The golden throne of the castle stood empty, bathed only in the cold light piercing through the stained-glass windows. Far from there, deep within the colossal white marble palace, the true master of that empire rested.
The Elven Queen.
The Goddess Elfhing, mother of Sillys and Sallys.
Thick, hot steam rose in the royal baths, mingling with the golden light that flooded the chamber through the glass ceiling. In the center of the crystalline waters, Elfhing's monumental body rested like a living, lethal work of art.
Standing nearly thirteen feet tall, her divine curves and sculpted muscles bordered on absolute perfection. Her skin was so immaculate and white it seemed to reflect the room's very light, shimmering beneath the veil of hot water. Long blonde hair cascaded wet down her back, partially covering the vastness of her chest before merging with the bath's surface.
Around her, three elven handmaidens worked in absolute, reverent silence, bathing the goddess's arms and legs.
None dared to breathe too loudly.
But beneath that facade of divine serenity, a silent fury burned in Elfhing's pale eyes.
"Call Lucas." Her voice sounded calm, yet it carried the biting chill of a blizzard.
One of the servants—a young elf, eyes wide with nerves and completely nude due to the bathhouse steam—bowed with a start.
"R-Right away, my Queen!"
The girl turned, taking a quick step toward the robes piled in the corner, frantically trying to cover herself before crossing the castle corridors.
"I said..." Elfhing's voice dropped an octave, and she didn't even blink. "**Now.**"
The air pressure exploded.
It wasn't a physical attack, but the oxygen in the entire chamber seemed to turn to lead. The solid marble floor groaned. The water's surface trembled violently, and the steam was violently shoved against the walls.
Elfhing's aura weighed on the room like steel forged from pure divinity.
Suffocating in terror, the young elf didn't think twice. She bolted in a blind, trembling sprint out of the chamber, completely forgetting her own nudity.
Far away, at the highest point of the castle, Lucas watched the sky.
Above the sea of clouds, the night wind danced with the silvery glow of the aurora borealis. The warrior's gaze was distant and lost, carrying a mix of profound melancholy and absolute control.
He was the archetype of the perfect elf, a flawless predator sculpted by time, except for a single flaw he could never erase: himself.
The cold, clean breeze of the high altitude suddenly seemed to thicken, bringing the phantom stench of burnt wood and coagulated blood.
Lucas blinked, and the darkness swallowed him.
The silver mist before him twisted, forming images he had spent decades trying to bury.
The soft sound of the wind was abruptly replaced by the metallic clanking of chains dragged across dry earth.
*"Half-breeds are worth gold,"* a human voice, harsh and greedy, hissed in the back of his mind. *"Take them all alive. The females and brats fetch triple the price in the markets. If they resist... cut off their ears as proof. The nobles pay top coin for trophies."*
The memories dragged him back to the mud.
Lucas saw himself crushed beneath leather and steel boots once again, the taste of dirt and blood in his mouth. He saw the panicked faces of his friends and family—not being hunted as threats, but appraised and shoved into rusted cages like exotic livestock.
Rare merchandise.
The wet sound of blades slicing meat.
The sickening clink of gold coins changing hands over the corpses of his people.
He had tried to fight. Tried to save them all. And he had failed miserably.
Surviving that hell wasn't a blessing; it was his greatest curse. He hated humans and their greed with every fiber of his soul, but the hatred and disgust he felt for himself and his own weakness were infinitely greater.
The sharp slap of bare feet frantically hitting stone snapped him awake like a whip crack.
The illusion shattered into a thousand pieces.
Lucas snapped his eyes open, a millimeter-perfect startle, his jaw locked so tight his teeth ached. He drew a sharp breath, returning to the freezing reality of the castle roof.
At five hundred years old, the passage of centuries hadn't stolen his youth, but the countless assassination missions in service to his Queen had hardened every one of his features. He didn't look like an old elf; he looked like a veteran honed purely by brutality.
An unsheathed, dangerous blade.
His skin was dark—an absolute, glaring, and heretical contrast against the porcelain pallor of the elven royalty he served. It was the undeniable, visible mark of his half-blood heritage.
Strands of straight, perpetually messy black hair whipped wildly against his face in the biting, high-altitude gales.
Lucas slowly turned his head toward the tower entrance. The silver light of the aurora borealis struck his sharp features, immediately revealing an ugly, thick, and deep scar that tore across his entire left cheek. A physical reminder of the past he made a point never to heal.
He was dressed for war in the shadows. He wore meticulously tailored, matte-black leather gear, overlaid with light, dark-metal plating on his chest and forearms, designed to ensure lethal mobility and absolute silence. A heavy, dark tactical cloak wrapped around him, billowing behind him like menacing wings.
The elven messenger had just reached the top of the stairs. Panting, pale as snow, and completely stripped of clothing, she shivered violently under the freezing wind and the lingering terror left by the Queen.
"S-Sir Lucas!" she stammered, immediately dropping her eyes—not just from the shame of her nudity, but intimidated by the assassin's overwhelming presence. "The Queen summons you immediately! In the bathing chamber..."
Lucas's expression, previously contorted by the pain of his memories, had already been instantly buried beneath the cold mask of the perfect soldier.
He raised a gloved hand, unfastened the silver clasp at his shoulder, removed his own thick cloak, and held it out to the girl.
"Take this," he ordered, his voice soft yet implacable. "Cover yourself."
Without another word, the half-blood warrior walked to the edge of the tower and simply leaped into the abyss.
The freefall was dizzying, but perfectly controlled.
The wind, rather than lashing at him, curved around his body, embracing him and guiding his spiraling trajectory down the white castle walls. In the final second before impact, Lucas shaped a current of air beneath his boots, decelerating sharply and passing through the gap of the open stained-glass window in the bathhouse without making a single sound.
He landed, hovering just over the smooth marble, and in that same instant, dropped to one knee, bowing his head.
"Your Majesty called for me."
Elfhing relaxed her shoulders, the fury in her eyes giving way to a faint, dangerous smirk.
"Ooooh, my loyal warrior..." she murmured, her voice echoing softly off the damp walls.
"I hope it's not to help you dress..." Lucas replied, keeping his gaze rigidly pinned to the floor. "...like last time."
The goddess raised a delicate eyebrow, amusement overflowing in her tone.
"Do you have a problem with that?"
Lucas's jaw tensed imperceptibly. He swallowed hard.
"None, my Lady. I simply... do not consider myself worthy to touch you."
Elfhing let out a low, velvety laugh, turning her divinely sculpted face away.
"We've already discussed this modesty of yours, Lucas."
She raised her hands and clapped exactly once.
The snap was followed by a vortex of compressed wind that swept through the corner of the room. When the whirlwind dissipated, the three elven handmaidens had vanished. The chamber's atmosphere shifted instantly; the air grew heavy, lethal, and purely divine. The game was over.
"Now," Elfhing demanded. "Update me."
Lucas straightened his posture, his focus snapping back to that of the perfect soldier.
"I patrolled the outskirts of Sillys's village. Her soldiers were exhausted, on the verge of complete collapse. Some broke and deserted in the dead of night... I eliminated them in the shadows before they could return and spread rumors through the kingdom. But during my watch, I found something else."
Elfhing slowly looked over her bare shoulder, curiosity shining in her pale pupils.
"Go on."
"There are three visitors in her territory," Lucas reported coldly. "Straight from Lavinsk."
"Lavinsk?!"
The Queen's voice cracked like a whip. She slammed her open palm violently against the edge of the bath.
The water didn't just splash; the entire liquid mass obeyed her fury, rising into the air like a living wall and revealing Elfhing's colossal, naked body in all its radiant, terrifying glory.
"What are those bastards doing in my domain?!" she roared, her divine voice reverberating in Lucas's very bones.
The pressure intensified so drastically that the indestructible marble beneath the elf's knees began to crack in fine spiderwebs. The steam in the chamber warped and boiled, as if reality itself were being crushed by the weight of that rage.
Lucas bowed even lower, his muscles trembling as he fought not to be flattened against the floor by the gravity of her aura.
"I... do not know yet, my Lady," he answered, forcing the words through his tightened throat. "But I saw the human boy from the Lavinsk tournament with them. He was helping the exiled elves... He even stood guard at the border the entire night. Exceptional focus for his age... but not enough to detect me. I observed him from the dark. I stood face-to-face with him... but I took no action."
Elfhing's chest rose and fell heavily. Slowly, the oppressive aura began to recede, drawing back into the goddess's skin.
"You did well not to act," she said, her voice returning to a glacial tone.
Lucas let out a breath, relief washing over his tense muscles.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The Elven Queen stood to her full height. The water that covered her didn't drip to the floor; the moment it touched her shimmering skin, her divine aura evaporated every drop in an eerie silence.
Elfhing's gaze grew distant, lost in memories, until her features sharpened with pure disdain.
"So... what are Silver's rats planning?" she murmured to herself, taking a step forward. The air rippled around her body—a perfect blend of stunning beauty and absolute terror.
Lucas kept his head bowed, weighing every syllable before speaking.
"Your Majesty... who am I to question the machinations of the gods. But... remembering what happened at that last diplomatic summit with the High Queen of Lavinsk..."
"She wants my throne," Elfhing interrupted, her eyes flashing with ancient hatred. "But sending three children into my domain?"
The goddess's voice suddenly spiked, vibrating with such power that the stained-glass windows buzzed and threatened to shatter.
"Does she think I've forgotten who I am?!"
As if the world itself answered her fury, a brutal clap of thunder ripped through the sky outside the palace. A flash of lightning illuminated the chamber, casting Elfhing's colossal shadow over Lucas.
The Queen walked to the open window, gazing out at her vast empire through the night, her expression steeped in shadows.
"If she dares interfere in my affairs again..." the goddess's voice was a lethal whisper, a promise carved in stone. "...all of Lavinsk will feel the wind of my wrath."
Far away, cutting through the night sky, the majestic elven castle glowed solitary above the clouds.
The wind surrounding it was no longer a gentle breeze; it had become sharp, dark, and violent—the unmistakable omen of a divine storm about to crash down upon the world.