Where am I?
It was dark. Not just "lights off" dark, but a heavy, crushing void that swallowed my thoughts. I couldn't remember my name. I couldn't remember my face. I couldn't remember... anything.
Then, there was the light.
It started as a pinprick, then bloomed into a searing, soul-scorching white. It was so, so, so bright—
"Lierelle! Get over here and help us pick this damned place up!"
The void shattered. The existential dread was replaced by the very real, very annoying sound of a man shouting.
I blinked, my vision swimming. The "searing white light" was actually just mid-morning sunshine pouring through a dusty window. I wasn't in the afterlife; I was on the floor of a library that looked like it had been hit by a tornado.
"There are books everywhere," a voice grumbled. "Don't you know how to clean?"
I looked up. A middle-aged man stood over me, his face a map of frustration. Dad. The word bubbled up from my new memories automatically.
"Dad, do I have to?" I groaned, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. "I'm still tired from reading all night..."
"God, it feels like I'm talking to a brick wall sometimes!"
He threw his hands up and stormed toward a pile of fallen scrolls.
I sat up, a stray strand of hair falling over my face. My head was spinning. One second I was drifting in a vacuum, and the next, I was being scolded for my poor housekeeping skills in a world that smelled like old parchment and... magic?
Right. Lierelle. That was me.
A brick wall? I thought, watching him stomp away. Statistically speaking, Dad, I'm actually 99.9% empty space at the atomic level. But sure, let's go with the masonry metaphor.
Oh just be a smartass i guess. "Arden walk away mumbling to himself"
"The High Council has called for a Full Assembly," my father announced, his voice echoing off the vaulted marble of the dining hall.
He didn't look at his breakfast. He looked at the scroll in his hand like it was a live explosive.
"Another one?" My mother, Luthien, paused her tea mid-air. She was the picture of High Elf grace—hair like spun moonlight and eyes that seemed to see through walls. "It feels like we were just at the Spires last moon. Is the mana-well fluctuating again?"
"It's not the mana." Father finally looked up, his expression grim. "It's the Purge Quota. The northern scouts reported a sighting. They think a pocket of them survived in the Weeping Woods."
Them. He didn't even have to say the words "Dark Elf." In this house, they were just a shadow you didn't name.
"Lierelle," Father turned his sharp gaze toward me. "You'll be attending this time. In full ceremonial regalia."
I nearly choked on my toast. "Me? But Dad—Father, I'm still behind on my arcana studies. Surely my presence isn't required for a political briefing?"
"You are the daughter of the High Chief," Luthien said softly, though her tone left no room for argument. She reached over and straightened my collar, her touch elegant but firm. "The people need to see the line of succession. Especially now, when the Council is whispering about 'traditional stability.'"
Traditional stability. That was High Elf code for: We need to make sure everyone still hates the right people.
"It's a formal meeting, Lierelle," Father added, standing up. his cape swept the floor with a heavy thud. "No hiding in the library. No 'modern theories.' You represent the Spires now."
I watched them walk away, the heavy oak doors groaning shut behind them.
Full ceremonial regalia. Political meetings. And a literal witch-hunt for a 'threat' that's eighty-percent purged.
"Hold still, Lierelle. If the pleats aren't perfect, the Council will spend the whole session whispering about our 'slack' household."
My mother's voice was calm, but her fingers were like iron as she cinched the ceremonial sash around my waist. The "regalia" was a nightmare of stiff silk and mana-infused silver thread. In my old life, I'd complain about a tight pair of jeans. This? This was like wearing a very expensive, very beautiful suit of armor.
"I still don't see why I have to go," I muttered, staring at my reflection in the tall, obsidian mirror.
The girl looking back was a High Elf through and through. Pale, elegant, and—if I'm being honest—looking a little too much like a porcelain doll.
"You go because the image of the Chief's daughter is a pillar of our society," Mother said, smoothing a stray hair.
"And if that pillar wants to go back to sleep?"
Mother's eyes met mine in the reflection. For a second, her mask of grace slipped, replaced by a flicker of genuine concern. "You've been... distracted lately, Lierelle. Ever since your magic Awakening. Your father thinks you're just studying too hard, but I see you staring at the forest as if you're looking for someone who isn't there."
My heart did a sharp, uncomfortable tug.
Someone who isn't there.
That was the problem. For weeks, every time I closed my eyes—and sometimes even when they were open—I saw her. Not clearly. Just a flash of dark skin and horns against green leaves. A pair of mismatched eyes that seemed to glow in the dark of my mind.
It felt like a fragmented memory from a life I never lived. A girl who was a biological impossibility, a Dark Elf and a Dryad merged into one.
She's not real, I told myself for the hundredth time. It's just my brain trying to process two sets of memories. It's a hallucination. A glitch in the reincarnation process.
"I'm fine, Mother," I said, forcing a smile that felt tight. "Just... a bit of a headache. The 'modern theories' in the books can be quite taxing."
"Then let the books rest today," she replied, pinning a silver brooch to my shoulder. "Today, we deal with the reality of the Spires. The Council is restless, Lierelle. They want blood, or at least the promise of it."
I looked back at the mirror. The "regalia" felt heavier now. Somewhere out in those "Weeping Woods" my father was so intent on purging, a ghost was waiting.
Real or not, I just feel like she's haunting me.
The walk to the Great Hall of Spires was a two-mile hike through architecture that defied gravity.
As we walked, I watched my mother, Luthien, absentmindedly gesture with her hand. A small flicker of light danced between her fingers, illuminating the dim corridor.
To her, she was "whispering to the spirits of the air."
To me? She was just manipulating Atmospheric Mana Concentration.
In Eldoria, magic isn't just a "spell" you cast. It's more like a gas that fills the room. High Elves act like living filters—we pull the mana into our bodies, "refine" it through our nervous systems (the "Circuits"), and then vent it back out into a specific shape.
The problem is the Mana-Conductivity of the air. If the humidity is too high, your fireballs fizzle. If the mana is too thin, you get "Mana Anemia"—the magical equivalent of trying to run a marathon while breathing through a straw.
"Lierelle, you're drifting again," Father said, his voice echoing. "Maintain your Aura. You look like a commoner."
I sighed and tightened my grip on my internal mana flow. I had to keep a thin layer of energy shimmering around my skin—the Ceremonial Aura. It was basically a magical light-show that proved you were "High Born."
Waste of calories, I thought. In my old world, we used batteries for this. Here, I have to use my own metabolic energy just to look shiny.
The Council Chamber
The Great Hall was a massive semi-circle of obsidian stone.
Arden took the center seat, his presence commanding the room. To his left sat Sylvin and Eira, the Priests. They looked like they'd been carved from marble—cold, unmoving, and obsessed with "The Natural Balance."
On the far end was Aelryndel. He caught my eye and gave a small, oily bow. I felt a phantom itch in my knuckles.
"The meeting of the Spires is in session," Faelyn, the Grand Wizard, announced. He tapped his staff, and a holographic map of the Weeping Woods bloomed in the center of the room.
The map didn't just show trees. It showed the Ley Lines—the underground rivers of magic.
"The resonance in the North is shifting," Faelyn continued, his brow furrowed. "The mana is... curdling. It's being pulled into a singularity that shouldn't exist. It's as if the shadows are starting to breathe."
"It is an infection," Sylvin hissed, his voice like dry leaves. "The Dark Elf remnant is a parasite on the world's soul. When Light and Shadow mix, the magic becomes unstable. That is the First Law."
"And yet," Aelryndel interjected, leaning forward, "the Chief's scouts haven't found a single Dark Elf in three moons. If the mana is 'curdling,' perhaps it's not an enemy outside our walls... but a failure of leadership within them?"
I stopped listening to Aelryndel's power play.
My eyes were glued to the holographic map. Specifically, a small, flickering pulse in the deep forest. To everyone else, it looked like a magical error.
But to me, it looked like a Static Discharge.
Why does my chest ache when I look at that spot? The "ghost" in my mind flared up again. I could almost feel the scent of rain and cedar—the smell of the girl from my dreams. It wasn't just a memory. It felt like my very mana was trying to "sync" with whatever was out there.
It's just a glitch, I told myself. Aubrey, get it together. You're a woman of science. Ghosts aren't real. Biological impossibilities aren't real.
Then why did it feel like the forest was calling my name?
"Failure of leadership?" My father's voice dropped an octave, a low rumble that usually preceded a lightning strike. "Aelryndel, if you spent as much time sharpening your blade as you do your tongue, perhaps your own house would contribute more than just 'whispers' to the border watch."
Aelryndel didn't flinch. He just adjusted his silk sleeves, his smile never reaching his cold eyes. "I merely suggest that if the mana is 'curdling,' as the Grand Wizard says, we should be looking for a cause, not just a scapegoat. The Dark Elves are ghosts. You cannot execute a ghost, Chief Arden."
"Enough," Eira interrupted. The Priestess stood, her white robes shimmering with a faint, healing light. "Whether it is a ghost or a physical remnant, the Second Law of Arcana is clear: Two opposing souls cannot occupy the same vessel without tearing the fabric of the weave. If a Dark Elf and a creature of the Light were to... interact... the resulting mana-void would look exactly like this pulse on the map."
My heart hammered. Two opposing souls. In my old world, we called that destructive interference. Two waves hitting each other at the right frequency to cancel everything out. But if you did it perfectly, you didn't get a void—you got a standing wave. Something stable. Something new.
"The pulse is located in the Deep Thicket," Faelyn noted, tapping the map. "It's a dead zone. No High Elf magic can penetrate it. It's a vacuum."
"Then we send a strike team," Aelryndel said quickly, his eyes darting to me. "Perhaps the Lady Lierelle would like to lead? It would be a fine way to silence the rumors that she spends more time with dusty books than with her staff."
The room went silent. My mother's hand tightened on the arm of her chair. Sending the heir into a mana-vacuum was basically a death sentence.
"Lierelle is still completing her refinement cycles," Father growled.
"I'll go," I said, the words slipping out before my "Aubrey" brain could calculate the risk.
Every head in the room turned.
"I mean," I cleared my throat, trying to sound like a dutiful High Elf and not a curious scientist. "If the mana is 'curdling,' we need someone who understands the theory behind the resonance. A strike team will just bludgeon the area with raw power. If it's a singularity, bludgeoning it might make it explode."
Faelyn looked at me with a spark of interest. "She has a point, Arden. Raw force against a mana-void is like throwing oil on a fire."
Father looked at me for a long time. I could see the battle in his eyes: the protective parent versus the Chief who couldn't afford to look weak in front of Aelryndel.
"Fine," he said, his voice heavy. "Lierelle will go. But she goes under the protection of the Sword Master. Alastair!"
From the shadows behind the pillars, Alastair stepped forward. He didn't say a word; he just tapped the hilt of his blade in a crisp salute.
"Prepare the expedition," Father commanded, standing up to signal the end of the session. "We move at dawn."