1:28 PM - 1/1/2018
(Third Person Omniscient)
Far to the west, nestled within the heart of the Celestine Lands, the world breathed a different kind of mana.
The Luminous Spire of Aeralune did not touch the ground. It was a colossal, living crystal tower, grown from the ancient world-root mana, floating serenely above a circular lake of starlit water. The sky above was a permanent, woven tapestry of twilight-blue, threaded with aurora-like mana rivers that pulsed with the heartbeat of the Elvian Kingdom.
Inside the Spire, the air was thick with anticipation and the scent of ozone and crushed star-lilies.
The circular terraces that descended toward the central dais were packed. Thousands of elven nobles, high-ranking citizens, archmages, and forest-lords stood in silent, glittering rows. The sheer volume of mana in the room was suffocating, a testament to the power of the gathered bloodlines.
At the center, the stage was set for history.
The Entrances
First came the fire.
The massive doors groaned open, and a wave of heat rolled through the chamber. Roshia Presgeiros strode in, her crimson-red hair worn loose and heavy like a lion's mane. She wore a deep scarlet dress embroidered with gold war-thread, slit high for movement like a battle gown. Her eyes, burnished gold and unblinking, swept over the crowd with the confidence of a predator inspecting its territory.
Behind her marched the Pyreborne Covenant. They were warriors, generals, and fire-mages, their armor clinking in rhythm. They cheered for her—not with polite applause, but with the roar of soldiers greeting a commander. Strength, they seemed to say.
Conquest.
Next came the wind.
Aerilaya Xilpeiros drifted in, her movements so smooth she appeared to be floating. Her pale silver-blue hair flowed around her like mist, and her dress of layered sky-blue and pearl-white silk seemed held aloft by its own gravity. Her eyes, light cyan and almost translucent, looked through the crowd rather than at them.
The Zephyric Synod followed her. Scholars, aerial mages, and high-society elites in flowing robes bowed their heads in reverent silence. To them, she was already a prophecy walking. Intellect.
Refinement.
Then came the shadow.
Vaeloria Presharice entered, and the light in the room seemed to dim just a fraction. Her raven-black hair had a violet sheen, and her dress was a royal black masterpiece inlaid with deep violet gemstones that absorbed the ambient mana. Her dark amethyst eyes were polite but cutting, scanning the room for secrets rather than support.
The Obsidian Virecourt moved behind her like liquid darkness. Spies, curse-weavers, and political manipulators offered a subtle, dangerous applause—the sound of knives being sharpened in the dark. Cunning.
Control.
Finally, came the silence.
Amelia Elaris walked in last.
The air grew heavy with judgment. Whispers of "Half-breed" and "Disgrace" floated from the upper terraces like venomous dust.
Amelia's warm honey-blonde hair was simple, slightly uneven from being self-cut. She wore a soft forest-green dress with muted gold trimming—elegant, but visibly simpler, worn, and lacking the enchantments of the others. Her emerald green eyes were bright but tired, the eyes of someone who worked twice as hard to be considered half as good.
She was nervous, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Behind her walked the Decaying Accord. They were few—outcasts, wounded veterans, and laborers with calloused hands. They did not roar or applaud. They stood in quiet solidarity.
But one young elf from her faction, bandaged and leaning on a crutch, raised a fist and shouted, "For Princess Amelia!" It was a lonely, brave sound.
The four candidates stood in a crescent before the throne. The difference in their origins was visible before a single word was spoken.
At the highest dais, the Living Throne—fused from crystal and ancient wood—pulsed with light.
Queen Asora Aeralurea, the Avatar of the Elves, rose.
She was over 7,000 years old, yet she looked timeless. Her pure moon-white hair hung long and weightless, defying gravity. Her eyes were deep celestial blue, holding the calmness of an endless sky. She wore flowing white and pale sapphire raiment woven from star-silk.
Her presence was absolute serenity mixed with quiet, unbearable authority.
She raised a hand, and the thousands in the Spire fell instantly silent. Her voice carried across the vast space without magical amplification, as if the world itself hushed to listen.
"My children," Asora began, her voice soft yet echoing in the bones of everyone present. "The cycle of the World-Root turns. My era, the Age of Starlight, draws to its natural close."
She looked down at the four candidates.
"The Throne you seek is not merely a seat of governance. It is a conduit. It connects the 1.2 million souls of our Kingdom to the ancient flow of this world. It demands not just strength, nor intellect, nor cunning... but the capacity to carry the weight of a race."
She stepped down one level, her gaze sweeping over the crowd.
"For too long, we have chosen our leaders by the purity of their blood or the strength of their mana. But the world is changing. The boundaries of magic are shifting."
She paused, her gaze lingering for a fraction of a second on Amelia, then moving on.
"Therefore, I declare this: In two full years, the people of the Elvian Kingdom shall vote for their next Queen."
A collective gasp ran through the nobility. Voting was a concept for lesser races, not the High Elves.
"Not nobles alone," Asora continued, her voice firming. "Not high bloodlines alone. But every registered citizen—from the high towers of Aeralune to the border villages of the Mistwood. Each of you standing here has the right to campaign. The right to gather factions. The right to shape public faith."
She looked at Roshia, Aerilaya, Vaeloria, and finally, Amelia.
"And the right to fall."
"The winner will be decided by the voice of the people. Even if the margin is but a single vote, that person shall inherit my power and guide our future."
The Queen's final words rang out, defining the new age.
"Prove not who you are by birth… but who you are by what you protect."
The crowd exploded.
The Queen returned to her throne, her declaration hanging in the air like a storm cloud waiting to break. The silence of the Luminous Spire was no longer empty; it was heavy with judgment. The floor now belonged to the four who sought the crown.
The War-Leader's Address
Roshia Presgeiros did not walk to the center of the dais; she marched. She stopped, her crimson battle-dress settling around her like spilled blood, and looked directly into the eyes of the generals and border-lords. She did not use a magical amplifier. Her voice, trained on battlefields, naturally commanded the vast space.
"My kin," she began, her tone sharp and aggressive. "We stand here in a tower of light, surrounded by art and beauty. We lull ourselves with songs of starlight while the world sharpens its knives."
She gestured violently toward the west.
"Peace is a lie told by the comfortable. Look beyond our borders! The Demons are not the scattered tribes of old. Under the new Demon Lord, Lucifer, the abyss has been militarized. They do not just raid; they conquer. Their armies grow in discipline and dark majesty every day, and they look at our lands not with fear, but with hunger."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the soldiers. Roshia pressed on, relentless.
"And the Dragonics? Their ancient bloodlines awaken. Their physical superiority renders our common mana shields brittle as glass. If a Dragon Lord descends upon the Mistwood, who will stop him? A poet? A scholar?"
Her eyes blazed gold.
"We face curses that rot the soul and diseases that defy our healers. The world is evolving into a weapon. We must become the shield. I do not promise you comfort. I promise you survival. I promise that under my reign, the Elvian Kingdom will not be a garden to be trampled, but a fortress to be feared. I will protect my people."
"I have seen too many elves torn from this world. Mothers who buried children stolen by war or disease, fathers lost to conflicts that never should have touched them."
"Eight centuries ago, a woman from Mistwood watched her husband march to the Demon Wars, a boy like many of our sons. She waited, believing he would return, clutching hope as her only shield. Generations passed. 800 years have passed. And only last month did she receive what remained of him—his armor, his sword, his name carved into a memorial."
"She cried that day, not for the end, but for the hope that had carried her through a lifetime of emptiness." Her fists clenched, crimson sleeves tightening.
"No elf should ever endure such pain alone. Give me the crown, and I swear the Elvian Kingdom will rise as a shield none may pierce. Every village shall have mages, every army a vigilant command, every border guarded with unmatched strength. No mother shall wait in vain. No child shall wonder if their family will return. We will train, we will endure, we will fight, and we will come home."
"I vow that under my reign, our people will not only survive—they will be untouchable, protected by the might and resolve of their own kin."
The Pyreborne Covenant erupted. Swords clashed against shields in a rhythmic, deafening salute. It was the sound of an army ready for war.
The Visionary Scholar's Oration
As the cheers for Roshia faded, Aerilaya Xilpeiros stepped forward. The contrast was jarring. Where Roshia was fire, Aerilaya was a cooling breeze. She raised a hand, and the air seemed to still. Her voice was calm, elegant, and elevated.
"Strength without wisdom is merely destruction," she said softly, yet her words reached the highest balconies.
"Our history is written in the flow of mana. We remember the Age of Whispering Roots, when we shaped the forests. We remember the Great Harmony."
Her expression grew solemn, her cyan eyes turning distant.
"But do you remember June 18th, 2006?"
A chill went through the assembly. The Darkest Day.
"For exactly one hour," Aerilaya continued, her voice haunting, "magic was erased from this world. The mana streams dried. The crystals went dark. Our barriers fell. To this day, we do not know why. We were blind, helpless children in the dark."
She looked at the archmages, the researchers, the thinkers.
"We cannot protect what we do not understand. We need prosperity, not just survival. We must unlock the wonders of the World-Root. My vision is development—new academies for mana-theory, the restoration of the ancient Ley-Lines, and a harmony that ensures when the next darkness comes, we will be the light that remains."
"We are not merely custodians of magic; we are its purest heirs. Our mana flows with clarity unmatched by beastkin, Sylaris, Demons, Dragonics, Dwarfs, or even humans. Every spell we weave carries the weight of centuries, every thought in our academies echoes with celestial light. Our wisdom, our understanding, our harmony with energy—this is the true measure of greatness."
"I promise that when I become Queen, we will not simply endure among the races of this world. We will stand at its pinnacle. I will cultivate generations of elves prepared in mind, spirit, and magic, ready to lead with knowledge and ensure that the glory of our people shines for all eternity."
The crowd did not cheer. They stared in awed silence, nodding slowly. It was the heavy, contemplative silence of a people realizing how little they truly knew.
The Political Master's Promise
Vaeloria Presharice glided to the center. Her movements were polished, her smile a subtle curve that promised secrets. She spoke not to the crowd's fear or their minds, but to their ambition.
"Tradition," she purred, her voice layered with double meaning, "is the corpse of wisdom if it refuses to fight."
She paced slowly, her violet gemstone dress absorbing the light.
"We pride ourselves on our magic. But look to Elysium. The Dwarves have built engines that rival dragons. They have automated their cities. Give me the crown, and I promise you this: within ten years, we will match their technological achievements. We will weave magic into metal until our industry outshines their forges."
She turned, her gaze sharp.
"And look to the Asura Empire. Look at the Solerenne Academy of Sorcery. They do not fear the other races; they study them. They consume their knowledge to build sorcerers of terrifying power. Why do we close our gates?"
She spread her arms, her shadow stretching long across the dais.
"I will enforce a new education. We will take the skills of the humans, the durability of the beastkin, the ingenuity of the dwarves, and we will amplify them with Elvian perfection. I offer you stability through control. I offer you a kingdom that does not just survive the future, but dictates it."
"We are not merely a elves; we are a legacy. From the first silver towers of Aeralune to the sprawling libraries of Thalindor, our artistry and wisdom have shaped the world. Every melody sung, every spell crafted, every battle fought has carved our name into eternity. We are the fairest, the most enduring, and the most capable of all races."
"And yet, what we have achieved is only the beginning. Give me the crown, and I will ensure that our future eclipses our past—a history so brilliant that every other race will study it, and every generation of elves will write their own legend upon it."
Her applause was soft, rippling through the political houses. It was a dangerous sound—the sound of alliances shifting and deals being struck in the dark.
The Earnest Commoner's Appeal
Finally, Amelia Elaris stepped forward.
She looked small against the backdrop of the massive crystal spire. Her hands shook slightly as she smoothed her simple green dress. There was no grand faction behind her, no army, no guild of spies.
She took a breath, and when she spoke, her voice was nervous but sincere.
"I... I do not have a grand strategy," she admitted, her honesty cutting through the thick political atmosphere. "I do not know military tactics like Lady Roshia. I do not know ancient history like Lady Aerilaya. And I do not know the secrets of the world like Lady Vaeloria."
She looked up, meeting the eyes of the commoners in the lower terraces—the half-bloods, the laborers, the ones usually ignored.
"But I know what it is to be hungry in a city made of riches. I know what it feels like to be looked at with disgust because of who your parents were."
She placed a hand on her chest.
"I want to build a country where kindness is not a weakness. I want to ensure that a half-elf child has the same right to learn magic as a noble born in the high towers. I want to help those in need, not because it is strategic, but because it is right. I believe... I believe that worth is decided by the heart, not the blood."
"In the outer villages, there are children who cough through the night because no healer ever comes. There are mothers who wait for sons who will never return from wars they never chose. There are elders who once fought for this kingdom and now beg for food in its shadows." Her fingers curled slightly at her side.
"If I become Queen, I will not look away from them. I will send healers where no banners fly. I will rebuild what war has broken. I will seek peace not because it is easy… but because the wounded deserve a tomorrow that is not filled with fear." She inhaled shakily. "I do not promise glory. I promise to care. I promise that no one will be left by me."
She finished, standing alone in the center.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, a scattered, polite applause broke out. It was thin. It lacked the thunder of war or the weight of politics. Most of the nobles looked at her with pity or indifference. She inspired sympathy, perhaps, but not faith.
To them, she was a kind girl in a room of queens.
The echoes of the final speech—Amelia's earnest, trembling voice—faded into the vast silence of the Luminous Spire. Queen Asora Aeralurea's decree had transformed the political landscape from a dignified succession to a brutal, public contest.
As the four candidates retreated to their respective factions on the lower terraces, the assembled elves began to breathe again, and the judgment began.
The Voices of Aeralune
In the packed circular terraces, the whispers began to rise, quickly escalating into passionate, factional debates.
High Noble – Lord Faelen (The Zephyric Synod):"Aerilaya is the only rational choice. Roshia offers us endless war, Vaeloria offers us an empire of spies. But Aerilaya? She speaks of stability through knowledge. The Darkest Day was an insult to our understanding of the universe. We must master the very essence of mana, not just defend against steel. Her reign will mean two centuries of quiet prosperity."
Border Guard Veteran – Lady Torva (The Pyreborne Covenant):"Prosperity? We can't eat philosophy! Did you hear her speak of the Demon Lord? That Lucifer is building war machines. Roshia is the shield. Roshia speaks with the voice of the forest, the voice of survival! We need the one who will make the human kingdoms tremble when we march, not the one who asks us to read more books! If we lose the borders, we lose the culture, and all of Aerilaya's beautiful theories mean nothing."
High-Tier Merchant – Master Alarion (The Obsidian Virecourt):"Vaeloria. She is the diamond. She understands power. Dwarf technology, Asura education—she's not asking us to compromise our traditions, she's asking us to cannibalize the strengths of our rivals and make them our own. This is not about kindness; it's about making sure our vaults are full and our enemies are blind. A queen who governs with double meanings is a queen who can never be truly understood, or defeated. A decade of her rule would elevate us beyond question."
The Undercity Healer – Elara (The Witherbloom Accord):Elara pulled her cloak tighter, her worn hands shaking slightly. She glanced toward the high nobles, a wave of despair washing over her. They didn't even notice her presence. "They speak of Dragonics and technology. But Amelia... Amelia spoke of the coughing children. She spoke of the forgotten mothers. She sees us. The others, they look at us and see resources or soldiers. She sees the discarded and promises to heal them.
It's a fool's hope, I know, but it's the first time in a thousand years a queen has promised not glory, but a simple safety of happiness."
The Voices of the Kingdom
The story shifts across the city of Aeralune, from the soaring crystal spires to the shadowed alleyways, capturing the murmurs of elves from all walks of life.
In a bustling market square, a group of merchants and craftsmen haggled over wares and whispered of Vaeloria:
"She's sharp," one young merchant said, running a hand over a polished gem."Takes what's best from the dwarves, the humans and other races… She knows how to use it. If she rules, our guilds will thrive, and no rival will dare challenge our trade."
"Quiet," muttered an older merchant, nodding. "But clever. That one thinks ten moves ahead. We'll prosper if she's on the throne."
On the outskirts of the city, a widow of the Demon Wars knelt beside her small, overgrown garden, tucking her grief into her soil. She murmured of Roshia:
"Roshia… She speaks for those of us left behind. For the children who cry at night, for husbands taken too soon. She understands fear, and she will defend us. If she becomes Queen, maybe no one else will suffer like my Thomel did." Her fingers trembled as she pressed the petals of a wilted flower to her lips.
In a quiet tower, high above the city, an archmage preparing magical conduits for the Ley-Lines reflected on Aerilaya:
"She's the one who sees the threads of mana as we do. If she reigns, the world won't tear itself apart, and we can rebuild what was lost. I trust her to safeguard knowledge, to prepare the next generations of mages." A gentle smile passed over his features as he adjusted a crystal prism, watching the cyan light scatter across the room.
On a bridge spanning the crystal lake, a pair of farmers from the rural districts debated quietly as they unloaded carts of produce:
"Roshia will fight for the land, for the borders. That I can trust," the older one said, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Vaeloria will keep the traders in line, make sure we have tools and coin," the younger added. "She's clever, like the sylaris in the north."
In the undercity, where the streets twist like veins through the old foundations, an orphaned apprentice clutched his ragged cloak, thinking of Amelia:
"She spoke to us… the ones no one notices," he whispered, eyes wide. "The kids who sleep hungry, the mothers who sacrifice their meals for their children. Maybe… maybe she'll see us as more than just numbers. That's worth something, even if the nobles don't care."
The city itself seemed alive with opinion, a chorus of voices rising from balconies, towers, streets, and alleys. Everywhere, elves—nobles, commoners, laborers, mages, widows, orphans—spoke not in unison, but in a living tapestry of hope, fear, and expectation, each reflecting a different facet of the candidates' promise.
It was clear: the future Queen would not only need power, but the ability to touch every part of her people's lives, from the highest spire to the lowest street.
The orphan returned to his small room in the undercity, the candles flickering against the stacks of tattered books he had scavenged. He pressed his palms against their worn covers, whispering under his breath.
"Please… let her win. Let her see us. Let her be a light in the darkness. Bring her a prophet, a savior… a hero… a genius who can guide her, help her protect us."
"Please… God."
He clenched his hands tightly, the ache of his lost family and his sister pressing into his chest like stone. His throat tightened. "Even if a prophet cannot come… someone… anyone… please help her succeed. Please, don't let our suffering be in vain."
But as his mind wandered, doubt gnawed at him.
Who would ever choose her?No savior would take her side over Aerilaya's wisdom. No hero would stand with her over Roshia's strength. And certainly no genius would ally with her over Vaeloria's cunning.
He bit his lip, feeling a strange chill.
Even if it must be… through any means necessary. His mind trembled as he imagined someone who would not care who stood in their way, who would move through the world like judgement, reshaping it according to their will, indifferent to mercy, indifferent to friendship, indifferent to consequence… someone whose brilliance was terrifying, and whose heart… might not exist at all.
Someone… who could be the devil if the world demanded it…
He sank to the floor, trembling, staring at the books, imagining a mind sharp enough to bend fate, to manipulate, to protect… to fight for her even when all others would turn away. And deep inside, buried beneath hope and fear, he realized: Perhaps the kingdom's only chance would come from such a mind—relentless, unfeeling, a genius no one could anticipate, a force that would not pause for anyone's comfort. Not a hero, not a savior… not a prophet…
"The Devil…"
The orphan's whispered prayer was not for the Queen alone. It was for the storm he did not yet know would come.
The Queen's Cards
Queen Asora Aeralurea remained seated, her spine perfectly straight against the Living Throne. Her deep celestial eyes, calm as an endless night, watched the four figures below. Her power allowed her to hear every whisper, every thought, every beat of the political drums.
They are magnificent.
She judged them like a hand of cards, recognizing the profound power and conviction in each declaration.
Roshia: The Queen of Spades.The declaration of war. She is all edge, all focus, prepared to carve out a glorious, bloody future. She will unite the military and the traditionalists, but her path leads inevitably to a greater conflict. Her strength is a weapon that must be used. Necessary, perhaps, but destructive.
Aerilaya: The Queen of Clubs.The declaration of the root. She seeks foundation and perpetual growth. She appeals to the archmages and the ancient houses who value longevity over flash. Her reign would be subtle, scientific, a slow ascent to understanding. But she ignores the immediacy of the threat. She plans for the millennium when the fire is already at the gate.
Vaeloria: The Queen of Diamonds.The declaration of wealth and control. Her intelligence is frightening. She sees the weaknesses in others and knows exactly how to exploit them for Elvian gain. She would be a brilliant, chilling master of statecraft, achieving more in ten years than the others could in fifty. But a kingdom built on secrets is built on fear, and she will be murdered in her sleep long before her time is done.
Then her gaze fell upon Amelia. The half-elf stood on the periphery, nervously adjusting the cuff of her simple green dress.
Amelia Elaris... The girl with no suit.
She is kind, she is sincere, and she is utterly ill-equipped for this game. Asora felt a familiar pang of disappointment.
She won pity and sympathy, but not a single vote of true political support. Her speech was generic. It was a beautiful plea for basic decency, not a mandate for a throne that channels cosmic power.
Her very presence here is an insult to the tradition the others seek to preserve.
Yet, she fought so stubbornly just to stand there. Why? Such minor conviction cannot face down three Queens.
An ice-cold shiver, something Asora had not felt in millennia, tracked down her spine. The feeling was wrong—a knot in the flowing river of mana. She flicked her eyes down, using her ancient Sight to observe the four candidates' true intent, the spiritual reflection of their souls.
Roshia's shadow was a magnificent, stylized Greatsword, prepared for battle. Aerilaya's shadow was a complex Celestial Clock, ticking toward a distant, brilliant future. Vaeloria's shadow was a coiled Serpent, its head resting smugly on a mountain of riches and glory.
But Amelia's shadow was different.
The girl herself stood nervously, but her shadow was wrong. It was disproportionately tall and thin, stretched and distorted. It was grinning, wide and proud, as if it knew a terrible secret and was waiting for the perfect moment to reveal it.
Why is her shade so arrogant?
Asora focused her millennia of power, channeling the World-Root mana to pierce the veil of time—to see what past-soul commitment would fuel such an unwarranted confidence.
The answer came not as a vision, but as a chilling, physical sensation.
Someone leaned onto her back.
A weight, light as a whisper but heavy as a dead star, settled against the living crystal of the throne behind her. She did not feel a presence in the physical realm, but a shadow in the very fabric of her soul.
A strand of impossibly black hair—not the royal violet of Vaeloria, but a pure, inky shadow void—fell into her peripheral vision.
Asora, the 7,000-year-old Avatar of the Elves, felt an unease so profound it cracked her composure. She dared not turn. She dared not breathe.
Reflected in the brilliant, polished marble of the floor before her, right behind her throne, was a shadow that didn't belong to the Elvian Kingdom. It was the silhouette of a tall, lithe figure.
Its projected forward shadow was not a human shape, but a distinct, cruelly smiling figure: The Devil.
The demonic shadow grinned, and then it winked at Amelia Elaris's arrogant shadow.
The Devil is choosing her side.
A profound, chilling realization dawned in Asora's ancient mind. Amelia had been an empty hand in this game, a player with nothing.
Even in her empty hands, she hid a Joker.
Queen Asora, heart of the Elvian people, straightened her posture, the smile of the Devil fading from her reflection. She addressed the chamber, her voice recovering its calm authority.
"The two-year campaign has officially begun. The fate of the Kingdom is now in the hands of its people."
She finished with a profound, final thought, her eyes fixed on Amelia's grinning shadow.
"For no man is capable of changing the tides single-handedly."