Life was escaping from my lieutenant's hands, from my friend. Mist of Gold passed to a better life before my eyes. I, prince of the elves, legitimate king of the continental elves, sent him to his death—all for allies, seeking a good that did not exist, a broken alliance that I would now have to seek elsewhere, if not in another life.
The situation had been stagnant. For years, I had used my fortune in an attempt to avoid depleting my forces on the continent. Money could be used; cannon fodder was abundant. We had what we needed to make this opportunity the triumphant return to Greenleaf... My father's friend changed everything. We worked hard. We had a full-scale invasion. The people involved gave us magic that we used to improve our abilities. So much power that we almost regained our old selves. But the undead prevented us.
They emerged from nowhere—the locals we eliminated to take their lands, the animals we hunted for fun from disembarkation until we presented ourselves as "agents of good." Then warriors arrived—dozens, hundreds, an endless tide of enemies. Our mercenaries, obsessed with money, did not leave—they fought. Several elf admirers helped create some farms that provided sustenance with top-quality food. They could buy food wherever they wanted; we provided the seeds and fertilizer, but then we added bodyguards. The dead attacked day by day. These dazzled humans did not abandon us, but they died and returned. Military resources, though abundant, lost expensive armor pieces—more in the material it took to create them than in their monetary value. Thus I had to live the first years since returning from the isles.
As I placed my friend among enchanted silk blankets that would provide him rest in this moment of madness, I could not help but think we were abandoned to our fate. My father had long since stopped answering anything related to "I hope you're working hard to recover my friend's relics"—after that, not even that. Five years ago, he stopped answering. Around that time, I already had problems with humans—stupid people who refused to obey our command, superior genetic figures. But it did not happen. The only idiot who accepted was modified so he would not lose, but I feared I had underestimated the mages. Something happened—technology lost millennia ago. I transmitted magic directly into his blood; he could control crystals in an almost pure state. Yet I still lost him. My control over him disappeared. I only received a letter where he joined that magical society, gave the Overlord the benefit of the doubt, and prioritized attacks from chaos agents and my father's friend. We certainly lost a lot that day.
Now we were receiving reports of many new humans—people from across the oceans, beyond where the elves should have reached. Immediately, I sent spies to find out what they wanted. What I learned from them did not excite me. The information indicated that these people were seeking something akin to the annihilation of existing culture. It was not as if I cared too much if the humans responsible for everything that happened to us died. But the vast majority of the objects they destroyed along with the villages were of elven manufacture. I wanted to recover everything that had been stolen from us—so letting them destroy our past, however much or little remained or was simple, was mine by birthright. So I would not allow them to eliminate it. I originally tried to buy them off; I sent my best friend—he knew the price we could pay: metals, weapons, enchantments, everything a person could desire. He went alone with his personal escorts. I waited for him for two days. On the third, he arrived—alone, lifeless, dragged by his loyalty, with the enemy at his back.
I could hear them on the hill. Their shouts showed they knew our species—a chant about us being the final heresy. They would not stop shouting. I feared they intended to intimidate my troops. The only thing I did not like was that they were succeeding with the mercenaries—many went to join them. The bad thing was not that; they did not carry high-quality weapons. I thought they wanted to join when they saw more humans led by them, despite having bleeding eyes and clearly being unable to see... But they were killed. Before their own eyes, they were given a seal—something similar to what we designed, but on them, it had another effect. It killed them—cruelly and stupidly. I heard their screams. Why eliminate them? It made no sense. They were useful; they could give them power—much more if they stayed alive. I liked these disgusting religious types less and less.
The hill was full of these religious warriors. I did not know what to call them. They came with thick armor—nothing that excited me. My strongest mercenary warriors were still fighting in the Dark Forests. Here, I did not want to risk my own elves, so we used arrows—too few for the enormous number of enemies. Add to that they were using much magic—too much for what we could do. Enormous shields protected them without omission from physical damage as well as elemental. Arrows could pierce them if I used soul stone tips or similar gems, but I did not want to waste so much—it was my inheritance. Perhaps my people might die before squandering them on these lesser beings.
I sent a messenger to the sister city of Stormhammer—I called it that even though they were actually the first to resist, though they never attacked us and always provided our peasants with materials and tools for their lands. I asked for support. The letter was just a normal request, but inside, to the eyes of a powerful sorcerer, the true message could be understood. I hoped it reached good hands.