The Forest Whispers of Elves
Anyone who lived long enough to know a time when monsters were myth and other races were just tales still remembers the light above all. She always was and will be. Woe to those who forget that, for those we love and embrace nature—there is only one god of light, and she is what gives us our nature. Our home. So we must give back to her all we can, for that is her nature.
—Silent prayers passed down through the marks in trees from light-blessed elves
"Are you sure we’ve paid our tribute?" a light elf priestess, Serenya, asked, confused, addressing their leader, Netearra. A smack across Serenya’s face shocked her before she bowed. "Forgive me, I did not mean to question your grace."
"And yet you did, Serenya. Where is your faith? If I ask, it is a need, not a question for you to challenge." Netearra watched the priestess carefully—tears gently fell from Serenya’s eyes, but the queen ignored them. What mattered was the tribute, and she would have it.
They went deeper into the temple, moving toward the back, passing those deep in prayer to where guards dressed as priests stood watch. The guards bowed and stepped aside—a door slid open from the smooth wall at Netearra’s will as they entered and descended further.
Among the hidden doors was one they needed, where they kept the unworthy but strong in magic—a paradox, really. The light shunned them, but their power was worthy of standing in the light. It was why they hunted them, to remind them of their place as a lower caste, lest they think themselves equal and attempt more dangerous things.
Looking upon the chained drow, Netearra saw what Serenya had tried to warn her about—she was still drained. Her dark skin remained smooth despite the lack of light and poor feeding, proof of her rich essence keeping her healthy, but her skin color marked her unworthiness.
The drow looked up, pleading for mercy, and Netearra nearly recoiled at the absurdity that this drow thought herself deserving of more than the queen’s grace already allowed.
"It seems you do not know your place. Let me remind you with your last breath." The drow wanted to weep, but tears had long since dried, and in a moment of defiance, she embraced her fate—at least she’d be free.
Serenya still looked near tears, which disgusted Netearra, so she reminded her disciple, "The goddess offers light to all, but not her mercy. Do not mistake those who share our form as equals—rot does whatever it can to convince you it’s not rot." She sneered at the broken drow awaiting her fate. "It will even make you think it can be one of us if you listen."
"Do your job, or you’ll be next in chains for hiding in plain sight as worthy of light while choosing this blight."
Serenya whispered a near-silent "sorry" to the drow, followed by one last plea: "You know this will kill her?"
Netearra nearly struck her again for wasting time and testing her mercy. "Does the light ask?" she said with finality, and Serenya knew she’d pushed her luck too far.
The queen’s desire to keep this secret was the only thing sparing Serenya from the same chains for her mana essence, as she gently reached for the drow’s chest and pulled the essence from her. The stronger the soul, the more you could take, though the soul needed time to recover as you drained the mana. But keep pulling? You’d draw not mana but life force.
They had other ways to heal and protect the forest or their kind, but the goddess kept them starved of power to ensure her rule remained absolute. Why, they’d never know—she hoarded that power religiously. Her champion was the first time she’d ever shared it, yet he seemed to waste it, throwing it into rot lands to heal plagued places. The fool didn’t know or care that the rot always returned.
The fact that the light goddess didn’t behead him for such waste shocked all elves, yet none were foolish enough to question why she allowed it. Serenya, however, wondered as she watched the drow: was this why she had to die, to fuel the champion’s futile crusade against rot that always returns? A waste.
As Netearra pulled the essence, a sigh escaped the drow. There was no pain—a small mercy—but Serenya watched as the drow aged before her eyes. The young, hopeful woman withered, then turned to ash. In place of the husk, a light crystal shone in Netearra’s hand, radiant with the light of a wasted life. She handed it to the queen.
"Do not make a scene. There are plenty more rot to choose from, and her death was not in vain. Her family was given pardon to be second-class citizens for this—a gift." Netearra took the crystal and spoke as she left, not looking back, knowing Serenya would face death for making her waste her breath.
Yet she felt compelled to hammer the point home. "None of the drow are even worthy of those gifts, but we grant them to the lesser all the same, to show mercy, just as the light shares that mercy with us, for we are all beneath the light."
The goddess rarely left her palace in the clouds—everything beneath her carried risk—but this was a risk she could take. The elves knew their place. Being long-lived, she’d dealt with them many times before. Legend had embedded her will, and they’d grown accustomed to tying her name to nature, so none dared challenge her.
It was only after finding her new champion that small cracks appeared. They didn’t agree with him helping humans or wasting the light’s gifts to push back rot. Though the goddess agreed in principle, she wouldn’t have them question her champion.
It was a pity he had fallen. True, she’d struck too quickly, assuming he was abandoning her, but that was the past. She needed to ensure none knew the depth of that failure.
She shifted her essence, light flowing through her like swimming through a sea, and landed deep within a forest. Sunbeams marked her presence as two guards, and the queen knelt low. The queen rose slowly, not meeting her eyes, and presented a crystal, making the goddess sneer. She hadn’t come for tribute or reminders of her failure to save her champion from her mistake.
The queen, unsure why the goddess didn’t take it or ask for more, feared to address it lest she provoke her. The goddess despised the queen’s deep emerald eyes, full pinkish lips, flowing silk-black hair, pure light skin, and slender form with large breasts—all challenged her own beauty, as if the queen could be her equal.
She would never let her champion near this woman, lest he be tempted and she lose a useful pawn. She didn’t want to be petty.
"My champion is on a secret mission, but I fear the task may be too much for him. Yet I need word to spread that all is well during his absence." The queen’s confusion was evident—coming in person just to say this, without taking the crystal?
"Don’t doubt my words," the goddess said coolly, and the queen nodded, still not looking, unsure what was truly needed.
"We serve willingly and know the worth of the light, but could this not be sent by message?" the queen asked.
"That is close to questioning my will. Tread lightly," the goddess replied, disliking the challenge.
The queen bowed. "Forgive me, that was not my intent. I merely wish to know how to serve and chose my words poorly."
The goddess knew she needed to craft a narrative carefully. "I fear the darkness has seers. They would warn the darkness my champion seeks, so I come in person lest I compromise his actions."
Realization dawned on the queen’s face, as if it all made sense. She knew how much the champion meant to the goddess, so going out of her way to ensure his safety was logical. Why need tribute if her champion could use it? That made sense too. And the need for discretion—it all fit perfectly. The guards, long accustomed to her actions and unworthy to look upon her, visibly relaxed, tension easing as they heard all was well, all was planned.
"If you know enough, I’ll be busy and won’t need anything for now. But don’t grow complacent—I helped you gain this position, and I can help you lose it through many means."
The queen bowed low. "As the goddess wills." As the goddess left, the queen breathed easily, knowing it went better than hoped. She wondered what this new, unknown darkness was—more rot? Did it matter? The goddess would tell her in time as she left with her guards to enjoy her day, believing all was well.
The light priestess, Serenya, lingered by the drow’s ashes. She agreed drow were beneath them—that was a fact of life—but no mercy? That was a cruelty not even monsters deserved, and they were mindless beasts.
She knew this girl—Dirt, her mother called her—but Serenya had named her Kira. She was her pet, special to her. She’d wanted Kira to have a better life. True, they needed her mana essence, and she gave it freely, but when she tried to warn others and they didn’t stop, that’s when the chains came.
It was a pity. Serenya loved her, maybe. Now she wasn’t sure. As the queen said, attachment to those beneath them was dangerous. Perhaps that’s why the light seemed so cruel—the closer they got, the more it burned or blinded with its radiance. Maybe that’s why the champion did what he did, his mind torn from being too close to the light.
Or he knew more than they did. Lost in those thoughts, brushing the ash, Serenya wished she had her friend back. Simple-minded as Kira was, she still listened.
Serenya left for her private quarters in the temple, unwilling to dwell there. A bath later would soothe her and help her forget her loss. Yet a slight breeze from a window told her someone was there.
A drow emerged from the shadows, bowing low, silent, knowing their place. It was a rare gift for their kind to be a messenger, and the few who lived long enough to earn it treasured it. Most with mana who knew how to use it were deemed threats to be killed or used for hidden purposes, but a few granted second-class citizenship proved their worth as tools.
Serenya waited, in no rush to humor them. If it was important, it would go to the queen, or the queen would tell her. Tired of staring at ash, she relented to dispel her brooding. "Speak."
"No words, priestess—a letter. I know not from whom or what it says, only that it was meant for you." Odd. News always came with a reason. Even if secret, they made a point to say who sent it.
As she took the letter, she felt faint light within it. The goddess sent this, but she was just here with the queen? Why not deliver it then? Opening the letter, Serenya was unsure what she’d find.
Trust is a rare gift—treasure it, for I share it with you. In the rot lands, a darkness grows, yet I fear I cannot trust this too openly, for I know not who has been touched by its reach. Yet you, as my light, are pure, so I seek your counsel in this.
Find the darkness in the rot. Do not chase nor try to kill, but lend me your sight to find where it reaches so that my champion may end the threat.
Be wary, child, for though you have my favor, you don’t wish for my disappointment with failure. You are too young to remember I appointed the last queen and the one before her, yet you are my first light weaver. It does not mean you will be the last if I need another who is more discreet.
The letter bore no sender’s name, but its source was clear, and the words were dangerous. Even meant for her, Serenya recoiled, realizing the champion wasn’t wasting crystals to heal rot lands—he was hunting a new evil they were too blind to fear.
"Shadow," she addressed the drow messenger, still kneeling. "Get me one you trust to scout." She paused, pondering her options.
"No," she said after a moment. "Send word to the dwarves discreetly about what they may have seen. If that turns up nothing, then send a scout." She said no more. The orders were clear; the dwarves would report what they’d seen or heard. Their loud, drunken bluntness would suffice.
She wondered what was out there that the light feared unseen. The thought made her feel as if eyes watched her, invisible.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgQYXAlQLNe
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