Moments earlier, within the Lord’s tower...
The sun poured the last of its light through the balcony’s open door. Shadows grew long, and the study—once bright—was cold and dark with the fading light. Its crisp air— heavy with the dust of aged parchment—had grown thick with the sweet scent of cheap Mendorie wine.
Lord Fel’nar Ven'nirous, despite his near century of life, sat ageless behind his heavy oaken desk; a half-empty cup of fruit wine clutched in his elegant hand. His other, held a letter, a letter from the court.
He read, his anger swelling with every word. “The reports from the north are growing grimmer by the week,” he said, his voice low and angry, his wine sloshing in his cup.
“Fools!” he said, tossing the letter before his steward and rubbing his weary brow. “Anti-elf sentiment grows, and instead of appeasing the masses, the High Council sees every incident of rebellion as a chance to fan the flames and tighten the noose.” He growled: “It’s as if they want the kingdom’s collapse...”
He let out a sardonic, amused huff. “At this rate, we’ll fall into civil war before the tide consumes us.”
Til'ven, his steward and guardian of six decades, meticulously sorted through reports at his side. His movements were quiet, focused, efficient; the old elf saying little as Fel’nar gave voice to half-drunken complaints.
Honestly, the old ven’s steady, unruffled composure—normally so grounding... annoyed him. Was he the only one who foresaw such collapse? Was he the only one who cared that everything might soon come to ruin?
No, no—anyone who’s known the horrors of war should share in his reluctance to see another.
Fel’nar sighed; a long, drawn-out exhalation that spoke of his deep weariness with the state of the realm. “This kingdom, it's splitting at its seams; each passing season brings another crack in what we’ve built.”
Pouring the last of the wine into his cup, he continued, “These small rebellions are but a symptom... a symptom of a far greater issue than unequal treatment between the races... Why can’t they see that...”
He took a sip, the wine’s tangy sweetness contrasting well with the bitterness within his heart.
“My lord, another incident in the east,” Til'ven said, his eyes scanning a report fresh from the front. “It seems the Tide grows bold.”
“Hah, more likely hungry. That boy, Leth’tharnian, managed to poke their nest... Then the fool led them right back into untainted lands.” His face twisted with his growing disgust. “Now they know where to come when food is scarce.”
Fel’nar leaned back into his humble throne, his eyes drifting to the door that led out onto the western balcony. His gaze was lost, lost in the last of the sun’s rays—rapidly dwindling with the dying light. He didn’t know what to do.
It felt like everything he had ever worked for, everything he believed in, was slowly unraveling before his eyes... and there was nothing he could do about it...
Frustrated, and aware that Til’ven was merely humoring him, he chose to surrender the day. “Hah, that’s it, that’s all I can stomach. I’ve had my fill of politics and brewing unrest. You are dismissed, Til'ven. What’s left can wait till morning’s light once more graces us with its warmth.”
“As you wish, my lord.” Til’ven nodded, his eyes lingering on Fel’nar’s empty bottle. “Would you like me to fetch more wine?”
Hearing faint disapproval from his steward, Fel’nar’s gaze followed his, then his eyes flickered down to what remained in his cup. “No, I’ve had my fill. I will nurse what’s left; it shall last me what remains of the day.”
“Very well—my lord,” Til'ven said, bowing respectfully before turning to depart.
“Yes, my lord?” he asked, turning back.
“Has Lurian returned from... lunch?”
Til'ven paused. “Not yet, my lord. I have a man on the gate. I’ll have him send word when he spots young master Lurian.” Catching Fel’nar’s frown, he added: “My lord, he is still bound to his wheelchair, and we’ve just had rain. So...”
Fel’nar nodded, seeing some sense in the old ven’s reasoning. “Alright, you may go...” he said, waving his hand.
“Yes, my lord,” Til'ven said, and with another bow he left, leaving Fel’nar alone in the study’s deepening gloom.
Uncomfortable with the eerie quiet, Fel’nar rose from behind his desk—and with cup in hand—he walked out through the open door to his private balcony. The air that greeted him was cool and crisp as it kissed his rosy face...
And there he stood, stunned at what he saw. The fading light, falling into the grasp of the western mountains, had painted the sky in the last of its fiery brilliance.
It was beautiful...
One final gift—before the dying of the day.
He sighed at the sight and sipped at his drink, its sweetness dulling his edge; a rare comfort for his weary soul...
As he bathed in the assault on his senses, memories, like phantoms, swirled forth unbidden to the fore of his mind. Memories of his youth, of better times, times when this shared kingdom was something new, vibrant, and full of life. There was hope then. Its future bright, much like the morning of this day. But now its shadows lengthen, and it grows sick...
“I can only hope its end will be as beautiful as this setting sun,” he whispered; the thought, a bitter comfort to his weary heart.
Stepping to the balcony’s edge, he looked down into the bailey below. With a sweep of his gaze, he caught sight of a small knot of figures approaching the castle’s gate.
Lurian’s party? They looked solemn in their approach as they wandered up from the town below. Not at all what one might expect after visiting those as close as kin.
“Ah, Nanna,” he said, the women’s name a quiet whisper on his lips.
The name brought a familiar pang of regret to his heart. She was Lurian’s nursemaid, the closest thing the boy had to a mother.
The human was kind, resilient, and had a way about her that brought out the best in the boy. Why—she’d gotten him through the worst of those early tumultuous years—her support, likely one of the few reasons Lurian even survived.
He had respected her. She was one of the few who fought for the boy when she saw him nearly break whilst suffering through Torvous’s training. He couldn’t help but smile, whilst reminiscing on the few encounters he’d had with the woman.
Her love was so fierce, so fiery; no human had ever stormed his study with such righteous fury...
He had told himself that her dismissal was for Lurian's own good, for the boy needed a different kind of forging, one she could not provide. He remembered the hollowness in Lurian’s eyes when Nanna finally departed. It was a wound that never truly healed...
He wondered now—not for the first time, if he had made the right choice...
He watched as Lurian rose, unassisted. And on shaky legs, he marched into the keep, his party trailing in his wake. A faint smile touched Fel’nar’s lips. Lurian had become a fine young ven, a proper elven lord. He carried himself with dignity, his quiet strength seeing him through the darkest of times. Yet, that burgeoning pride was swiftly eclipsed by a familiar ache in his breast.
For he had never been a true father to Lurian. A guardian, a mentor, a stern hand—yes. But a father? No... He had kept his distance, a deliberate chasm born of necessity, or so he had claimed.
To his eternal regret, their bond was that of duty and expectation, not shared laughter and the warmth of kin.
Fel’nar closed his eyes, and for a fleeting moment, he was not on his balcony but in the past; standing in the bailey below, a boy of three staring up at him. He would never forget those sharp gray eyes, filled with steel. They had locked with his, like a challenge, a challenge to one who sought to claim him kin.
With a faint smile, he remembered thinking that such eyes did not belong on one so young. It was that day he awoke—awoke from the darkness that had shrouded him since his departure from the capital...
Shaking his head, he surveyed the deepening twilight; the first stars now peeking through the sleeper’s glittering veil. He had done the right thing, he knew; every harsh word, every moment of withheld affection was a chisel, shaping Lurian—preparing him for the hardships of the Tower and its trials.
It—it was all for his own good. Lurian now had a chance, a chance at life, a life free from the shadow of the curse.
“It was the only way,” he whispered, though his guilty heart protested otherwise...
Fel’nar drained his cup, the liquid’s sweetness somehow bitter on his tongue. Lowering the empty vessel, his resolve hardened, hardened into something solid—something unyielding.
For that child—the only one he would still claim as kin, he would do anything; he would see this kingdom burn—if it meant that boy would live...
Done with his drink and with newfound resolve, he abandoned such empty reflections and chose to retire, in hopes the coming day would not prove so bleak...
“What is resolve? Resolve is merely weaponized stubbornness. It is the fierce refusal to yield when logic or fear dictate we must surrender or retreat. When the wise and the cowardly flee, it is the stubborn that remain, digging deep their heels; their Wills steadfast before unfavorable odds.”
— Fel’nar Ven'nirous