Chapter Seventy-Six: The Last Silvermoon Elf

Wade gazed at that unexpectedly slender figure, her soft, ethereal voice singing, accompanied by the sound of a lute.

She was an elf—an elf with silver hair, long locks falling beside her pointed ears, the ends gently curled.

She wore a deep indigo velvet cloak, and a dark green Celtic-style gown that swept to the ground, hiding her feet from view.

At the hem of her dress were signs of wear and mending, and snowflakes clung to her clothes.

The elf held an ancient lute, playing a melody as old as time.

Her posture was upright, exuding an air of elegance.

She resembled neither a dancer nor a church cantor; she looked more like a wandering bard.

Despite the shabbiness and simplicity of her attire, when draped on her, it gave off an understated nobility, requiring no embellishment to reveal her extraordinary presence.

“Demon of Flame, Aym, you hold no power here—return to the shadows where you belong.” The elf rebuked the shadow in the fire, which erupted into fiercer flames.

Her silver hair whipped in the hot wind as she faced the fire without flinching.

The flames contracted in an instant to a single point, which shot toward her; she bore it calmly, her expression unchanged. Wade saw a searing brand appear on her fair face.

The brand was a mirrored image of the one on Quasimodo’s left arm.

As the mark appeared on the elf’s face, the scorching aura vanished.

The Banshee Mother had turned to char, and the auras of demons and evil undead faded from the square.

Tranquility returned. The elf raised her head to glance at the starlight above, then turned, placed her lute behind her, and drew from her breast a deerskin journal bristling with feathers.

Wade noticed an ancient bronze badge at her waist and paused in surprise. It bore the engraving of an open eye, like one carved on a die.

She had not one badge—on the deerskin journal in her hands hung a second, this one engraved with a pair of human feet. The open eye and the feet—Wade had seen these symbols somewhere before.

They were the very designs on the twenty-sided die; he could not be mistaken. He had rolled that die in dreams a thousand times, and knew every line and pattern by heart.

Wade was puzzled by the elf’s identity, though she had undoubtedly aided him just now.

He quietly observed her attire; there was not a single superfluous ornament.

She had appeared suddenly, by means unknown to him.

Wade looked toward the elf’s lower half, trying to glimpse her feet, but the floor-length skirt blocked all sight, so he could not even tell whether she wore shoes. She seemed intent on keeping her feet hidden.

Wade thought, perhaps the elf had arrived by some kind of magic.

The elf faced Wade without speaking, instead opening her deerskin journal and reading intently.

She studied something with great care, glancing frequently up at the starlit night and observing the square.

She took several seconds before closing the journal and carefully tucking it away.

She gave Wade a slight bow—the greeting of a first meeting.

It seemed she wished to communicate. Wade returned the gesture.

Yet he felt his “existence” growing ever more unstable, as if he were about to be pulled away. He had not taken the brunt of the demon’s assault, but even the burning aura had wounded him.

This incarnation would soon fade; there was little time left.

“O you who released the souls of the departed, I am Yulia Silvermoon,” the elf declared her name.

“I have come guided by the prophet’s prophecy. From the distant forest I saw the starlight in the night sky, so I came here and witnessed the dark power of the demon Aym.”

“That demon is ancient and foul, also called Hebrim, and has been an enemy of Order since the Second Age.”

“The soul claimed by the demon is a descendant of the royal line of Thornwick, of Saint Vic’s blood. The demon was grievously wounded by the saint; appearing now, it surely seeks to defile and corrupt the saint’s descendant, take them into the shadows, raise them as a demon, and thus desecrate the saint’s blood.”

“Forgive my sudden visit,” the elf said, bowing her head. “But the prophecy foretold that when starlight rises from the northern night, I may find hope of returning home.”

“I have wandered long outside my homeland—returning is my final wish.”

“For I am the last Silvermoon elf; my people have perished and faded from the world.”

She spoke softly of her origin. Wade watched her in silence, for he could not speak or converse with others.

The snow on the ground had melted to water; there was no snow left for him to write with his sword.

“Aym has set upon me the Mark of Slaughter,” the elf said. “All of Aym’s servants will sense my presence and swear to destroy me.”

“I can feel darkness converging here. Forgive me—I cannot stay.”

“But I have found the prophecy. One day, we shall meet again, elsewhere.”

“I, Yulia Silvermoon, swear by the name of the last Silvermoon elf: I will help you achieve your wish, never deceive you, never harm you, and never act against your interests. I will serve the one who has given me the gift of souls. When your wish is fulfilled, it shall be the day I return home.”

Yulia pledged. After reciting this in the common tongue, she spoke in a language with complex, intricate syllables.

Wade understood that last sentence. While searching the brambles, when he found the wizard’s remains, he had glimpsed ancient memories.

At the end of those memories, he had heard the same tongue; Yulia spoke the same syllables as that nameless wizard now gone.

“May the Dragon God bless you,” Yulia concluded in the common tongue.

Her shadow gradually faded, vanishing as mysteriously as she had come.

“On my way here, I saw an old friend,” she said softly. “He seems to know you. Darkness approaches; allow me to take you somewhere safe. You will meet him again.”

With another bow, the elf vanished from Wade’s sight.

——

Some time earlier.

Footsteps and ragged breathing echoed through the alleys of Alvado. Lucas ran through the darkness, clutching the Stone of Mist. Behind him came the barking of dogs and the beat of wings—minions of the necromancer still in pursuit.

Above, a night owl swooped, pinning him with its unblinking gaze.

Lucas ran with all his might. He had been discovered, so there was no point in hiding. Every path and alley was familiar—he knew them better than anyone.

In his youth, he ran these alleys every day, racing to the square to claim the best spot for business, earning his living and the fees to register as an adventurer.

He had trained his stamina by running; before dawn he would always rise early.

Through winter and spring, he ran alone.

He was always alone. No one else persisted as he did. So, day after day, before dawn in Alvado, he chased his dreams alone.