The Blood Elves' messenger did not delay. It could not. It had only a limited lifespan and one mission. It was a small magical bird, captured when it was barely a chick. Throughout its life, the magic it possessed had been drained by the mages of the elven sect. Weak, it could only think of one order to fulfill—the only one its dying mind recognized: "Deliver the message to the High Priest. Then you may die." It had waited so many years to hear an order that would end its misery that now it traveled fast, swift, ignoring the feathers it lost along the way. Nothing mattered except the oblivion it had been promised.
The magical field of the warrior priest was a clear point—the only thing it could see. But it was very far away. Even at its best, these birds took more than four days to reach their destination, and this poor specimen had only two days of life left. It could stop. If its consciousness were not so limited, it would only need to find food, some rest. But its consciousness was still bound to the will of the new elf king—a selfish creature who never stopped absorbing whatever magic it produced. Now that it was dying, he still forced it, against its will, kilometers forward. Its contract was fading, but so was its life. It was a losing battle.
One day from arrival, it realized it would not make it. Its vision, already diminished, could no longer see even the colors that weak humans saw—let alone magical fields or the air currents it should have been playing with. Only a black well with a single bright spot, very far away. Little by little, it lost altitude. Its chest beat fast but was accompanied by wheezing—more frequent, at times resembling death rattles. "I have failed. I could not die free," was its last coherent thought before plunging into the well of darkness. Yet it felt a little relief. At least the message would not arrive.
The fall seemed slower than it should have been. It was sure that long ago it should have dissolved or shattered upon impact. Yet it found some relief, as if descending to the bottom of the dark well offered it some coolness, a little energy. It even felt its consciousness beginning to recognize magic—pure magic it had not felt in its life. It was cold but helped reinforce its weak energies. It was strange. It seemed to be submerged in magic, but it did not know any magic of that nature—cold, not aggressive, almost with the peace of the grave. Yet it lived, seething with a determination it envied. And the power—even using the memory of its ancestors, which had been closed for a long time for lack of sufficient magic to invoke it, now came clear. The magic of elves was bright but cruel, hard. Dwarves always had a red energy, burning with ingenuity and curiosity. The creatures called humans had begun to have magic only about two hundred years ago, but it was a magic like a layer of icy water, seen in many shades depending on their emotions or potential—normally not greater than a magical animal. But this was special. It burned black, and kept feeding it. Soon its entire battered body began to regenerate. Depending only on the magic within its reach, the luster of its feathers returned, but they were no longer red. Midnight black replaced its plumage. Its mind opened, but it no longer had the blind fury of being forced to obey blindly. Finally, it thought clearly—a calculating thought, focused on a goal: to destroy those who had abused it. But it did not rush. The source of magic did not seem to want to go anywhere, and it felt full—more and more, intoxicated by its own growing magic. It decided, since no threats seemed nearby, to take full advantage of this miracle.
When it felt strong enough, it began to open its eyes. A magical entity watched it from afar, with the respect it had never felt it deserved. Clad as it was in a famished body, there it was. It had a tender smile, cold eyes, and a strange body unlike anything it had seen before. With clumsy attempts, it made a bow. Its tail feathers grew as it genuflected. When it straightened, it observed her carefully. Nudity was not strange in its species, but not among humanoids. Her body was thin and wiry. There were magical mutations, yet incredible power radiated from her. Seeing her, it recognized that only at the pinnacle of power could its race face her. This disconcerted it. It knew that only those captured as chicks were able to dominate such hardy beings as itself. At that moment, it felt a sharp pain in its head—so intense it could not even see.
A blinding light flooded its senses, but it was not pleasant. It was the instructions—the seal brutally introduced when it was young: "You will obey Crimson Dawn." And the last instruction: "You will be free when you deliver the message." Both instructions tormented its mind, turning its vision again into a dark well with a light at the bottom—its goal. Now it could clearly see the warrior priest—a human in fine, highly resistant robes, with a very neglected brown beard, bald, carrying a staff with a huge amplifying stone. His magical field was not negligible, but nothing compared to the one it was now feeding from. It understood it was necessary to leave. It was forced to go. Just as it was about to spread its wings, a hand rested on its head. Immediately, the light diminished to the point where it could focus its gaze again. The human—for that was what she originally was—looked at it with compassion.
"You don't have to leave so soon. You're still exhausted," she said. "Stay with me, and you will be able to fulfill your mission."
For a moment, the bird doubted. It had no idea how trustworthy her words were. But it could stay a little longer. Even though its contract was still active, it felt less pressure to fulfill it—a reprieve it greatly appreciated. It allowed it to continue feeding on that different magic.
When night began to fall, it felt decidedly better. Then it noticed its color had changed. Having absorbed so much strange magic on the verge of extinction from starvation, its body assimilated it and began to produce it. Everything remained the same inside—except the cold determination that had replaced its rage—but on the outside, its beautiful plumage existed for the first time as it should... except for the color. It had turned night black—a brilliant, exultant black, exultant with power. With a cry of joy and exultation, it delighted the prairie where it had fallen. A small effort, and its decorative flames ignited the grass without changing the black color. For the third time, it looked at its benefactress. Only then did it realize that the powerful person who had helped it not die was exhausted. Contrite, it prepared to leave, fearing that its proximity was responsible for her pain.
"Wait," the woman panted. "You don't have to leave."
At that moment, it realized the commands were beginning to affect it again. It struggled valiantly, but it was a losing battle. It had to go. It understood that even with all its new power, it had no alternative.
"Not alone. But you are not alone," the woman said as if able to read its thoughts. She put her hand on it again, blocking that urgency to fulfill the orders.
The poor animal asked. It really did not want to go. It did not know if some hidden instruction would cause its death even in its state—now the closest thing to a magical being with full use of its abilities.
"Your only duty is to carry the scroll on your leg, correct?" the woman intuited. A nod of the head.
"But right now, you can fulfill it without having to go."
The animal's expression was one of mute surprise.
"Just focus. Remember how you looked. How you were before you ate. Before your millennial hunger was extinguished. Imagine yourself in your colors, your scent, your face. Do it, and let it appear before you."
It tried. At first, it seemed difficult, but with a little practice, it remembered. The expression of those who saw it. The shadow it cast when flying. The reflection in its owner's eyes. Little by little, a fleck of gold materialized before it. It was a magnificent bird—orange-red feathers, defined, with a hard, pearly beak. A proud phoenix. But at that moment, a wave of honesty struck it. It was not that. Not at all. No complete plumage. Not that body. Its dull, fleshy eyes, dirty, faded colors, a fading brightness—it was nothing compared to the lights of bonfires. It was more the color of a will-o'-wisp. Seeing its former self—pathetic, defeated—its eyes blazed with fury. It began gathering strength to attack the one responsible for its state, to kill it, even again. It was stopped once more by the woman.
"Do not seek to eliminate the one who enslaved you. Your body was attacked for years to drain you. What I did was help you be reborn. But you cannot attack him. The only way to harm him is if you help me, using this former self to send the message. I will protect you and help you if he left any surprises. However, I must ask you two things. You are not obligated to fulfill them—I only ask."
The phoenix thought for a moment, then lifted its leg so the information could be removed.
"I will do it," sounded in the young woman's mind. "I will be honored to fulfill it. I would only like you to give me your name."
The woman showed a smile that revealed very long fangs. Her cat-like eyes flashed.
"You can call me Lilith. And this is what I want the scroll to say."