Even at this distance, I could feel Lilith's awakening. It was not as if she wanted to hide it, but for me to feel her from here meant she was still growing more powerful. A side effect of the transformation? I doubted it. She was a very powerful woman—truly strong. One who had the misfortune to be born where such women were not welcome. I was searching inside this palace. It was curious how little we did not know about the elves. There was much that experience taught us, but of their origins, no one knew. I hoped the magics used by them in the past were powerful. If I could find something that eliminated the Lich threat or my dear elf, I would gladly use it even if it meant risking my existence. Both were bad alone, but in this situation, they were fearsome.
The castle, once it recognized me as a powerful person, opened its doors to me. There were still servants here—creatures like puppets driven by magic. They would sound useful, but their capacity was limited to pleasing the most mundane actions. They had no capacity for response. To everything I asked, they only suggested food, pleasures, rest. I was close to eliminating them—them and all this puerile luxury. But a thought stopped me: where did the magic that fed them come from? The elves were supposed to have left here several years ago—my knowledge of whether it was decades or centuries was unclear; I supposed they took me to the isle after they fled. How did they keep this machinery in good condition? The construction, the viands—everything was, if not fresh, at least edible. That could not happen if no one was supplying the magic of this place. My eyes helped me in the task. A faint line of power came from each of them and from the lamps, as well as from everything powered by magic. This had to have some reason.
As I descended the stairs, the luxury simplified. There were no more murals, no servants. You only perceived cleanliness, as if the construction limited itself to polishing everything inside, to offer asepsis instead of luxury... or was that its luxury? The lines started from here. It was strange because there were a great number, as if the entire site came and was maintained from here. The magic was weak—only a faint force—but it must be constant. It supplied much that I did not even understand. Perhaps even the breeding programs of the beasts in the adjacent gardens. That would require much—much more than a single person could produce.
The voices attacked me as I descended to the bottom—curious, bored, tired. All asking if I was the new owner of the castle, if they would leave soon. Was I a new enemy? I extended my field to encompass everything around me. My "eyes" finally saw a tangle—a knot at the back of the room. I supposed no one came here; most stopped at the top of the stairs, just behind the throne. There was a light layer of dust—nothing heavy, but immaculate. They did not come down here. There were no defenses, no weapons, only those voices snooping in archaic Elvish. I tried to turn on a little light, and it faded. I tried again, and the magic was absorbed. It was little, but I even felt my field being absorbed by the walls—or perhaps by whatever awaited me at the end?
"See, I told you he's just a child... but he's powerful. Surely he could be the new king. What will we do? We have no more strength. Will he grant us rest?"
The words exploded inside my chest. At the back of that room was a mural. All the magic lines were buried under the floor. At the back, there was only a black weapon taller than me. Behind it, a mark carved in gold—an enormous mark, a claw spanning the entire wall. I asked who was looking for me, what they wanted, or what they could offer the new king.
"Offer? Whatever pleases you. The castle is for whoever can pass its defenses. Not many of us remain, but we can still do things for whoever masters the house of the refugee elves."
Refugee elves? Who are you, what are you doing feeding the Blood Elves' things? Are you under their yoke? What does that claw mean? The text is not comprehensible—it looks like Elvish but much more refined. Few words relate to what I have read of you.
"Interesting boy! Yes, young warrior mage—it is a script abandoned by the elves thousands of years ago. It is the original voice of their people, when there were no species differences, when beauty lay in continuing to feed ourselves and survive. What you read there is a contract—the oldest on the entire Black Continent, which you now call Greenleaf. Yes—he laughs softly—it is necessary for you to know. The story is long but could be useful to you. I know what you seek, and perhaps you will find it in that object our children called Dragonslayer."
The spear that at first seemed crude was crafted—penetration magics, hardness magics, magics written from the beginning to the tip, which ended in a nail—at least a piece of one. Black, of an incredibly hard appearance, emanating much power even for the age of this weapon. Curiosity was great. I did not think I was close to something of such power. My sword-staff, no matter how much I loved it, was not close to this...
"Of course not, boy. This weapon has a single purpose. Your sword-staff is an ingenious weapon, but this... this beauty was the reason for the elves' rise. Answer! We will tell you on condition that you accept one request of ours. What do you say?"
No one else was here—that was certain. I wished I could read on my own. With a couple of years, I could decipher this language—it was not Elvish, but simpler yet elegant. I hoped I was not getting into any trouble. So I asked them to begin.