Chapter 25: The Bard's Plea
POV: Viktor
The silence that followed Filavandrel's question hung in the air like a sword suspended by spider silk—beautiful, deadly, and liable to fall at any moment. Viktor could feel the weight of twenty elvish gazes studying their small group, assessing threats and calculating the most efficient methods of execution.
That's when Jaskier, in a display of either incredible courage or catastrophic panic, opened his mouth and began to babble.
"Your Majesty! King Filavandrel! Descendant of Lara Dorren, heir to the bloodline that once ruled the seas themselves!" The bard's voice cracked with terror, but his words carried the kind of desperate eloquence that came from someone whose life depended on saying exactly the right thing. "I know your lineage, great king! I know the songs of Aelirenn the White, the ballads of the Blue Mountains, the laments of—"
"Silence." Filavandrel's voice cut through Jaskier's recitation like a blade through silk, but there was something in his tone that hadn't been there before—surprise, perhaps, or the faint stirring of curiosity.
Viktor watched the elf king's face carefully, noting the way his ancient eyes had narrowed as Jaskier spoke, the slight forward lean that suggested interest despite himself. The bard had stumbled onto something important, some cultural pressure point that even a desperate human could exploit.
"You know our songs," Filavandrel said slowly. "Our poetry. Our heroes."
"I know them all!" Jaskier's voice gained strength as he realized he'd found something that might keep them alive for more than the next thirty seconds. "I've studied the old books, learned the ancient verses! I could sing them—spread them! Let your truth reach human ears instead of their lies!"
Filavandrel's laugh was bitter as winter wind through dead leaves. "Our truth? Your kind already decided our truth, bard. We are myths now. Legends to frighten children and inspire tavern songs. What use is spreading stories about creatures that don't exist?"
But Viktor could see the crack in the elf king's armor—the hunger in his eyes when he spoke of being remembered, the way his hand tightened on his throne when Jaskier mentioned the old heroes. Filavandrel wanted to be more than a myth. He wanted his people's legacy to survive, even if they themselves could not.
"He's not entirely closed to persuasion," Viktor realized, studying the micro-expressions that flickered across the elf king's ageless features. "He's desperate, but he's also intelligent. If we can find the right approach..."
That's when Renfri stepped forward, her movements fluid despite her bound hands, her voice carrying the kind of authority that belonged to someone who'd been born to rule.
"I understand exile, King Filavandrel."
The words cut through the tension like a bell through silence, and Viktor felt a chill run down his spine as he realized what Renfri was doing. She was using her own trauma as a diplomatic tool, turning her pain into a bridge between species.
"My people cast me out for a curse I never chose," she continued, her green eyes locked on Filavandrel's ancient gaze. "Branded me a monster because of a prophecy that spoke more about their fears than my nature. I know what it is to watch those you love turn away, to see your home become a place where you can never return."
Filavandrel's expression shifted, some of the cold calculation giving way to something that might have been recognition.
"You're human," he said, but his voice lacked the dismissive contempt it had carried moments before. "What do you know of our suffering? Your exile lasted decades. Ours has lasted centuries."
"I know that revenge is ashes in your mouth when you finally taste it." Renfri's voice carried the weight of hard-won wisdom, the kind of truth that could only be learned through personal experience. "I almost died for it—would have died for it—but Viktor stopped me. He showed me that there were other choices, better choices than the ones my pain demanded."
Viktor felt every gaze in the room shift to him, the weight of attention like a physical force pressing against his chest. Filavandrel's ancient eyes studied him with the kind of intensity usually reserved for examining potentially dangerous specimens.
"This is my chance," Viktor realized. "But I need to be careful. One wrong word and we're all dead."
He had managed to recover 5 MP during their forced march through meditation-while-walking, barely enough for a single Success Rate Analysis. But he needed to understand what he was dealing with before he committed to any course of action.
"Success Rate Analysis: What is Filavandrel's primary goal—survival for his people or revenge against humanity?"
[MANA DECREASED: 5 → 0]
[ANALYSIS COMPLETE]
[PRIMARY GOAL: SPECIES SURVIVAL - 95% PROBABILITY]
[SECONDARY GOAL: VENGEANCE - 60% PROBABILITY BUT SUBORDINATE TO SURVIVAL]
[ASSESSMENT: FILAVANDREL WANTS HOPE MORE THAN BLOODSHED]
[TACTICAL RECOMMENDATION: OFFER VIABLE FUTURE RATHER THAN MORAL ARGUMENTS]
The analysis confirmed what Viktor had suspected from studying the elf king's behavior. Filavandrel wasn't a monster driven by hatred—he was a leader trying to find a path forward for his dying people. The violence was just the most obvious option available, not necessarily the preferred one.
Viktor began formulating a plan, pieces clicking together in his mind like the components of a complex machine. He had meta-knowledge that could be presented as prophecy, information about future events that might give the elves hope for survival. The name Dol Blathanna, the sanctuary that would one day exist, the possibility of coexistence rather than extinction.
But he would need to be careful. Too much information would seem suspicious. Too little would be useless. He had to find the perfect balance between revelation and believability.
"Who is this prophet," Filavandrel asked slowly, his gaze never leaving Viktor's face, "who stops princesses from their revenge?"
The question hung in the air like a challenge, and Viktor felt the familiar weight of destiny settling on his shoulders. Everything that happened next would depend on his ability to find the right words, the right approach, the right way to offer hope to a people who had given up on hope long ago.
But before he could answer, Filavandrel raised his hand in a gesture that silenced the entire courtyard.
"Enough. I will not decide your fates while emotions run high and words flow like wine. You will be held overnight. At dawn, I will hear what wisdom this supposed prophet offers."
The elf king's eyes fixed on Viktor with predatory intensity.
"Pray that your words matter, human. Because if they do not, your bard dies first."
Jaskier's whimper echoed through the ancient courtyard as elvish guards moved forward to escort them to whatever passed for a prison in the ruins of Dol Blathanna. Viktor caught one last glimpse of Filavandrel's face before they were led away—ancient, weary, but touched with something that might have been curiosity.
One night. Viktor had one night to figure out how to save not just their lives, but potentially prevent a war that would devastate both sides.
No pressure at all.
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