Chapter 7

Aethyria | House of Fenryth Territory

Around a heavy marble table sat Lord Elephon of House Fenryth, lord of the south and the third strongest house of the elven realm. He wore deep emerald robes embroidered with cascading silver leaf patterns that caught the dim light, draped over finely crafted mithril pauldrons. Resting upon his dark, silk-like hair was an intricate crown of forged platinum, styled like interwoven briar branches tipped with tiny, glowing sapphires.

Despite the regal attire, he looked visibly troubled.

“We have been loyal to the first crown for millennia now,” Elephon said, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. “How do you possibly suggest we give up hope upon his return?”

Across from him sat Rhothomir, the brown-haired, blue-eyed lord of House Pervan, the fifth strongest house of the elven realm. Rhothomir was draped in heavy midnight-blue velvet robes lined with white ermine, secured by a broad golden belt bearing the crest of his house. Atop his brow rested a slender circlet of beaten gold inset with sharp, polished topazes that flashed like captured lightning. Pursing his lips, Rhothomir replied, “The king has been absent for ten days, Elephon. This is not a small feat.”

Sighing deeply, Elephon shook his head. “I am struggling to indulge Elden in what he is claiming. I cannot believe the bearer of the first crown would just vanish into thin air or be killed by beasts of black magic. Have you forgotten that Vaelorians possess the power to dissolve black magic?”

“Yes, but it comes with a terrible price,” Rhothomir retorted.

Elephon raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps, but Auberon’s mana is strong enough to survive it — unless...”

Rhothomir gave him a hard look. “Unless someone attempted to assassinate him,” he said in a hushed voice.

Elephon slowly gave a nod, the gravity of the treason settling heavily over the room.

Elephon leaned forward, his dark eyes narrowing as he weighed the dangerous implications. “If Elden has indeed crossed that line, then the entire balance of the high houses is in peril. A usurpation built on regicide is a sickness that will rot Aundil from the inside out.”

Rhothomir crossed his arms, his blue eyes sharp and calculating in the dim light of the war room. “Which is precisely why we cannot afford to act blindly, my friend. If the king lives, he is either in hiding or trapped beyond our reach. But if he is truly gone, and Elden secures his grip on the White Spire, our loyalty to the first crown will make House Fenryth and House Pervan the prime targets for Elden’s purges.”

Silence fell heavy over the round table, broken only by the faint, distant hum of the violet auroral mana shifting across the southern horizon. Both lords knew that every word spoken in this room carried a death sentence if it reached the usurper’s ears.

Elephon stood up slowly, resting his palms against the heavy stone of the table as he looked out toward the borderlands. “Then we play a dangerous game, Rhothomir. We offer Elden our cautious, hollow compliance to keep the hounds from our gates, while we quietly test the winds for any sign of the true king’s return.”

***

Outside Aundil

Elsewhere, miles from the marble halls of House Fenryth, Jeonran stood in the wilderness, his imposing figure and long red hair looking darker under the cold moonlight as he watched Alden search meticulously along the forest borders.

“What are you doing, exactly?” Jeonran asked, his deep voice cutting through the quiet night air.

Alden kept his hands close to the ground, his fingers hovering over the damp earth. “I am trying to find a trace of Auberon’s mana here.”

“You are jesting! It’s been almost ten days since he disappeared,” Jeonran replied, pointedly avoiding the word death like a plague.

“A strong presence like his wouldn’t just vanish into thin air,” Alden said, rising to his feet and turning to face him. “Elden said they fought. If they did, surely Auberon would have left a trace.”

Jeonran crossed his arms, his imposing frame casting a long shadow over the damp grass. The moonlight caught the deep, crimson strands of his hair, making them look almost black in the chill night air.

“A trace?” Jeonran scoffed softly, though the skepticism in his voice couldn’t mask the underlying thread of desperation. “The Void Rim borders are vast, and Elden’s hounds have scoured every inch of that desolate wasteland. If the king’s mana was still lingering, it would have bled into the earth and faded by now.”

Alden didn’t stop. His fingers grazed the rough bark of an ancient, twisted sentinel tree near the forest edge, his eyes closed as he concentrated, trying to sense the familiar, resonant hum of royal Vaelorian arcana.

“Elden claims they clashed near the edge,” Alden muttered without opening his eyes, his breath pluming in the cool night. “A Vaelorian king doesn’t just vanish into nothingness because of some wild beasts. If Elden struck him down, there would be residual corruption — traces of the dark magic Elden has been secretly trafficking. That kind of foul mana doesn’t just clean itself up.”

Jeonran fell silent, the weight of the forest pressing down on them. He hated playing this dangerous game of whispers and shadows, but the alternative — accepting that their king was truly gone — was entirely unthinkable.

“And if you find nothing?” Jeonran asked quietly, stepping closer. “What then?”

Alden finally opened his eyes, turning to look at his companion with a grim, unyielding resolve. “Then we look harder. Because until I feel his life-bond snap, I refuse to believe our king is dead.” He paused. “A life-bond ties an elf’s soul to their body — and I’ve known him long enough to feel it, if it breaks.”

Jeonran rolled his eyes. “And you dare say I’m a stubborn bastard?”

Alden flashed him a grin. “You rubbed it off on me after being friends with your annoying self for far too long.”

****

Earth | Evelyn’s Apartment

Auberon stood clutching the folded clothes in the cramped bathroom, his gaze darting around the small, sterile room. Everything about it felt entirely alien — from the smooth, pale tiles lining the walls to the glaring, unnatural hum of the electric bulb overhead.

He stared down at the garments resting in his hands, then glanced over at the glass-enclosed shower, utterly baffled by the maze of metal knobs and spouts. He lifted the cotton sweatpants, a deep frown etching across his face.

“What in the gods’ name is this?” he sighed, shaking his head at the strange, shapeless cloth bounds before trying to decipher how to put them on.

With a reluctant sigh, Auberon dropped the mystery garments onto the small counter and turned his attention back to the glass enclosure. In Aundil, cleansing was a ritual of pure auroral vapor and gentle warded currents that responded to a flick of royal arcana — the innate, powerful magic possessed deep within their bodies. Here, there was no hum of magic — only a series of metal levers.

He reached out, tentatively twisting the left handle. A sudden, violent roar echoed inside the stall as icy water blasted from the overhead nozzle, making him flinch and jerk his hand back.

“Barbaric contraptions,” he muttered under his breath, glaring at the showerhead as if it were a rogue sentinel.

After a few more minutes of cautious trial and error, he managed to coax a tolerable warmth from the pipes. Stripping away the remnants of his travel-worn, blood-stained elven regalia, he stepped under the spray.

The hot water beat against his shoulders, washing away the stubborn grime of yesterday’s events and the dull ache of his injuries. Yet, even as the steam rose around him, his mind raced.

His magic felt like a sluggish, dying ember trapped beneath thick ice in this mana-starved realm, whispering to him that every second he spent stranded here gave Elden more time to cement his usurped rule over the White Spire.

Stepping out, he wrapped a thick towel around his waist and started to put on the clothes. They were uncomfortably soft, lacking the weight of leather or plate, but they fit his long frame well enough.

He slipped on the loose t-shirt last, though the fabric clung closely, fitting his broad torso slightly tight and sharply outlining the hard lines of muscle beneath. Staring at his reflection in the mirror above the sink, without his crown and his royal robes, he looked less like the High King of Aundil and more like a ghost out of time.

Taking a deep breath to steady his racing thoughts, Auberon pulled open the bathroom door and stepped back out into the quiet warmth of Evelyn’s apartment.

Evelyn stepped out of the kitchen, taking in the sight before her. “You’re done,” she stated the obvious, though her voice faltered slightly.

Her eyes involuntarily tracked down his body, lingering on the broad expanse of his chest where the fabric clung tightly, before she frantically tried to snap her gaze away. She had never been one to gawk at men, always keeping her focus well clear of that kind of distraction. But holy heavens — this man made her feel suddenly, intensely hot, and tearing her eyes away proved to be an impossible task.

Auberon crossed his arms, his broad chest pressing even tighter against the soft fabric as he looked down at her, thoroughly scandalized.

“Gawking at me?” he demanded, raising a brow. “For what reasons? Do you think I look funny?”

Evelyn choked back a startled laugh, her cheeks instantly burning hot enough to fry an egg. She threw her hands up defensively, stepping back a pace.

“Funny? No! Not funny at all,” she stammered, frantically shaking her head while trying — and failing — to keep her eyes from drifting back down for just a microsecond. “It’s just... the clothes. They aren’t exactly royal regalia, Your Majesty.”

He cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably as the soft elastic bit against his hips. “They’re uncomfortable, to say the least.”

Evelyn offered a tight, sympathetic smile, though her pulse was still racing a bit from the close-up view. “Yeah, well, cotton and elastic don’t exactly compete with ancient elven weaves. You’ll survive, though.”

Auberon held his chin thoughtfully, his gaze fixed on the coffee table before shifting back to her.

“I need to get back,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You know the place where you found me, am I correct? I know I am not in my full strength, but I have to go there.”

Evelyn laughed disbelievingly, and her laugh died in her throat when she saw the determination in his eyes. “What?” she asked.