I finally reach one of the sought-after mountain ranges, located twenty kilometers from the cavern where I encountered the goblins. Mountains rivaling the altitudes of coastal towns can be admired. From a certain angle, I can see the tip of a tower. It is hidden by a light-refracting spell, but it is not necessary to observe carefully for hours to notice there is a crack in the sand and the colors stand out as if this were a giant bottle. Though much to my chagrin, I must admit that none of this indicated I had arrived. My beloved—that captive in the coffin—began to scream in a thousand languages. I must place a couple of sleeping draughts, for even though I know they will not do much good, I hope they are at least strong enough to let me concentrate. I do not believe for a moment that a mere optical illusion was the defense of the Keep of Eternal Youth—one of the homes of the Blood Elves.
Sweat slowly trickles down my forehead. Concentration is becoming a problem. I must maintain each of the protective veils—ranging from locked, starved animals, all in suspended animation so that when someone violates the protocols, they rise as maddened seekers of denied food. Among these are powerful basilisks; from here, I can perceive the acid in their jaws. Cockatrices with their petrifying poisons, harpies, some demons. It is like advancing in one of those old "pick-up sticks" games where you have to remove traps one by one. Some had already been activated in the past, so after forcing my mind on a few, I only hear a ridiculous "pfft" from an abandoned home. Under other circumstances, it would be ideal to simply destroy this arrogant defense of the vain elves. It is built of white marble, and its quality indicates with what meticulousness it was chosen—how many slaves worked to achieve the perfection that only the pale features of the Blood Elves represented. But I cannot tear it apart—not yet. Here, many codices for understanding the cursed runes that exist deeper in the continent are contained.
When it finally recognizes me—though reluctantly—as its new master, the gate materializes. Upon opening, I can smell the flowers. Freshness not found for kilometers around is in the first garden, where everything shines with a perfection only magic could have achieved. I leave my love there. The peace runes are still active, and it seems her smile—for the first time since she was imprisoned—has traces of a being more like the one I knew. Even with black scales on her cheeks and fangs protruding from her mouth, she looks so peaceful I approach to kiss the glass that allows me to see her. At that moment, she opens her eyes and exclaims, "My garden! Let me out to play! Come on, say yes!" I turn immediately. I almost fall for the Charm of the being inhabiting her body. Freeing her would only bring destruction, but more than anything, it would eliminate the possibility of giving her final rest. I place some protections and prepare to access her libraries.
Each book is located according to when it was written. Many are only there as insurance—you cannot read older ones until you finish these. The walls only show two shelves at a time. Each cover, each lock requires a signature of magic. These are not just power runes—you must match the magical intensity of the person who wrote it. Suffice it to say, up to this moment, I am very disappointed.
Book of Golden Leaf, Son of "Soft Distant Breeze" — written five hundred years ago, narrating the most important secrets related to elven culture (all that as title). First paragraph:
"The beautiful elves—of course, by this I mean the Blood Elves; no one else worthy of sharing the name—traveled and brought culture to the lesser races, which always seek to take credit for the stupendous elven creations. Dwarves, for example, are so vulgar they do not allow themselves to use magic, wasting the beauty of a body without injuries on using hateful forges. Though their creations are beautiful, it is clearly because they are inspired by us.
The humanoids of the forests and waters who call themselves elves must correspond to an inferior mutation. They probably have long lives due to an unfortunate accident that prevents perfection from being alone in such an interesting world that indisputably belongs to elves. For this reason, I consider it practical and necessary to enslave inferior races to achieve the goals of our venerable people..."
I throw the book to the ground. It is the two-hundredth book of the elven priests—one piece of garbage after another. In pompous, pedestrian language, they speak and disqualify races for not being as "perfect" as them. I cannot waste years reading such garbage as my teachers insisted I read on the isle. I am about to tear everything apart, but the castle stops me. Intruders have entered that it recognizes, but I do not. Its ruin must wait until I find out what is happening.
If they are enemies, they are stealthy. None are magical—or rather, they possess magic as weapons or armor. There are many. If I do nothing, I could be at a disadvantage. But even though they are not goblins, I am not a gnoll. So I release my magical field—no longer kept contained. I need manual control of the traps. While the castle supervises, I use the installations to prepare an opulent dinner. I have the main hall cleaned and take the seat at the front—as the current one has wood carved with images of the heads of their gods and most important kings. I force the substance a little and shape them into skulls, with the wood darkened by the force I endure while receiving orders after more than a thousand years—elves preserve everything. I take my seat with my sword in hand, driven into the floor as a warning. Just as the last dish is placed by a simple autonomy enchantment, the hall doors are opened, and they enter... the Forest Elves.