, she gracefully slid that dish to the side, keeping it within arm's reach on the long table before turning around to retrieve another dish from the kitchen staff.
I opened my eyes, watching her walk back to the serving cart, much to my absolute horror.
Wait. Hold on a second. If she didn't put the bugs away, and she's going back to get a third plate... that means she knows I'm an omnivore! Oh god, she's going to bring out the raw animal meat next, isn't she?! My stomach is going to completely break the system rules!
I kept my eyes glued to Head Maid Melawin as she marched back to the serving cart, my small white-fuzzed bird ears flattening against my head in pure desperation.
Then, she pulled the lid off the final container.
I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself for a blood-dripping, gore-covered slab of roadkill. But as I opened them to peek, I blinked in total shock. Surprisingly, it was a perfectly prepared, medium-rare steak of some unknown fantasy beast. It was beautifully seared on the outside, resting in a rich, glistening puddle of its own natural juices, sending a warm, deeply savory aroma wafting directly across the cedar table.
That single scent was the absolute breaking point.
The delicate, carefully managed balance of my thirty-five-year-old corporate-man mind shattered into a million pieces. The primal, unawakened beast soul roaring inside my core completely smashed through my psychological defenses and violently hijacked my motor skills. I completely lost all control of my hunger .
Before my human brain could scream a warning, my stubby toddler arms rocketed forward like a pair of heat-seeking missiles. Bypassing all royal etiquette, all elven poise, and all table manners, my tiny hands slammed directly onto the silver platter, and I lunged for the meat with pure, predatory desperation.
“Hmm…” King Artwin murmured, his deep, booming voice rumbling through the quiet expanse of the royal dining hall.
He leaned forward, resting his massive elbows on the grown-cedar table, his sharp eyes intensely studying my frantic, completely un-royal display. I was actively tearing into a medium-rare steak with my bare toddler hands while a pile of candied beetles sat directly to the side, my traitorous stomach thoroughly validating my omnivorous biological profile.
I guess that makes her a predatory type bird," the King grunted, his battle-hardened face twisting into a thoughtful, calculating frown. He nodded slowly toward Prime Minister Subwin, silently processing the data. A predatory bird beast soul—like an eagle or a hawk—perfectly explained why my body craved meat and insects while violently rejecting basic sylvan vegetables.
But as I heard his analysis, my human brain panicked. I tried to look back up at him to give a reassuring, innocent smile, completely forgetting about my body's weird skeletal mechanics.
Crack.
Because I didn't turn my torso, my head fluidly and naturally spun a staggering 180 degrees backwards over my shoulder to face him, my white-fuzzed bird ears twitching with an impossibly fluid, rubbery momentum. I was literally looking at my father upside down and backwards while my tiny hands were still pinned to the steak platter.
King Artwin froze, his grand composure violently shattering for the second time that morning. His jaw dropped, and he stared at my backward-facing skull in absolute, unadulterated bewilderment.
"...But what’s with being able to turn her neck at such odd angles?" the King muttered blankly, completely flabbergasted.
Standing by the head of the table, Prime Minister Subwin’s ancient purple eyes widened to the size of saucers. He quickly adjusted his spectacles, staring at my rubber-neck anatomy as if his sixteen thousand years of infinite wisdom had just been completely glitched out by a five-year-old toddler. Eagles and hawks can tilt their heads, but they absolutely do not spin their skulls like a loose lighthouse bulb.
Inside my mind, my thirty-five-year-old corporate-man brain was slapping its own forehead in pure, unadulterated embarrassment. Oh god, damn it! I did it again! My stupid Owl skeleton just auto-rotated because I panicked! Change it back, body! Change it back before they think I'm possessed by a demon!
Kristorf shifted his weight, his gleaming Mithril armor clinking softly as he stepped forward from his guard post by the door . He stared intently at my backward-rotated head, his hand resting thoughtfully on the pommel of his blade .
"I wonder if she has some rare beast we've never heard of," Kristorf murmured to the King, his deep voice carrying a tone of genuine curiosity . "That's been known to happen from time to time in the ancient texts of Belrasa."
Head Maid Melawin stepped in seamlessly, using a damp silk cloth to gently pry my tiny, grease-covered toddler fingers away from the medium-rare steak. With an effortless, practiced motion, she gently clicked her tongue and nudged my chin, forcing my disobedient owl-neck to snap back into a normal, forward-facing position.
"Well, we will know for sure at the Appraisal Ceremony at the noble debut party," Melawin said, offering a reassuring smile to my father as she wiped the stray juices from my rosy cheeks.
The Appraisal Ceremony at the noble debut party.
The second those words left her mouth, my thirty-five-year-old corporate-man brain experienced a violent internal system crash. I knew exactly what that meant. In the Befredon Matriarchy, when a royal child reaches a certain age, they are officially paraded in front of the entire high nobility for their debut. It's a high-society political meat grinder where your status window is forcefully synchronized with a massive public Appraisal Stone, broadcasting your exact attributes, skill levels, and beast-soul identity onto a giant glowing terminal for every backstabbing lord and lady to judge.
I looked up at the massive, shimmering crystal mural of my late mother looming over the high seat, my white-fuzzed bird ears twitching in absolute, localized terror. For five years, my father and Melawin have kept me completely isolated in this private room to protect my secrets from the hostile court. But the countdown to the debut party has officially begun. The entire kingdom is going to see my glitched status panel, and I have exactly zero ideas how a corporate professional is supposed to survive a den of Befredon-elf vipers.