This new lock was different—with a space for placing hands. Finally, it indicated I was inside the palace. It had only taken two months to get here. The previous installations were gigantic, as if it were a walled city. The palace had many city gates. On each wall, there were access keys—all designed to be activated with magic. The first were only area locks. You arrived and had a minute to charge a rune on the floor; if you did not, many vermin in the basements waited to be released, I supposed. Despite the beauty of the architecture, from the glyphs I deduced this was the service door. So I placed my hands. The trick was to fill the runes slowly, as if I had no power. The castle's systems must think I was a servant. I did not want to relive what happened at the beginning.
The first door was a joke—the rune had three charge levels, which was not strange. But I decided to charge them quickly. Grave error. Immediately, dwarves began to emerge. Nothing like that warrior or his forces—these were idiots with physical deformities. All came to attack me using only their hands. I tried to drive them away, but they were persistent. Blind, they threw themselves at my sword, again and again. Their limbs fell severed. They were in pain, I was sure, but they did not stop. More than a hundred bodies fell that day. Just as the last one died, the light faded from the opening rune. I saw that within the rune were layers and layers of tiny runes. They faded as well, and a message painted itself on the wall: "Welcome, elven brother. I hope my gift pleased you." I spent two days burying bodies. It was just an obscene gift for whoever had the power to activate that children's game.
When I calmly read all the runes, I discovered they activated various mechanisms within their charging times. If these were exceeded, they immediately released those miserable beings. They were rewards for the power an elf could display—a monster inflated with ego, vanity, and bloodlust. For the second door, I activated the rune as slowly as possible—one layer of magic at a time. It took me about five minutes. When it finally activated, a whip descended and tried to mark my back. It was not a threat even with its metal tips, but the door did not open. Instead, clear, condescending letters said: "Inferiors, do not attempt to advance beyond your level. Your power is insignificant for your aspirations. Stay in your place or suffer the consequences!"
Admiring and worried, I dedicated another two days to reading its runes—a mix of hatred and admiration for a race so different from reason.
I soon discovered that two minutes was the limit. If I did it between two and three minutes, the doors opened, and one could continue. I supposed that was the servants' level for the next gate. I kept wandering through these houses and shops. Each door had its own. They were empty but silently explained what this place was. Simple yet complex slavery. The beings who lived there felt and had the essentials—except the right to decide for themselves. The hierarchy was very marked. The quality of materials, their functions—all a jumble of what they could and could not do. Each time I advanced—and this was the worst—I had to traverse the imitation city from one end to the other to locate the next door.
The nights kept occurring, but here it was not so easy to tell. The walls were getting taller. Now I was in what were considered the warriors' quarters. The houses had beautiful decorations. There were training fields and well-planned smithies. Nothing like the hovels at the beginning or the houses crammed one on top of another. Here, each house had its trees and gardens. They were withered because everything ran on magic. They did not cultivate—the seeds were in baskets that, when their runes activated, germinated, and in seconds you had juicier apples than desired. It was such a waste of magic! I did not want to imagine how confidently they used their power to bake bread, clean streets, simulate photosynthesis—a thousand hells. No wonder they were feared. Such power would not be wasted for no reason... but they did it. Even germinating a single meal considerably depleted a level four mage's power. I did not want to imagine what it would be like to spend day after day what provided your survival, but in return, it took so much.
The absurdity of these places, besides having to find their damned doors, was knowing that they not only activated their daily needs—that would be easy work for beings of that power. But each rune sent a portion of this magic to its central. I imagined enormous stones from the extermination of thousands, storing the magic of these idiots, making the king someone who could not be dethroned. Even today, they must be preserved. Without those stones, I was curious where the power of those who desperately abandoned the palace had gone.
Leaving the door, I realized I was about to arrive. It was not shown by the luxury of these installations, which were on par with any palace hall. Rather, the next wall measured only two meters, leaving considerable space for the sun to reach. As an aberrant norm, privileged elves deserved true sunlight. Their windows did not have to contemplate dirty inferiors, but they did have to see their personal servants' fields—all exquisite. If one day any of the kingdom's loyal peers decided to descend to their meadows, they would be perfect for a being of their quality. I imagined royalty rarely traveled on foot or horseback—most used magnificent beasts like hippogriffs, which, due to the runes carved into their skin, could not disobey. They were used so often they died of exhaustion, also of sadness, since they were not allowed near their eggs. Many of which hatched without ever knowing their parents' love. I saw them on the isle, with faces of solemnity, hatred, and misery.
Despite having the "aesthetic" wall so close, I chose to look for the door. I feared a trap would activate and send me back to the beginning. So I walked among all the sites. Several doors appeared along the way—sumptuous, but after several minutes of wasted magic, they opened onto warehouses of liquor for sybarites. Words like "commoner's blood from 50" or even "trent wine" led me to think their vices were varied. I confirmed this when I opened another red door. There, after the nausea subsided, I managed to analyze what had happened. Hundreds of human remains lay on the floor. Many had broken bones without marrow. Others were inside a skin lining of what was undoubtedly a naga that, having no food or way to get it, had gone mad and devoured as many as it could—most of whom were too weak to face it. A brothel of death where people abandoned their toys, who died waiting for the vicious ones who never returned.
When I thought I would have to spend the night in one of these places—the mere idea made me long for the Dark Forest lands or the elven dungeons; at least there I knew what to expect—here in dead gardens surrounded by golden and jade statues, a soft breeze finally enveloped me. It was magical, but not elven—it was natural. It smelled good, like mornings after rain. I walked toward the sound's source.
Arriving at the clearing, I could see a beautiful undergrowth. The dwarf trees had incredible colors to be natural, but they glowed, and small flowers adorned the esplanade. My eyes, before my magic, indicated that dryads lived there. They were magical plant threads—their "children," who fertilized the trees of this place. Although they were a little frightened, they approached curiously, as befits their species. They were beautiful. Even seeing them as what they were without magic, I could see the life force growing in this place. At that moment, trumpets sounded. The first time, they startled me, but they were only mechanisms activated automatically. Words materialized in the air:
"Dryads are stupid, small, and simple. They feel as beautiful as we do. Elf, if you feel entitled to enter, eliminate half their population and return! Fail, and you will be sent back to the first gate."
Rage consumed me. I could see the counter—it was a trap that sent all organic matter to the first gate. I had wasted too much time getting here. But eliminating them was something I could not do. They were the only beautiful thing in this place. I could not kill the only decent thing the elves had produced. But the dryads gathered at the hilt of my sword. I think they wanted me to release them. So I gripped my sword and prepared to eliminate the gate. To hell with this! I would go through, tearing apart whatever stood in my way—no more subtleties! But then I heard their lament. They asked me to kill them. They were seeds, they said. No one really died. They would feed their parents, grandparents, and future children. Besides, if I destroyed the trap, their grandfather—the one who gave rise to this garden—would die. He was bound to that magic. They lived life as best they could because they knew something like this would happen whenever someone came to cross the elven palace gates. Though I hated it, I had no alternative. I obeyed.
The counter was full. Throughout the garden, hundreds of plants died from losing their dryad. Piles of ashes from what were once joyful beings. The doors opened to reveal a sumptuous hallway. But I saw nothing. I stopped giving power to my eyes. My pain was too great. But I could not cry. I left that to the trees that shed their leaves with a lullaby whisper to shelter the fallen and console those who remained standing. They would pay dearly for this! I swore they would hate the day they created me! That was the only promise I could make to the dead.