Alira

  The first few days filled me with a cautious sense of hope. Ena’s meeting with the army leadership had gone better than expected. She’d managed to build a constructive dialogue, even nudging them toward a broader perspective by highlighting the looming dangers that threatened not just their kingdom but the entire region. Nothing unites people, whether individuals or nations quite like the presence of a shared enemy, and Ena’s ability to frame the situation in those terms was beginning to bear fruit.

  Meanwhile, I focused my efforts on meeting with the nobles, primarily to discuss trade agreements. It was an exhausting process, and after a few days, I found myself speaking with a practiced precision that reminded me of my mother. Negotiation after negotiation, every small detail of trade and resource allocation was dissected and debated. The endless back-and-forth could be draining, but oddly enough, it reassured me. The meticulous focus on the minutiae—the weights of grain shipments, the distribution routes, the tariffs—suggested that the nobles were engaging in good faith. It’s hard to fake that kind of commitment.

  Still, there was something strange, an unease I couldn’t quite define. Some of the people here seemed, for lack of a better word, golem-like.

  Their movements felt off, sometimes aimless, as though they were following some unseen script. The creepiest thing was their refusal to make eye contact. At first, I rationalized it—they were likely servants under strict orders not to engage with guests, perhaps adhering to the meticulous customs of these nobles. But then, I noticed it wasn’t just the servants. A few of the nobles themselves, while outwardly polished, responded in ways that felt... hollow. Eccentricity? A cultural divide? Maybe.

  But as the week progressed, it either became more pronounced, or I was paying closer attention. It was impossible to ignore.

  “Ren,” I said finally, deciding to trust him with my unease, “as an outsider, I can’t help but notice people here acting... strange. Have you picked up on anything?”

  He glanced around, scanning the room as if searching for what I meant. “You’ll need to be more specific,” he said after a moment, clearly finding nothing amiss.

  I explained the mannerisms I’d observed. To his credit, he didn’t dismiss me outright. “I must admit, I haven’t been paying much attention to that sort of thing,” he admitted. “Though I’m not exactly the type to notice every little detail about people. Odd, I know, for an ambassador.”

  So he wasn’t na?ve. That was something. There was no point in lying. “Let’s just say ‘ambassador’ is a recent development for me. But my motives remain the same, no matter what I may have done in the past.”

  He studied me for a long moment, his gaze sharp and searching, before finally nodding. “I believe you,” he said simply.

  “You do?” I asked, genuinely surprised by his quick acceptance.

  “I like to think I know good people,” he said. “No matter what secrets they may carry, good people prefer peace. So I don’t believe you would be here to provoke us under some complicated ruse.”

  He was almost too good to be true, but somehow, he didn’t set off my spider sense. I smiled wryly, realizing I’d started adopting Tiberius’s idioms—a clear sign of his bad influence. Usually, I didn’t trust people easily. Yet here I was, barely a week into knowing Ren, and already sharing secrets with him. Not the big ones, of course, but even minor secrets felt like a step too far. Why did I feel so comfortable? Maybe it was because he was such a good listener.

  When I was young, I preferred to let others do the talking. Not because I didn’t want to be around people, but because I was always afraid of saying something stupid. So I’d sit back, letting conversations flow around me, chiming in only when absolutely necessary. In the meantime, I studied people—not out of any sinister motive, but so I could learn what they liked, find common ground, and avoid sounding awkward.

  But with Ren, I was the one doing most of the talking. That alone was strange. Maybe it was time to flip the script. “So,” I asked, breaking the silence, “I might not be a career ambassador, but I’m guessing you are. Why this line of work?”

  He gave me one of those intense looks of his, the kind that made me feel like he could see right through me. “I can’t say it was ever my dream,” he admitted. “But I found myself playing mediator with my brothers. If I could make them listen to reason—when a brother’s favorite pastime is being contrarian just for fun—I figured I could help others too.”

  “Too bad you weren’t involved in the Malachor discussions,” I said, only half-joking. “Maybe things wouldn’t have spiraled so badly.”

  “Unfortunately, I was up north at the time, brokering peace deals with the centaur clans,” he replied. “Those talks only wrapped up a few months ago.”

  “Too bad,” I said, then quickly clarified, “I mean, more enemies on the borders usually mean less appetite for starting wars. Still, you share a border with the trolls, don’t you? Even if it’s smaller, you must stay wary of them.”

  He looked puzzled. “The trolls are still bound by the same treaty Asturia negotiated centuries ago. That treaty applies to both our kingdoms. They haven’t tried anything for as long as I can remember.”

  I stared at him, stunned. “Nothing? They’ve been raiding our borders for months now. We’ve had to reinforce the defenses repeatedly just to hold them back.”

  The moment the words left my mouth, I felt a pang of regret. What was I doing, handing over valuable information so freely? Was I under a spell? I didn’t feel any headaches or mental pressure—no signs of mind control. So why was I being so forthcoming?

  Ren seemed to sense my turmoil, his perceptiveness as sharp as ever. “Don’t worry,” he said gently. “I won’t share this information with anyone. It would only embolden those pushing for war.”

  “Why would the trolls only attack us? Have there been any additional meetings with them I don’t know about?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.

  Ren shook his head. “I would have known if there were any talks. They’re just as reclusive as ever,” he replied, his tone steady, but his brow furrowed slightly.

  This was bad—on so many levels. For this to be mere coincidence was beyond unlikely. Something sinister was at play, and though I couldn’t see the full picture, I knew it would ripple back to my home.

  The obvious answer was an alliance, but Ren’s response felt genuine. Still, negotiations could have taken place above his level—directly between the highest-ranking leaders or even orchestrated by the military. But how would anyone initiate talks with the trolls? Our own brightest minds had failed for decades. The trolls weren’t just reclusive; they were unwavering. Persuading them to do anything outside their insular interests was practically unheard of.

  Even when I presented my report on my travels and Tiberius’s unprecedented entry into their cities, the council couldn’t explain it. Theories abounded, but I knew the truth, which I may have glossed over in my report: the trolls had allowed it because their god had demanded it. Their faith was absolute, the one thread uniting their fragmented tribes. But now? The gods were gone, or so we believed.

  Could the troll god have survived? The elves had whispered of such possibilities, but it seemed too convenient. Still, stranger things had happened, and it might explain recent sightings of trolls from rival tribes fighting under the same banner. That alone was unprecedented. But why focus their aggression solely on my kingdom?

  If conquest was their goal, Ascalon would be the logical target smaller and less fortified. Even if both kingdoms attacked us directly, we had the resources and defenses to hold our ground. The trolls had to know this. So why us?

  There had to be an agreement, a calculated plan with deliberate intent. Whoever orchestrated this was meticulous and cold in its execution.

  Ena’s progress with the alliance now felt fragile, just a temporary reprieve. Whoever was behind this wouldn’t let an elf broker peace that could derail their designs. And the worst part? It tied in with my earlier observations.

  I didn’t know why I was doing this—maybe it was the growing unease in my gut or the looming sense that this fragile peace was too good to last. But something about the times ahead demanded implicit trust, and I wasn’t sure I could afford to keep holding back. Against my better judgment, I decided to take a leap.

  Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

  “Can I be honest with you?” I asked, the words tumbling out before I could reconsider.

  His brow lifted slightly. “I thought we already were,” he said, his tone soft but curious.

  I hesitated, glancing down as if the ground could offer me courage. “I can’t tell you everything—you wouldn’t believe me if I did. But there’s a good chance all the progress we’ve made this past week will be wiped away. And... I think we need to leave while we still can.”

  His reaction was immediate, his calm veneer giving way to confusion. “What’s changed?”

  “The trolls,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Their attacks, the strange undercurrents in this city—there’s a connection. And as much as I want to believe I can make a difference, a handful of people can’t stop what’s coming.”

  “So, you want to abandon everything? Just like that?” There was no accusation in his tone, only disbelief.

  I shook my head quickly. “Not exactly. If we announce our departure, they’ll be forced to act. What I’m asking is for your help making arrangements to leave the city discreetly, just in case my fears pan out.”

  Ren frowned, skepticism creeping into his voice. “No one would dare attack you. You’re under diplomatic immunity. Even the army wouldn’t cross that line—they value tradition more than anything.”

  I shook my head. “It’s not the army I’m worried about. Whoever is pulling the strings doesn’t care about tradition or rules. “Please. I need you to help me arrange something quietly. Something that would look normal, even if we hadn’t arrived.”

  For a moment, his expression hardened, and I feared he might refuse. But then he sighed, nodding reluctantly. “I’ll see what I can do, but I still think your fears might be misplaced. You’re safer than you realize.”

  Unfortunately, no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t convince Ena of my fears. It wasn’t surprising, logic was tenuous at best when I had no concrete evidence, and arguing based on gut feelings is never easy.

  If anything, Ena managed to soothe my unease. She was good at that, grounding everything in reason. “The trolls’ cities are much closer to Malchor,” she pointed out. “It only makes sense that they would target you first. Attacking Ascalon would require crossing much greater distances, which brings its own logistical challenges.”

  And the unnervingly robotic servants? “They’re likely under strict orders to behave as seriously as possible to avoid offending us,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “By ‘us,’ of course, I mean me. People don’t know much about elves, and they tend to err on the side of caution. There are even rumors that we’re devoid of emotion. When I first started interacting with humans, that assumption was almost always their starting point.”

  Maybe I was being overly paranoid. Her explanations made sense, and I would see tomorrow just how committed they were.

  Still, it didn’t hurt to have a backup plan. That was the first lesson Reynfred taught me. It seems obvious in hindsight, but as he often explained, complacency is a dangerous habit, and sometimes the effort required to plan for contingencies feels like too much work—until it’s too late.

  Reynfred loved telling the story of how he learned that lesson the hard way. Years ago, during his time as a junior ‘diplomat’, he attended a lavish banquet in a foreign court renowned for its hospitality. The kingdom had been stable for years, with the newly crowned son promising to continue it, and tensions with its neighbors were nonexistent. “The safest place in the world,” he’d joked to himself.

  As a formality, Reynfred had drawn up a basic escape plan. A servant paid to provide less-known routes out and transportation in place from the palace. It seemed absurd at the time, a waste of effort in such a peaceful place. But midway through the banquet, a long-lost heir to the throne made a dramatic appearance, accusing the new king of treachery.

  “If we hadn’t planned ahead,” he said, shaking his head, “we would’ve been stuck in the middle of a coup, hostages to someone else’s ambitions.”

  ─── ????? ───

  As I entered the room, the first thing that struck me was the food. The sheer extravagance of it all spoke volumes—this wasn’t just a banquet; it was a statement. A dozen chefs must have toiled relentlessly to prepare the endless array of dishes now laid out before us. Platters of seafood shimmered with delicate sauces, alongside perfectly roasted venison and a variety of other meats I hadn’t even imagined pairing together. Vibrant fruits were cut and arranged in intricate, colorful patterns, their sweet scents mingling with the savory richness of the feast. If they weren’t serious about these negotiations, they were doing an exceptional job of pretending.

  More representatives trickled in, the room filling with the soft hum of polite conversation. Ena had accomplished the unthinkable—bringing the army and the nobles to the same table. This gathering was for the signing of a protocol, something she’d explained was largely symbolic, a gesture of goodwill with no binding commitments. Still, as she’d reminded me, the first step was always the hardest, and getting people to sit down together was a victory in itself.

  The evening began with small talk, easing everyone into the atmosphere. Ena moved gracefully between the army generals, exchanging words that seemed to dissolve tension with every smile. Negative thoughts had no place here tonight, and she was determined to keep them at bay.

  I stayed clear of the generals, not wanting to risk undermining the delicate balance she’d achieved. My role here was to represent Malachor, and every word I spoke would be under scrutiny. The nobles, by contrast, were far more pragmatic. Profit had a remarkable way of bridging past grievances, and their interests aligned more predictably than the army’s.

  “See, everything’s going splendidly,” Ren said, his voice low but tinged with amusement.

  I nodded reluctantly. “It’s possible I may have overreacted.”

  He smiled knowingly. “The nobles see profit ahead, and the army senses a potential threat to the west. Both have reasons to play nice—for now.”

  As the final attendees entered and the great doors swung shut, my attention snagged on someone out of place. He wasn’t dressed in the sharp military uniforms or the fine tailored suits favored by the nobles. Instead, he wore flowing robes embroidered with intricate gold thread that seemed to shimmer as he moved. His hair, streaked with white despite his not-quite-advanced age, framed a face lined with the weight of decades of contemplation. Around his neck hung a heavy medallion bearing a symbol I had come to recognize all too well during my time here: the mark of the New Path.

  The room fell quiet as he crossed it, his presence heavy with authority. Even among these powerful figures, he walked with a confidence that bordered on arrogance—a man who hadn’t known fear in a long time. My unease deepened as I watched him exchange measured nods with the nobles and generals alike, as though he belonged here more than any of us.

  “Prelate Alexander, it’s good to see you again,” a general greeted him, his tone a mix of respect and apprehension.

  Alexander inclined his head, his movements precise and deliberate. Then he turned his attention to Ena. “Ambassador, I heard this is a joyous occasion. I couldn’t possibly miss it.”

  “Anyone who favors peace is welcome,” Ena replied, her words steady, though her posture betrayed a flicker of tension.

  “Peace,” he repeated, his voice laden with skepticism. “And what do the elves gain from this peace?”

  “Alliances benefit everyone,” she said, unfaltering. “Trade becomes more abundant, and young men don’t die on the battlefield.”

  Alexander held her gaze, his silence stretching unnervingly long. His eyes lingered on her face with a familiarity that sent a chill down my spine. I couldn’t place it, but something about his expression unnerved me deeply.

  Ena finally broke eye contact, looking away. Alexander seized the moment. “So you call it peace when you send assassins to finish off kings your armies couldn’t conquer?”

  The room fell silent. I had anticipated some accusation; otherwise, why would he bother to attend? But how did he know about that? The operation was one of the kingdom’s most tightly guarded secrets—known to only a handful. Not even Ena knew more than the basics.

  Even with her famed composure, Ena visibly faltered. Her hesitation was brief, but Alexander capitalized on it. “That’s right, gentlemen,” he continued, his voice rising. “This is how the elves solve problems. If you don’t comply with their demands, they send armies. If that fails, they send assassins. And when even that doesn’t work, they enlist outside allies to do their bidding. And after the ravages of war, they call it peace.”

  Ena’s composure snapped back into place. “You are misconstruing the facts,” she said firmly. “I don’t know where you’ve gotten your information, but it couldn’t be further from the truth.”

  Alexander shifted his attention to me, his piercing gaze locking onto mine. “And what of the Malachor diplomat? Tell us more about peace. Your kingdom is already practically at war with the trolls. Perhaps that’s why you’re so eager for peace now—not from the kindness of your hearts, but because you’ve no other choice.”

  His eyes bore into mine, unrelenting. I wanted to look away, but doing so would have been a show of weakness. Then it hit me—the familiarity of his gaze. It was the same look the god had given me when he ripped memories from my mind in that cursed cave. But it couldn’t be. Even when a god wielded such power, it was excruciatingly painful, a sensation I would never forget. Yet here I was, staring back at him without the searing agony. Ena hadn’t reacted either, and everyone knew the telltale signs of mind reading or control: headaches, tension, disorientation.

  Mind control. The realization struck me. It explained his meteoric rise, his influence over powerful people. But no, this wasn’t possible. Even the strongest couldn’t maintain control over so many at once, let alone navigate the intricate politics of a kingdom without someone slipping free. Empires didn’t fall overnight to mind control. It wasn’t sustainable.

  It only worked in isolated villages, controlling key figures and building a following while cutting off escape. Was that how he’d started? Slowly consolidating power under the guise of divine authority?

  His gaze stayed locked with mine, his intensity pressing against me like a weight. I fought to hold steady, my composure cracking only slightly as the memory of that cave resurfaced. But then, to my surprise, he faltered. A shadow of uncertainty flickered across his face, gone almost as soon as it appeared. He had to be an empath, but then the question became, why did his power not work on me? That crystal. The changes happened after. Maybe I was now somehow like Tiberius, immune or at least highly resistant.

  His hesitation lasted only a heartbeat. “She is a spy,” he declared, his voice sharp and commanding. “Sent here to uncover weaknesses in our kingdom. You would be wise to arrest her.”

  He was confident I’d give him that. His accusations were unnervingly accurate, but he had no proof, and we still held diplomatic immunity. I forced a calm expression, even as unease churned in my gut.