The amber moon filtered through the silver-veined leaves of the Elven Kingdom, casting elegant patterns on the forest floor. It had been weeks since Rylan began his training under Princess Alison Ren, refining his lost skills, pushing himself past his former limits. But the burden of his friends' fates, still locked in magical comas from the Vessel's dark corruption, weighed heavily on his soul.
The Princess had become both mentor and mystery. Elegant and poised, she taught with the discipline of a war general and the grace of a priestess. Her knowledge was vast, her power vast still, but even in all her calm authority, there were moments Rylan caught flickers of concern behind her eyes—flashes of something ancient and dangerous.
That midnight, Rylan stood alone at the edge of the sparring field inside the great stone courtyard, surrounded by massive guardian trees. Sweat clung to his brow, his breathing shallow. Though he'd been steadily recovering his mana and had finally surpassed the first level of magical resistance, he knew something lingered in the shadows of this kingdom. Something waiting.
It struck.
A scream split the air.
Then another.
Alarms chimed like wind through obsidian glass.
Rylan turned toward the source. From beyond the mist-draped gates, shadows poured forth like ink.
Creatures emerged—tall, lithe figures with midnight skin, glowing crimson eyes, and cloaks spun from starlight. Their blades shimmered with a strange energy, as if forged from void and shadow. Their presence wilted the forest leaves and blackened the ground with every step.
Dark Elves.
The eternal enemies of the nature elves. Their original location—hidden, forgotten, and cloaked in illusion—remained completely unknown to even the most ancient scholars of the elven realms. They emerged from the shadows only under the veil of night—and not every night, but on every other, as if obeying some ancient, forbidden rhythm.
He rushed forward, only to be pulled back by a wave of green energy. Alison appeared, ethereal as ever, but her expression was different now—sharpened with raw fury.
"Stay behind me," she commanded, voice like cracked crystal. "You are not ready for them."
Rylan protested. "But if they—"
"I said stay."
Alison stepped forward and raised her hand. From her palm, emerald fire erupted and formed a spiraling shield. The Dark Elves clashed against it with savage force, their blades biting deep into the warding light.
"So they've found us," she whispered. "It was only a matter of time."
Rylan's voice trembled. "Who are they really?"
She looked at him with heavy eyes.
"They are the Nightborn—the cursed descendants of the first Elves who were seduced by shadow. They worship an entity known only as Nihir the Hollow Star, a being of infinite void. They gave up light and life in exchange for eternal strength. Now, they seek to return this world to darkness."
A blast of dark energy cracked the shield. Alison winced. She turned to Rylan and seized his arm.
"You must learn to fight them not like a knight, but like an assassin. Silent, deadly, invisible."
He blinked. "You want to train me in assassination?"
"If you want to protect your friends, you must know how to kill before being seen. These enemies wield void magic. Light and fire are often useless. You'll need something more."
Before he could reply, another blast cracked the sky. The shield shattered. Alison launched forward with uncanny speed, blades drawn from twin gauntlets on her arms. She danced through the enemy, slashing with ruthless grace. Black blood hit the stone.
Rylan stood frozen. Then something whispered behind him.
"Found you."
A Dark Elf had slipped past the shield.
Rylan barely dodged the curved blade as it slashed the air where his head had been. Rolling forward, he summoned a flame—but it sputtered.
Void magic.
The elf lunged. Rylan raised his forearm and parried with a spark of his recovered power, then countered with a desperate blast of kinetic force. The elf slammed into a tree and vanished into mist.
Rylan panted. That hadn't been skill. That had been luck.
---
After the battle, Alison led Rylan into a sealed chamber within the castle.
Unlike the ornate hallways above, this place was ancient—its walls of obsidian stone veined with glowing script. The air was colder here, almost hollow.
"This," she said, "is the Atrum Sanctum. Only those of royal blood may enter. But today, I will break that rule."
She walked to a pedestal where an obsidian mask rested—plain, but with slits sharp like daggers.
"The art of assassination is sacred to the elves," she continued. "But rarely taught anymore. Yet these times demand shadows to fight shadows."
Rylan listened intently as she explained the ways of silent movement, of shadow magic—an echo of normal magic that required not energy, but focus, intent, and alignment with the breath of the world.
They began.
Every day, she pushed him to his edge—balancing on ropes above pits, memorizing soundless movement, throwing curved daggers into flickering candles. He learned pressure points, the anatomy of enemies, the art of killing with one strike.
He resisted, at first. The idea of assassination felt wrong. Dishonorable.
But with each passing day, he saw more of the price his friends were paying. The dark crystals in their chests grew slightly more vivid. Their breathing shallower.
He remembered Alison's words: "To save them, you must walk where light fears to tread."
---
On the seventh night of training, Rylan meditated under the Whispering Tree, a relic said to share the memories of ancient elves. Its leaves whispered like voices.
Alison approached quietly. "You've done well."
He opened his eyes. "But I still haven't learned to use their magic. Void and yin. It's… empty."
"That's the point," she said. "Void isn't a force you wield. It's what's left when you give up everything else. It feeds on pain, loss, fear. You can't use it. But you can endure it."
He stared at her. "How do you know that?"
She hesitated, then sat beside him.
"Because once, long ago, I touched the void. My sister… she was taken by the Nightborn. I tried to save her. I failed."
Her voice cracked.
"And I nearly became like them."
Rylan didn't speak. Instead, he reached over and rested his hand over hers.
She flinched. But didn't pull away.
"I'll make sure it doesn't happen again," he said softly. "Not to anyone."
---
The next day, she led him to a vault beneath the Sanctum. In it were relics long forgotten—daggers made from phoenix bone, cloaks stitched from moon spider silk, and a scroll sealed in living bark.
"Take what you need. The next phase begins."
He picked a weapon called the Shadow Fang—a blade forged from silverwood and dipped in void sap. Silent. Lethal. Pure.
They returned to the forest where ruins of ancient elf temples stood. She taught him how to read the ley lines—the invisible currents of mana that shaped the world. He learned to move through them, to listen.
He became the shadow.
---
Weeks passed.
One day, as they trained, a sudden pulse rippled through the air. The trees shook. Animals fled. A scar appeared in the sky like a fracture in glass.
Rylan and Alison turned to one another.
"That wasn't natural," she said.
A raven descended, carrying a scroll.
She caught it, read the note. Her eyes widened.
"Rylan… the Nightborn didn't attack us by accident. They were looking for something. Or someone."
He stepped forward. "What do you mean?"
She handed him the note.
It was written in a dark, flowing hand:
"The Vessel shall awaken fully when the Wells fall. The Chosen One is the key. The princess must be silenced."
He read the last line aloud.
"We're running out of time."
She turned to him, her voice firm.
"Then it's time you learn the final lesson."
He blinked. "Which is?"
She stepped into the shade.
And vanished.
"Find me," her voice whispered from the dark.
The air turned cold.
Rylan reached for his dagger, narrowed his stance.
This was no longer training.
This was survival.
And in the shadows of the forest, something stirred that was not Alison.