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The afternoon of the auction day.
Eldoria, the elven kingdom, was renowned for its unparalleled beauty and immeasurable wealth. Its cities rose like monuments to the union of magic and craft—suspended bridges linking living towers, gardens that caught the sun's golden glare.
Around the realm, the landscape shifted in grandeur: ancient forests where primeval trees kept their majesty; fields that ran to the horizon; crystalline mountains guarding secrets of bygone ages.
Elven prosperity thrived on crafted arcana and sprawling agriculture. Their harvests were so abundant they fed Eldoria and neighboring realms alike, making the elven empire the continent's vital trade heart.
Twelve farming villages ringed the capital, each sustaining that prosperity. Every village specialized in a crop—mana-flowers, energy grains, alchemical herbs—and each was protected by a battalion of a thousand elven soldiers. These warriors, trained in precision and spellcraft, defended the fields from beasts and invaders. Yet, despite their training, the villagers were fragile.
And on that day, no defense would be enough.
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Village Four was calm beneath a storm when the horror began. Now only silence remained.
The defensive base—once a bastion of steel and wards—had become a tomb. The air, thick with iron and blood, lay heavy like a shroud. Lights had failed; the place was dim, lit only by moonlight through broken windows and lightning's flash.
Water fell from the ceiling with a savage rhythm, each drop striking the metal floor like a lash.
Under a table a young elf trembled. Cold sweat clung to him; his hands covered his mouth to stifle sobs.
Before him the floor was a blossom of shredded bodies. Armor, once proud, lay open like crushed shells. Those who had been his comrades were now nothing but scattered flesh.
The smell of blood burned his nostrils. Every breath was effort. Each second stretched into an eternity.
Then he heard it.
A soft song, almost childish, echoed through the corridors. A crooked, sweet melody—like someone who had forgotten to tune their instrument.
The elf's heart froze. He knew that voice.
She was here.
Her steps were light, carefree, as if walking a garden. Yet each step made the ground tremble beneath the weight of fear.
He had seen what she could do. Elven armor twisted like paper under her hands. Bodies burst like overripe fruit. Protective runes and wards failed. Nothing held.
Nothing stopped her.
And the most terrifying thing: she seemed to feel fear. She knew where every soldier hid, as if their silent terror were beacons in the dark.
He forced his breaths quiet. Through the gap beneath the table he saw her.
She stood in the room's center.
A woman—or something acting as one. Pale skin, almost translucent. Long light-blue hair cascading to her waist, each strand shimmering like liquid light. She wore a loose, ornamented light-green top that seemed to glow faintly in the gloom.
But the glow was a lie.
Her hands were stained with blood. She licked her fingers slowly, with a gesture almost delicate—like a cat cleaning itself after devouring a bird. Her eyes, pink as polished gems, shone warped and bright. And her smile… the smile was childish, as if she toyed with something she did not understand to be dangerous.
The elf wanted to close his eyes but couldn't. He had to warn someone. He had to do something.
Trembling, he reached for the communicator lying by a corpse. If he could send a signal, maybe there was hope.
But the click of metal was too loud.
"Found you."
Her voice sounded gentle. Too gentle.
Before he could move she was beneath the table. Her eyes locked on his—blade-bright.
She seized his wrists. Bones snapped in the air. Pain made him scream, but the sound died in his throat, smothered by her laughter.
Her laugh was high, distorted, almost musical.
Her jaw unhinged with a sickening crack. Sharp teeth replaced any human smile. The elf tried to crawl away, but his body betrayed him. Then it was over.
The sound of tearing. A choked scream. Silence.
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After dropping the still-warm body, Niyx sighed and wiped the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand.
"This should make a bit of noise," she murmured, distracted. "I suppose I'll move to the next post. I just need to kill everyone until I reach the center of Eldoria."
Her tone was light, almost bored.
The plan had begun. By now Xanthir and Erebos were probably on their way to the auction. Lorian, meanwhile, was likely inside the city, waiting for the right moment.
Niyx's task was simple: create chaos. She would start at outlying posts—one by one—drawing the army's attention and leaving the center exposed.
But she had overreached.
The thousand soldiers of that base had been slaughtered in minutes—too quickly for alarms to trigger. Some did not even realize they were dead.
Now the sensible move was to wait. Wait for another outpost to investigate.
'Yes, better that I don't go there. I'll lure them here,' she thought, deciding what to do.
She walked the corridors toward the control room.
Mutilated operators still slumped before their panels—some headless, others bent over keyboards with blood seeping between keys.
"Should be here…" she murmured, scanning the main console.
She found the emergency beacon: a small golden mana crystal. One touch and Eldoria's entire military net would know something had happened.
Smiling, she pressed it.
Alarms howled through the speakers. Outside, red lights began to blink in the rain.
Niyx sat atop a table, swinging her legs, watching the windows as she waited.
"Let's see how long it takes you to arrive," she murmured. "I'm eager for company."
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