The Southern reaches of the Greenwood were darkening. It wasn't just the natural shift of the seasons; it was a physical weight, a "bruise" on the world that Kaelen could see with his Void-sight. To everyone else, it was a thickening mist. To Kaelen, it was a clumsy attempt at magic by someone who didn't understand how thin the veil of reality actually was.
"He's watching us, isn't he?" Thranduil asked.
They were sitting in the "Sun-Room" of Kaelen's cottage—a room that shouldn't have existed because the cottage was built against a solid cliffside, yet three large windows looked out onto a shimmering, purple nebula that Kaelen called his 'backyard.'
"The Necromancer? Oh, he's poking around," Kaelen said, casually flipping a pancake in a pan that hovered over a localized heat-rift. "He felt that 'Vacuum Pulse' I used on the Orcs. It's like setting off a flare in a dark basement. He's curious. And greedy."
The Lesson of the Event Horizon
Thranduil stood in the center of the room, his hands glowing with a soft, violet hue. He was no longer the frightened prince; he was becoming a conduit.
"Show me again," Thranduil commanded, his voice steady. "How to stop the blade before it strikes."
Kaelen sighed, setting the pan down. "It's not about stopping the blade, Thranduil. It's about making the space where the blade is cease to exist for a microsecond. Watch."
Kaelen picked up a silver butter knife and tossed it toward Thranduil's chest.
Instead of flinching, Thranduil narrowed his eyes. He didn't move his body. He reached out with his mind and whispered a word in the language of the Void—a sound that resembled the rush of wind in a deep cave.
The Event Shield
A shimmering, translucent sphere of absolute blackness flickered into existence around Thranduil. When the knife hit the sphere, it didn't bounce off. It didn't break.
The tip of the knife simply disappeared into the blackness, and then, as Thranduil flicked his fingers, the knife was spat back out, falling harmlessly to the floor.
"Better," Kaelen nodded. "But you're still thinking of it as a wall. Think of it as a door. You're sending the energy somewhere else. I usually send unwanted projectiles to the center of a dead star. It keeps the universe tidy."
An Uninvited Guest
The peace of the afternoon was broken by a sudden, jarring cold. Outside, the birds of the Greenwood went silent. A shadow, darker than the surrounding woods, began to pool at the edge of Kaelen's garden, right next to his prize-winning pumpkins (which were abnormally large due to a bit of gravitational encouragement).
A Messenger had arrived. Not an Orc, but a Wraith—a Lesser Nazgûl, draped in tattered grey, its presence a scream in the minds of the living.
Thranduil's hand went to the hilt of his Elven blade, his face pale. "Master..."
"Stay back, Thranduil. This is a matter of etiquette," Kaelen said, stepping out onto the porch. He was still wearing his 'Cosy-Time' slippers.
The Wraith hissed, its voice like grinding stones. "The Master of Dol Guldur demands to know your name, Stranger. You meddle in his harvest. Give us the Prince, and perhaps your soul will be spared for a time."
Kaelen looked at the Wraith, then at his pumpkins. One of the vines had withered slightly from the Wraith's aura.
"You're killing my squash," Kaelen said, his voice dropping an octave. The air around him began to hum. "I don't like it when people touch my garden."
The Erasure
The Wraith raised a Morgul-blade, its tip glowing with a sickly green fire. It lunged, a blur of unnatural speed.
Kaelen didn't even raise his hands. He simply blinked.
In that instant, the laws of physics in the square meter surrounding the Wraith were rewritten. Kaelen opened a Micro-Singularity directly inside the Wraith's chest.
There was a sound like a heavy velvet curtain being torn in half. The Wraith didn't fall; it was pulled into itself. Its cloak, its blade, and the dark spirit within were crushed into a point of infinite density. For a fraction of a second, a spark of pure white light flashed—the energy release of a soul being compressed—and then, there was nothing.
The garden was silent again. The withered pumpkin vine gave a small twitch and began to turn green once more as the necrotic energy was sucked away.
The Master's Warning
Thranduil stepped out onto the porch, his eyes wide. "You... you destroyed a servant of the Great Enemy like it was a common fly."
"It was a fly," Kaelen said, bending down to check the soil. "A particularly loud one. But Thranduil, listen to me. Sauron now knows that I am not a Maia. He knows I am something he cannot comprehend. He will send more. Not to fight, but to tempt."
He looked at his disciple, the future King of the Mirkwood. "Tomorrow, we begin the advanced lessons. I'm going to teach you how to 'Fold' the entire Elven Palace. If the Shadow wants a war, we'll just move the kingdom to a different dimension for the weekend."
Thranduil smiled, a cold, sharp Elven smile. "I believe I would like that very much, Master."
"Good," Kaelen said, heading back inside. "Now, about those lemon tarts you promised? I've got the tea brewing."