Two years ago. The forests of Quel'Thalas.
A company of High Elves walked quietly through the forest, escorting a caravan returning from a Ranger camp. A common enough occurrence. And the reason for joy was quite valid. After a month in the field, they were returning home! Yes, to villages, but an Elven village provides several orders of magnitude better amenities than a bunch of tents.
The forests of Quel'Thalas, however beautiful and magical they may be, cease to delight anyone so much after sitting in a tent for a long time, getting acquainted with parasites, bloodsuckers, and other insects. Some get used to it, like the Rangers. Some, like their group, having spent a month in the camp, are sincerely glad to return to more comfortable conditions. To family, behind solid walls and onto soft beds.
Of course, it's not all bad. Elves living in the field remain Elves, and sometimes, when they are sure they aren't being watched, they can have some fun. Dancing, various herbal infusions, including some with interesting effects. Flings with the convoy escorts. Competitions or bets, and if the boss isn't looking, secret gambling. They are all Elves, often quite young, and therefore full of energy. They are visited by all sorts of personalities, and starting a short romance with a mighty Spartan or Huntress, or groping a soft little sorceress who isn't against it at all, but very much for it—why not? Contacts that don't commit anyone to anything.
Even Davilinia found an activity to her liking, although it's a bit early for her for such relationships. If at first she just sat in the shade and drew something boring, then she got into it and actively communicated, argued, and did things with a whole bunch of people. So those returning left the apprentice Ranger camp without regrets and with very warm memories. And full of new impressions, of course, which they would share with their friends. Silanira, for one, would love to tell Davilinia about the experience of smoking a very interesting herb that adults would have taken away under any other circumstances. And about what happened after, too; after all, they are friends.
The convoy consists of a pair of magically levitating containers without any horses, escorted by Warriors and Mages from their village. Very convenient, as it prevents Trolls from following the tracks of wagons. And the Rangers themselves prefer to stop where the Trolls can't find them, simply by walking along the road.
All other security is provided by the locals. They also bring food and various products that the Pathfinders need and for which they pay with skins and their own crafts, such as Alchemy. A common occurrence, it helps build relationships between the villagers and what the Elves have instead of an army.
The Elven guards were positioned here and there. Warriors and Mages walk on different sides of the containers to monitor all directions. True, the Mages this time are apprentices, but that's enough against predators. Ultimately, the village is small, there are few specialist Mages, so they have to make do with what they have.
Davilinia could have been with them, but for some reason, she stayed at the Ranger camp. No one knew exactly why, though. And it would be a lie to say that her colleagues weren't interested in where their friend had disappeared to.
In general, things had become difficult with her lately. The young Elf had distanced herself from them significantly after an incident with a Cursed mask. She lost her memory, forgetting everything and everyone, and didn't particularly trust her friends. Then there was an incident where her friends, trying to stir the sorceress up, disguised themselves as Trolls and frankly overdid it. But Silanira, her best friend, wouldn't give up so easily. Who else could she discuss all those little details of their not-very-interesting lives with? Or discuss guys. Or how she felt when she smoked that herb. Not with adults, surely. In short, DaVi needed saving.
However, she wasn't the only one who thought so. Similar questions were being asked by the other members of their small group. After all, there were always too few Elves in the village, so their foursome was simply destined to be friends. They were roughly the same age, people you could talk to without sliding into nonsense like older guys, or frankly childish things if you were talking about the smallest ones. DaVi, despite always being the youngest in their company, is smart enough to talk about all sorts of topics. And she was always good at magic, and let them copy her work. In short—a true friend.
And the fact that she's still a bit small to be interested in more adult topics? She'll grow. Besides, she doesn't compete with Silanira for the attention of guys, and her older brother is strong and handsome. And single, which in their case is important. And the fact that he's older is even good; guys her age are such idiots!
In short, the spirit of camaraderie demanded if not a rescue, then a clarification of what had happened to her. Despite all of the new Davilinia's attempts to abstract herself from them. No, they wouldn't leave her alone that easily! It's good when you have someone to ask.
"Samayl! Hey!"
But it wasn't Silanira who called out to the Elf's brother, but one of the guys. No, Sil would have done it in a more private setting, rather than shouting at the whole convoy. It was impolite, at the very least. It was one thing to annoy DaVi—that was allowed. She's so cute when she's angry! It was another thing to pry into her life like this in front of everyone. Friends don't do that, and Silanira looked disapprovingly at the guy who had spoken up. Rude.
The Elf guard walking in front also turned to Keloen, one of the apprentice Mages. Samayl is Davilinia's older brother, suffering from the same problem as the others—a lack of company of a suitable age. Which is why he hung out with them from time to time. He also helped deliver tinctures, covered for them, and sometimes participated in things himself.
He wasn't a fool; he just wasn't ambitious at all, unlike his sister. That wasn't a bad thing; you just had to be prepared for it. He has a Magical Talent, like everyone in their family, but he simply doesn't want to develop it. Though it's hard to argue there; only the big shots in the capital could hope to catch up to and overtake the little sister. Silanira didn't notice any envy in him; the guy simply accepted the fact that his life was to stand guard at the gates and didn't complain.
In short, it was enough for him that he was the eldest, effectively the informal leader of their group, and the girl in their group who wasn't his sister was interested in him. What else do you need for happiness?
At least DaVi never acted stuck-up. And she didn't distance herself from the group. Before... And she either didn't notice or ignored the couple that had formed in their group. In short, Kenoen is rude, and Samayl could have been asked during a break instead of shouting across the whole street.
"What is it?" the guard asked, looking questioningly at the Mage. "Is it important? In case anyone forgot, we aren't on a stroll."
Everyone pricked up their ears; after all, he loves his sister and wouldn't have left her just like that. And everyone, both older and younger, was extremely curious about what she was doing there and with whom. If she were older and wasn't a Mage, one might think she'd been recruited. Or fell in love and signed up herself—it happens. In any case, the question had been asked; it was time to take matters into her own hands.
"Why didn't you bring your sister back?" Silanira laughed. "Did she find a guy in the camp and decide to linger in his mighty arms?"
"Nonsense!" Ivelian snorted. "Nothing interests DaVi except books. And no one."
The girl smiled, hearing the sincere dissatisfaction in the guy's voice. The little one is just too young, not ready for a relationship—it happens. So he won't get any sympathy; let him wait until she grows up, and then she'll gain courage and interest herself. And Silanira will help her friend with valuable advice, like a true mentor. It's not just DaVi who should help them with magic! And besides, you have to win girls over, give them gifts, not just have them fall into your hands.
Samayl didn't hear all these mental reflections, but he answered the question:
"She has a project with the Rangers. A real one, using Alchemy and golemancy. That's why she stayed behind; they told me they'd bring her home themselves when they're finished. Didn't you know?"
Silanira shook her head. A project? At her age? One so important they kept her at the camp? And not just an assignment from a teacher, but something that attracted the elders? Details were needed!
"Sounds like a joke," Ivelian remarked. "I mean, really, something that interests the elders? A real, adult project?"
Surprise mixed with envy was clearly audible in the guy's voice. A satisfied Samayl nodded.
"That's right. So, you didn't know?"
Silanira sighed, trying not to be offended by her friend. She just forgot them, that's why she's being secretive. And yet the fact that DaVi hadn't shared such interesting information with her friend hurt. It hadn't been like that before. Before she put on the mask and lost her memory. And before they scared her by disguising themselves as Trolls.
Silanira decided for herself—when DaVi returned, she would definitely talk to her. Sincerely. Say everything she thought, listen to the girl's indignation in response. Apologize, do something together. And try to return to the level of openness they had before. She answered Samayl:
"Nope. She talks to us, of course, but not much, and she hardly ever hangs out at all, just sits at home. She still hasn't forgiven us..." the girl sighed. "What's with her, huh? It turned out fine. Well, we spooked her with Trolls, yeah. You can't sulk for that long!"
The Warrior frowned.
"She was scared, badly. You shouldn't have done that. The younger one might be forgiving, but you really scared her with your stunt. That's why she doesn't want to talk to you, because she thinks you idiots will pull something like that again. If I were you, I'd think about what you're doing. Next time."
The last part was said with a threat, and the guys nodded, as if to say, we understand.
"But she'll get over it, don't you think?" Ivelian asked.
Samayl nodded.
"Most likely, yes. Just think, next time. And try to talk to her. Normally, not like usual."
Well, that was good; the people relaxed after that. Silanira decided to distract herself from gloomy thoughts and looked into the forest. After all, she, like a couple of guards, had to watch it. You never know what might be hiding there.
The forests of Quel'Thalas are beautiful but quite dangerous. Mana-sabers—large wild cats—have lived here at all times. Usually, they aren't too aggressive, preferring birds and small animals, but they can attack a lone Elf, especially a child. So they were taught from childhood not to go into the forest alone. One of those will maul you and that's it, the end.
And there are other threats to a young Mage in the forest. Mana Wyrms go wild in some seasons, especially from an excess of Mana; they become hyperactive and very aggressive. Trolls and bandits can wander in here; they will definitely attack a lone person they encounter. Just for fun; they hate Elves.
Bandits... It varies, depending on the mood. They might kill you, or they might not. But you shouldn't get caught by them; the fate of such a prisoner will be unenviable in any case. They might sell you to illegal mines—they are found in these lands, in the south, closer to Alterac. Or the bandit leader will keep you for himself, as a toy. The end of which is always the same—death.
Young elves are told tales of a wanderer who decided to travel through all the lands. He often encountered various trials on his path, and to pass them, he left behind parts of himself and his personality. Of course, this was highly metaphorical, but illustrative. Upon meeting the trolls, he lost his compassion because he saw how envy turned them into animals. Against bandits, he left his honor. It is easy to draw analogies.
Those who fall prey to bandits can, at best, only be found by patrols. There is no slavery in Lordaeron; the Kirin Tor and Silvermoon would have your head without hesitation for such a thing. Thus, it turns out that you are far more likely to be robbed and killed.
They were lucky with their Magister; Master Dawnwalker had never been noticed in any indecencies. It was, of course, a bit curious what he was like, but princes only exist in fairy tales. Alas, one has to look at the men who are there, not the ones one wants.
Lost in her daydreams, the Wizard did not notice movement on her side in the bushes she was supposed to be watching. Fortunately, besides her, two Warriors looking after the children were watching the same direction. They too were anticipating the return home, but after years in the Guard, they were much more accustomed to keeping watch. They noticed the movement, raised their shields, and grew alert. One of them, loud enough to be heard in other parts of the convoy, asked while peering into the thicket:
"What's that there? There's someone in the bushes."
But he did not react to that; instead, he reacted to a flash of movement to his left and a girl's rasp that forced the soldier to turn and look at the young Wizard. A spiked dart pierced her stomach and pinned the Little Elf to the wagon, her robes beginning to stain with blood. She stared at the dart with shocked eyes and wheezed. And then she screamed.
Her cry of pain served as the signal for the trolls to attack. Enemy warriors appeared from all sides, armed with axes, short blades, and spears. Darts and axes flew, wounding and knocking the stunned young Mages off their feet. They were not ready, so they did not immediately cast their Defense. A dangerous mistake. One the trolls did not forgive.
Kenoen tried to shield himself from a throwing axe flying at his face with his hand and effectively lost it. The axe broke and hacked into the limb and struck the Mage's forehead, causing him to slump down, Stunned. A poisoned needle sank into his neck, and the Mage relaxed, losing consciousness.
Ivelian was distracted by his friend's groan and missed the moment a hunting Mana-saber lunged at him from a tree and began to tear at him with its claws. The huge, terrifying cat, snarling right in his face, disoriented the young Mage enough that he too missed the moment a poisonous needle hit his neck. This poison burned away his Mana, causing him to arch his back, screaming and rasping from unbearable pain. Then the large cat, obeying an order, left the delirious victim and lunged at a new target.
Samayl lasted the longest; three troll warriors came out against him. It was hard to say what they were on, but they felt no pain at all, attacking simultaneously and preventing him from blocking the attacks of all three. They surrounded him and knocked him down when a hunting lizard jumped on his back, tore off his helmet, and began to beat him.
Samayl could still see his comrade, wearing a troll mask, stabbing his friends in the back. He saw the trolls binding his friends, silencing them with blows to the kidneys. He tried to scream, to resist, but there were simply too many trolls.
In just two minutes, the resistance of the still-living elves was suppressed. The trolls knew what they were doing. Grinning, with extreme caution and method, they began to search their victims. They needed to find out who would be sacrificed to the Loa and clean up the site so the elves could not save their own. It would take time to safely lead the future victims to the temple.
***
The awakened young elves faced three weeks of a grueling journey. The trolls patched them up; there was a witch doctor in the squad. It wasn't a potion or anything like that. No, it was a foul-smelling, stinking greenish ointment that burned when rough fingers rubbed it into a wound, and it could act like smelling salts. But it worked; the wounds began to close. Just enough for the captives to walk, but not enough for them to resist.
The elves were stripped of everything that could be valuable or magical. They were searched professionally, with expertise. Their shoes and the minimum clothing were returned so the captives could endure the trek without falling ill if possible and without rubbing their tender feet—unaccustomed to long marches—into bloody pulps. They were bound and led through the deep forest in an unknown direction.
Kenoen tried to resist and was beaten, breaking his newly healed arm and ribs, after which some of his wounds were healed again with a warning:
"One more time, and I'll gouge out your eye. And eat it. Understand?"
During the explanation, the troll pulled out an awl and stopped it right in front of the young elf's eye. Naturally, in full view of the others. Ivelian, who flinched, was struck in the kidneys and collapsed to his knees. The others just waited for the outcome, hoping their friend wouldn't be killed.
"Yes," the guy groaned, "yes, I understand."
The troll grinned, showing huge tusks.
"Good. Everyone understand what happens? Whoever doesn't obey will be food for the rest. Understand? Understand. Move."
Everyone understood. And they walked in silence, fearing to anger the trolls and be fed to the Mana-saber or the lizard. Both beasts eyed the prisoners openly. The Mana-saber licked its chops, snarling and pouncing toward them, making the elves recoil—it was playing. The trolls laughed; attempts at resistance or, even more so, attack were punished with immediate beatings. All along the way, they did not forget to demonstrate that they were stronger and what disobedience threatened.
The trolls were particularly amused by the Mages. Teenagers who lacked the physical conditioning of the warriors, tiring, exhausted. They were also injected with poison that burned away Mana and accompanied the action with intense pain. As a result, the Mages were even more battered and filthy than the other prisoners. Pitiful, which greatly amused the trolls. They remembered the wars of old and what their ancient enemies looked like; the opportunity to torment them with impunity... was very pleasant.
The captives endured and hoped for the best. Of course, nothing good awaited the survivors where they were being taken, but what if they were rescued? Maybe the Rangers heard the sounds of battle or were nearby. Maybe they were being followed and would be liberated? Hope made them endure, keep silent, and do as they were told. Hope that it would all end soon. The elves fell asleep with this thought and woke up hissing from the cold and the pain of sleeping on the bare ground. And they hoped, every day and every minute.
No. Help did not come on the first day of the journey, nor on the twentieth. The path was hard, and after a day's march, there was simply no strength left to resist. They walked off the trails, through the thick forest, along a path known only to the trolls. Stumbling over branches and roots, tearing clothes and skin, breaking through thorny bushes they were driven through as if on purpose. Under the prods and mockery of the guards. Those who fell were urged on by the Mana-saber, hissing and threatening to tear them apart with long sharp claws and fangs if they didn't find the strength to move. And they walked, driven by fear.
Until one day, the pyramid of an ancient temple emerged from the forest. Obviously not elven, a stepped stone pyramid with a broken doorway at the top. And many small steps up which they were driven. Their strength was failing, but the trolls seemed to have gone wild, and instead of resting, they continued to drive their captives forward, anticipating what was to come.
"Faster, you'll rest at the top. Move!" they were urged on with blows from the butts of spears.
And the elves walked, almost mindlessly, just wanting it all to stop. There was simply no strength left for anything more. The troll hadn't lied; they were led into a cold stone room, locked in, and left there. Without food, but after the difficult climb, all the young elves wanted was to sleep. There were no questions about whether they would be saved; it was already clear they wouldn't be.
They were indeed given a rest, for almost a full day, and were even given food once, albeit cold. Until some painted troll Priest came for them, wearing a bone mask depicting some kind of cat. A Mana-saber, or something like that. His body was covered in colored tattoos and scars that were not hidden but emphasized by the designs. Taut muscles betrayed a warrior. He smirked, inspecting the captives, and waved to his subordinates. They forced the elves to their feet and drove them up to the very top of the temple.
The room itself was stone, made of ancient, slightly moss-grown, slightly cracked slabs. A cold floor covered with vine mats, upon which trolls sat along the walls. Adults, old and young. Men and women, warriors and witch doctors. Painted, in masks and without. Dressed far more modestly than the elves. Loincloths, chests not always covered. Rarely something resembling a vest. Armor, where present, was often represented by wooden plates; metal was only seen on the Priest and the three warriors standing behind him and a few others. Of the entire squad that had captured them, only the axes and a few spears were metal. Otherwise—wood and bone. Savages, as they are.
It was hard to tell exactly what those gathered were feeling; the huge tusks and masks interfered, but the quiet, melodic howling meant nothing good. An attempt to ask a question only ended in a blow to the teeth and a hiss to shut up.
The elves were seated in a row before the Priest, and he began to speak:
"Jodi se yon bel jo. Muisek Atal Shival'rrr-a!"
The other trolls, both those gathered sitting by the walls and those standing, began to chant quietly, but louder and more rhythmically each time:
"Shival'rrr-a! Shival'rrr-a! Shival'rrr-a! Shival'rrr-a!"
The Priest listened for a while, then made a gesture with a long curved knife he took from the table. The trolls fell silent. The elves, who already understood what was about to happen, shuddered. Because a sound rang out, like someone scratching claws while stepping on stone slabs.
"Is that a Mana-saber?" Kenoen asked quietly, cringing a second later, expecting a blow for speaking.
But there was no blow; the warriors holding them were chanting the strange name along with everyone else. Instead, the Priest pointed a finger at the boy.
"Manja-Loa! Shival'rrr-a!"
The elf was jerked from the floor and, ignoring his resistance, dragged to the altar. He tried to struggle, but in response received only a powerful blow to the stomach and wheezed. The Mage was not prepared for such treatment. His head was splitting, he felt nauseous. The places where he'd been beaten ached; breathing was difficult and painful.
He didn't hear exactly what the troll said next, and he wouldn't have understood a word anyway. The freaks were speaking their savage dialect. Something foul and bitter was poured down his throat. His vision focused. The faces of satisfied trolls. One command from the Priest, and he was placed face down. Right in front of him was a groove leading from the altar. For blood? His clothes were torn off and his back burned so much the elf screamed, while the troll slowly carved signs with a ritual dagger in front of the others, reciting prayers to his Loa.
Sharp pain; the young Mage was grabbed by the hair and lifted; he struggled again, for which Kenoen was slammed face-first against the altar. It seemed he had just bowed to a statue of a massive cat in armor.
His head was jerked back and molten wax was poured into his throat, but he could no longer scream, though he still tried to spit the filth out. The next dose was poured in while his nose was pinched so he couldn't spit it out on the exhale. Some got into his lungs, but he swallowed some, convulsively gasping for air, ignoring the pain. Even breathing was a struggle. His body was stretched out on the cold stone pedestal. A bone knife carved runes into living flesh on his chest; he didn't even have the strength to moan.
The troll was preaching something; the very soul was filled with trickles of something freezing. Movement was impossible; cold locked every muscle. After another call to Shival'rrr-a, he lowered the blade and began to cut, ignoring the victim's flinching, after which, right before his eyes, he extracted a crimson lump. The world plunged into darkness.
***
Focusing his vision again, Kenoen found himself in The Arena. A stone arena covered in sand. Numerous braziers burned above, illuminating the battlefield even at night, creating a bizarre play of shadows. On the walls of The Arena were numerous frescoes, stone drawings showing battles. Winners and losers. And always—a large cat, killing and tearing off heads. And weapon racks standing there. All sorts of weapons, from clubs of various sizes to bizarre blades whose names the Mage did not know. This place was so big. The Arena, a ring, a place for duels. But with whom?
"Grrrrrrrrr. Meat."
Recoiling from the low, growling voice, the Mage noticed a huge cat walking slowly and completely silently across The Arena. Not a Mana-saber, something much larger, striped, encased in thick armor decorated with feathers. The beast towered over the Mage; even from a distance, one could see how huge it was. The cat, realizing it had finally been noticed, snorted.
"Weapon, meat. Take it."
The elf turned; numerous weapon racks stood along the walls. Weapons he didn't know how to use.
"I am not a Warrior."
That was the last thing he said. A second later, a blow of colossal force crushed his chest, and a moment later, jaws clamped shut on the neck of the elf who had fallen onto the sand. The world went dark. He no longer felt what happened next; his world was filled with pain, and his vision blurred, preventing him from perceiving what was happening around him.
Sometimes clarity came. He saw huge stone halls, on the walls of which sentient beings were hung by their hands. Their bodies were covered in terrible wounds inflicted by the beast, and greenish blood... no, energy, flowed from them. Elves, humans, orcs, ogres—the more the Mage looked, the more races he saw. Always—with terrible wounds. Trophies of the huge cat lying on a pedestal in the center of the hall. They were illuminated by occasional torches and braziers. Not many; apparently, the beast saw well in the gloom.
The elves feared this awakening, for the wounds ached as they were; they did not heal. And the cat, seeing the activity of its trophies, might decide to sharpen its claws on them and inflict a few more jagged wounds, making their existence even worse. And the elves feared whether a new awakening would come, or if the world would fade forever. They did not try to speak and generally tried to be as quiet and inconspicuous as possible. Sometimes, when the cat turned its attention to them, they saw contempt in its incredibly intelligent eyes.
But one day, everything changed.
Waking up once again, the elf saw not a beast before him, but a kinsman. A helmet with glass or a crystal hiding the face in the shape of a T. A cloak hiding the shoulders, torn at the level of the arms. Massive yellow-purple plate gauntlets up to the shoulders, from which huge metal claws protruded, sparking with magic. And higher on the arms—strange square mechanisms ending in a cylinder covered with blue runes. Scratched, slightly bent, betraying recent participation in battle. Had the intruder managed to defeat that creature? And come for them?
The Mages were even more encouraged when the intruder cut the shackles on which one of the elven spirits hung. The wounds on his body closed and he said:
"Is this... freedom? You... liberated me?"
He was a man, translucent, and very sad. He didn't look like a warrior, rather someone from the civilians. The warrior, or rather the female warrior in strange armor, nodded.
"Yes, freedom. It is time for you, kinsman. Farewell."
The Shadow smiled and dissolved, leaving this captivity for a better world. After her, a second, a third. A fourth. A fifth, a tenth. Most of them the warrior simply liberated, but some of the shadows of the elves were drawn into purple spheres glowing from within. These the elf girl placed in a bag hanging at her belt. When the female warrior approached Kenoen, she had a similar sphere in her hands.
"Well, hello."
The Mage tried to focus; the voice seemed strangely familiar to him. But no matter how hard he tried, his thoughts were confused. He couldn't even say for sure who he was, let alone remember the one standing before him. Even if they had been acquainted before. No, something stirred timidly in his memory at the voice, but nothing more.
"Who... are you?" the spirit managed to howl.
The female warrior laughed, pleased with herself.
"I'll be rich. I'll tell you later. Sleep."
And then Kenoen was drawn into the sphere and the world became impenetrable darkness again.
Another ghost, whom the female warrior was about to free from his bonds, looked up, peering into the helmet's visor. He recognized her.
"DaVi? Is that you?"
The elf girl's hand trembled. It really was him. Her Blood brother. Samayl. But quickly pulling herself together, she nodded.
"It's me, brother. It's me. The tiger is defeated; I'm taking you home. Wait a little; soon we'll be home."
The elf looked bad. He was a warrior and had clearly resisted in The Arena. And Shirvalla had taken it out on him for that attempt. A torn neck and chest, damaged, broken arms, remaining even on the ghost. How could this body hang there and remain conscious? Apparently, it was because he was already dead. For the female warrior, all these shadows had different degrees of transparency; all bore terrible wounds. This one... was moderately transparent. But she wouldn't leave her brother here in any case.
"Home..." the brother said quietly, "a good word, home. DaVi, what do you think..."
But the elf girl interrupted him, glancing at the exit as if fearing the tiger's return.
"No time, brother, our rescue is in full swing. There's a bunch of very angry trolls outside, and if we don't hurry, there will be problems. Sorry, but later."
The elf smiled and said quietly:
"You've grown so much... Of course, you're right. First, let's get to a safe place."
The ghost was quietly drawn into the soul stone prepared for him. The female warrior, watching through her helmet as her brother's spirit was drawn into the soul stone, nodded to herself, put the stone in her bag, and moved on. She wasn't finished yet.
***
The next awakening of the entire group was different. There was no pain, no terrible wounds that caused suffering not to the body—which was gone—but to the soul, constantly leaking greenish light in which you gradually lose yourself.
No, the ghosts of the elves, waking up with a start, felt unusually clear and whole. Had they been alive, one could even say rested. But they were not alive, so they simply felt an unusual lightness and clarity of perception. Their memory was with them, though it returned gradually. A heady feeling of freedom and peace, so familiar, for the first time in a long while. But what was happening and where had they ended up?
"Where are we?"
Silanira looked around. It was a strange circular stone room, about fifteen meters in diameter. Dark, lit by candles around the perimeter set in sconces on the walls, leaving most of the hall in semi-darkness at best. In such conditions, various magical paraphernalia glowed softly and mysteriously, standing out clearly against the background. A wooden floor on which magical circles were inscribed.
The sorceress peered into the gloom; fortunately, a ghost's vision allows one to see much better in the dark, as if highlighting the outlines of objects. The magical circles were unfamiliar, as were the runes, but what they were drawn with... Dried blood. She had read about such things.
"A Biotics user's hall," Silanira thought. Her joy vanished, giving way to fear, fueled by panic-stricken thoughts. Ideas of what a malicious Wizard could do with spirits seemed each more terrifying than the last.
"Um, guys!" the dead sorceress called out, "it seems we've fallen into the hands of a real Wizard. The circles are drawn in blood."
She had heard fairy tales about dark mages performing dark rituals. Magisters catch and exile or kill such people. Or a Necromancer, since he decided to collect souls. Real Wizards lured naive and foolish victims into their dark dens with lies, promises, and candy. And then they performed dark rituals on the captives; the stories about them were each more horrific than the last. Sacrifices, turning them into puppets, chimeras. These stories seemed creepy and pleasantly bracing when told at night by a campfire in good company, but being in the lair of such a Wizard was not fun at all!
Memories returned, and the kind savior in the beast's lair became a sharp and sudden threat, perhaps even greater than that troll monster. An icy terror gripped the girl.
The guys immediately began to study the seals themselves, but they didn't understand much more. After all, DaVi had always been the best at magic, and she was precisely the one not here. Except Samayl remained suspiciously calm, but the boys, beginning to feel afraid, didn't notice.
"Indeed, blood," Ivelian concluded. "I knew we weren't saved for nothing..."
"W-w-what d-do you mean?" the dead girl stammered.
Ivelian also looked toward his friend, trying to hide his fear. He replied:
"I heard Biotics users use souls as an energy source. Or feed them to Demons. Perhaps we'll be given to a Demon as payment. Maybe the Wizard wants to make a deal, and the Demon demanded elven souls. That's why we were liberated—to show that we are indeed elves."
The fear only grew thicker; Ivelian flew back, hitting the barrier and hissing in pain. Silanira frantically tried to find a way out, but no solution came. Freedom now seemed even further away than in the clutches of the trolls. She didn't know what the Demon would do to them, but she suspected it would devour them.
"Just calm down!" Samayl demanded. "Just wait a bit; you'll understand everything soon."
Naturally, they didn't listen to him.
"No way!" the girl's ghost protested. "I don't want to be eaten! Let me out! Let me out!"
Silanira jerked, trying to move, but hit the edge of the magical circle, which had created a barrier in the shape of a vertical cylinder. Sparks ran around the circle from the impact. The spirit was burned and fell on her ghostly bottom, discovering a faded purple stone lying in the center of the magical circle. This calmed the dead girl a little, but she still decided to try to escape, as the fear hadn't gone anywhere.
The ghost rose again and struck the barrier with her fist, which burned her again. Wounds remained on her hand like those inflicted by that troll creature, leaking something green. She became afraid, very afraid. She had just been liberated; that nightmare in the trolls' lair had just ended! But here she was, defenseless again, trapped by a Wizard with murky intentions. And the girl did the only thing she could. She screamed.
"Let me out! LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT!!!"
From the spirit's last scream, a magical wave spread in all directions. The barrier sparked with purple energy, making the stunned elf girl freeze in surprise and delight. Was that her? Could she break free? She could use magic; she wasn't weaponless!
"Wow... Okay, one more time! Let me out!" She froze. "Wait, why didn't it work? Let me out! Um... LET ME OUT! Hmm, it's not working."
The girl frantically tried to understand what she had done wrong, why the magic hadn't worked this time. Obviously, even in this form, magic was available to her. Perhaps it was about emotions? She had never cast spells like that, but she had heard that animals possessing magic do it instinctively. In a moment of danger or something like that, the magic just triggers. Perhaps she should try that too. After all, she was a spirit now, and the usual rules clearly didn't apply here.
Suddenly, the dead elf girl was distracted from her escape plan and breaking the barrier by a cry.
"Stop, please," hearing Samayl's familiar voice, she froze and looked around, "no need to break the furniture. It's not as bad as it seems. Just stop, and you'll understand."
Silanira looked around. In other circles, the ghosts of her friends were agitated. In the scraps of clothing they wore when they were sacrificed. Except now without wounds. They too were testing the barrier's strength but jerking their hands back, hissing in pain. Silanira looked at the man again.
Stop? One step away from long-awaited freedom? Was he joking? After everything they'd been through! Someone clearly lacked initiative and a bit of ambition. She was succeeding; it was definitely not the time to stop.
"I almost broke free!" Silanira reported happily. "Now, one more time and..."
"Don't," Samayl asked again, "we won't be harmed. We've slept for a long time. Much... has changed. Now she will come and explain everything to us."
The elf girl froze, considering her friend's words. It seemed he knew something. But what? And who was this "she"? The Wizard who had arranged all this?
"How do you know?" Ivelian's ghost asked. "So far, Silanira is saying and doing sensible things. Captivity under a Biotics user is not something I want to experience after escaping the trolls. Even like this."
Silanira smiled unexpectedly warmly.
"My sister woke me up before you. We talked; she told me a lot, explained things. Two years have passed; much has changed, my friends. DaVi has grown up. She will help us; just wait a bit."
Silanira gasped, struck by a sudden realization. The guys were a bit slower on the uptake.
"Sister... wait, this whole place, these circles, this... DaVi did this?"
Ivelian asked skeptically:
"You're not trying to say that DaVi, in these... two years? Became a Biotics user, are you? No offense, Samayl, but that sounds like nonsense."
Suddenly Silanira shrieked, causing the magical strike formed by her fear to make the barrier shudder again. But, by all appearances, it didn't break through, as the witch standing on the other side didn't even flinch.
And standing there was an elf girl. In a blue knee-length dress, just like adult sorceresses, in high boots. With blue skin and eyes glowing with a rich blue light, darker than usual for High Elves. The tips of her hair and fingers shimmered with a blue-purple light, like a sky full of stars. A frightening but beautiful sight. Had she seen the elf girl from a greater distance, she might not have recognized her. And the witch was young; Silanira could tell for certain that the sorceress was no older than herself.
But still, the height, hair color, and face were strikingly familiar. Remembering Samayl's words, a realization pierced the spirits. It couldn't be...
"D-DaVi? It can't be..." Kenoen muttered in surprise.
The sorceress, smirking, bowed. It seemed the semi-darkness didn't hinder her any more than it did the ghosts. However, she did it with such a mocking face that it was hard to miss. She was having fun.
"Yep, it's me. Hi, guys. So we meet at last. Two years have passed. Did you miss me?"
Everyone except Samayl stared at her in shock. This—was DaVi? This witch here? With cold eyes glowing with an alien, dangerous magic from which the ghosts felt a strange threat and wariness. Who had inscribed clearly dark-magic circles on the floor with blood, bringing their souls back with a dark ritual... DaVi? Who had fought the monster and placed their souls in a stone, as Biotics users do? And who was sitting in some terrifying dungeon.
It couldn't be. No. She couldn't have!
"I don't believe it..." Ivelian muttered, "I don't believe it. It can't be her! DaVi isn't like that!"
And Silanira, and Kenoen too, were in complete agreement with this. Yes, their friend had been strange, but she wouldn't start studying dark sorcery. Why, she simply wouldn't be allowed; one is punished for such things! It's a lie, all a lie! The witch is only pretending to be DaVi, playing on their feelings so the spirits will voluntarily participate in her dark, undoubtedly very dark sorcery!
Samayl's ghost only sighed, smiling, and addressed this... this witch!
"They still haven't recognized you," the warrior's spirit said, sadly spreading his hands and almost burning himself on the magical circle.
The witch snorted at this, showing not the slightest surprise.
"Well, their reaction is better than yours was, so look who's talking, brother. Thanks for calming them down a bit, by the way. You, you parasite, broke my spell and trashed my lab. I had to move the summoning hall here and spend an extra week preparing. I didn't expect I'd need a ritual hall, outfitted according to all the rules of Biotics users, so soon, brother. Good thing the Teacher helped and the Kirin Tor isn't breathing down my neck."
Samayl's ghost spread his hands again, expressing guilt toward the witch. Silanira, meanwhile, was frantically trying to somehow inconspicuously pick at or break the barrier. Kenoen and Ivelian were too, for that matter. The witch didn't react to their attempts at all, only smiled even wider.
"I already apologized," Samayl sighed, reminding her.
The witch nodded.
"I'm not angry. Besides, I finished the Dolls. It's just funny that you of all people are talking about being calm, brother."
At this, Ivelian couldn't take it anymore. The way their friend was talking to this woman, even mentioning some clearly dark-magic Dolls! Was he under control? Why was he so calm?
"How can you even believe this witch? She looks like her, but this—is not DaVi! I'm sure it's a fake! Maybe from the trolls, or some Wizards. It can't be her! Don't give in, man! Resist!"
The witch snorted.
"I still don't like you, Ivelian. And I'm not going to become your girlfriend. And anyway, if I were a witch, I would have burned you with magic for that attitude already. Use your brains and kindly shut up until I've done so."
Everyone froze. That... was not quite the answer they expected.
"Huh?" the guy asked in surprise, "girlfriend?"
The witch, pleased with the effect, waved her glowing hands. In the semi-darkness of the room, her fingertips, hair, and eyes looked even more eerie than they should. As if she were the malicious ghost here, scaring children.
"You heard me. Or did you think I didn't realize what you wanted from me? I'm not a fool, Ivelian. You're just not interesting to me as a guy. That's all. Now wait a bit; I'm going to start the ritual. You're not ready to listen to me anyway. I've wasted a ton of time on this as it is; Lady Jaina will be displeased."
The protests of the ghost, rejected in his best feelings, were ignored. As were the other spirits who tried to discuss what they'd heard or demand an explanation of what the ritual was even for. Only Samayl waited calmly for the outcome, clearly knowing what would happen next. The witch left the room through the only door and returned with a cart, on which she was transporting a large, life-sized mechanical Doll. The cart was as if specially made long enough to carry bodies on it.
And at that thought, the spirits felt a bit of a chill. This witch didn't inspire confidence at all. She pointed to the Doll and said with sincere pride, even arrogance:
"Well, what do you think, brother? I had to work very hard to create him. My masterpiece."
Samayl approached the edge of the circle with curiosity, and the witch rolled the cart closer, allowing them to examine the figure lying on it.
Silanira also began to inspect the Doll lying on the cart, as it was clearly something important. Nearly two meters tall. A large, larger than usual, round head with blonde, golden artificial hair. Instead of eyes—a black plate resembling glasses. The mouth was clearly doll-like, on hinges and overlapping plates, but with sharp triangular teeth. The body had correct male proportions and consisted of a white material. On the fingers, elbows, and knees were clearly visible joints. The arm transitioned into the hand through a wide "sleeve" hiding the joint, around which a black-and-yellow line was drawn on the white material. The legs also looked as if the Doll were wearing trousers with a wide foot on hinges.
Silanira specifically noticed a segmented tail with a thickening at the end. A needle? And around the needle was something resembling a drum mechanism, though she couldn't see it clearly through the casing. The tail was long, clearly flexible, two or even three meters in length. And yet the spirit, and her friends, genuinely didn't understand what it was or why it was here. She had imagined dolls for rituals a bit differently. This was like a human- or elf-like golem, more reminiscent of a very large children's toy. Except for the teeth and the spike on the tail, of course.
"Is this… a doll?" Kenoen asked, finally voicing the question that had been tormenting them, "Why is it here? For some dark ritual?"
The witch… fine, let it be DaVi, laughed.
"Well, you don't want to listen to the 'evil dark witch.' So don't pay it any mind. It's not meant for you anyway. Well, brother? Your assessment?"
Samayl's Shadow sighed.
"Enough, DaVi, you won't win their trust this way regardless. And this doll? It is my new body. Which my sister crafted for me. And, if you wish, you shall receive your own."
"But the evil and scary witch isn't forcing you, of course," Davilinia interjected immediately, "if you refuse, it'll be less work for me."
The elf's spirit immediately caught the key point. A new body, even if it was a doll's. Freedom? An end to everything they had endured? A chance to… live, even like this? This thought made the spirit seriously consider the answer.
"DaVi, you want to give us bodies?"
The Wizard laughed at that.
"Not a witch anymore?"
Silanira immediately feigned being offended in her finest feelings.
"How could you even think that?" Silanira immediately changed her tone, "That your best friend would suspect you of something unseemly? Never in my life, I've always stood by you! I even came to apologize myself," she paused for a second, "well, for the trolls. Turned out they're total shit. Forgive me. And for the 'witch' thing too, though it was just a joke. I never doubted you for a single second."
Davilinia nodded, but Ivelian clearly wasn't satisfied.
"Wait! Am I the only one who doesn't understand what's going on at all? Samayl, you say two years have passed. DaVi looks like a literal witch. We're ghosts, and they clearly want to house us in these mechanical bodies. I refuse to decide anything until I hear the details!"
She thought for a moment and nodded again.
"Fine, if you're ready to listen."
"We're ready," the guys confirmed, glancing at each other.
The Wizard sighed, sitting on the edge of the gurney.
"Then here is my story…"
She told it. She told how she returned from the camp and found out they had all vanished. About how she became an apprentice to a Magister after the troll attack on the village. How she built a flying machine. About the Undead and the war against them. About the destruction of Silvermoon and what came after.
They didn't believe it; Silvermoon couldn't have burned. It was unthinkable that such a thing could happen. Fantasy, a fairy tale, nonsense! It couldn't be because it simply couldn't be! Magic protected them!
"That simply cannot be!" Kenoen countered, "Because it can't! You're talking nonsense! Things like that don't happen!"
Despair seeped through the guy's words; he wasn't ready to accept what he had heard. Davilinia shrugged.
"I'm not forcing you to believe. Ultimately, there are records, documents. Of course, you can't read them now, but…" she looked pointedly at her doll of a Biotics user. Or witch, "Samayl has already given his consent. You—decide for yourselves."
They agreed. DaVi swore before everyone—if they didn't like it, she would perform rituals to release their souls to where they were meant to go. Or she would help maintain their new bodies. Most of the group, except for Ivelian, didn't even think about refusing; they wanted to live too badly. Though questions arose, DaVi—and they were becoming increasingly convinced it was indeed their friend—gave answers easily. Honest, brutal, even frightening answers, but answers nonetheless. She explained the design of her doll.
"Why a doll, like a big toy? Why not something more… elf-like?"
DaVi replied:
"The uncanny valley effect. That's when something looks similar to a living being, but you look closer and see flaws. For example, it moves wrong, lacks the fine motor skills characteristic of the living, doesn't breathe. Like Undead or something like that. That's why I rejected the usual 'military' design and chose a large children's doll. Different enough from the living so that questions don't arise. Not scary enough so that children don't run away at the mere sight of you. You don't want to sit here, do you? You'll want to go out into the city. Am I right?"
The argument was quite valid. After all, the city was above them, and once they had a body, no one would truly want to sit in the darkness of the dungeons forever. So a doll… was an acceptable solution. Especially since:
"It's easier to fit weapons into a more voluminous body."
In fact, DaVi told them a lot about her creation. She showed them the gloves, the "contact pair," as many of the solutions used in them she had applied to the dolls as well. Actually, almost all the solutions in the doll had been tested on her gloves. The Wizard clearly loved her new creation; she spoke of it with unconcealed pleasure and pride. And the presence of grateful listeners to whom she could describe every detail of the mechanism turned the usually quiet girl into a chatterbox.
"The hardest part was cramming a power source into the doll. Originally, it could have been a mechanism… But a golem fits better. A metal golem frame that will follow the 'host's' orders. The only thing is, such a doll doesn't generate Mana, it only consumes it. And to solve this problem, I used bottomless boxes as batteries. You know, like bags."
Samayl cut in.
"And to fit in more weapons."
The Wizard nodded, pleased.
"And that too, yes, brother."
As it turned out, there were weapons everywhere except for the doll's chest. The soul stone and batteries were located in the chest. The wrist could shift so that a short sword, harpoon, or claws could extend from the "sleeve." Samayl asked for a standard blade anyway, because a sword is needed to increase strike range among other things. But it was still convenient.
Silanira and Kenoen, on the contrary, thought about refusing the weapons.
"DaVi, don't take this the wrong way, we're very grateful to you, but…"
The Wizard finished for them.
"You don't want to get into a fight."
Silanira nodded.
"Yes, don't be offended. You're a great Warrior, but we… what happened is enough for me for my entire new life. And I'd like to stay in the city, among sentient beings. Where no one will try to kill me."
Kenoen agreed with her.
"Don't think we just want new bodies, no! We'll work it off. It's just… I don't know how yet."
Samayl remained silent, as did Ivelian. Davilinia frowned but didn't argue. She simply continued her story about the body's capabilities with less enthusiasm.
"There's also a drum with firearms and automatic grenade launchers in the arms. For Mages—with crystals. A dagger and a small rocket engine, pulse-type, are built into the feet. On the back are folded additional limbs, like wings, allowing you to strike with them like spikes and glide in a limited capacity."
The former Mages were interested in the magic crystal, of course. And the wings.
"You can use magic," DaVi explained, "but it's not the best solution. You don't recover Mana, you only spend it. Roughly speaking, two batteries give your bodies a hundred years of active operation. A simple Fireball takes several hours off that term. Stronger magic—days, months, or even years. If the Mana runs out, the body will freeze like a statue."
Kenoen clarified:
"So, only recharging the body in the rear, right? Replacing those batteries of yours?"
The Wizard smirked. An unpleasant smirk. She put on one of the gloves, and claws partially covered in crystal extended from it. Silanira and Kenoen remembered them from when Davilinia had freed them from captivity.
"What do you take me for? Of course not. The claws and teeth of your dolls can absorb Mana. You take a 'bite' or drive the claws in, and you suck. From an enemy, from objects. Mana potions don't work on the doll, but Mana crystals certainly do. Take one, toss it in your mouth, and gnaw. The replenishment is weaker than a full battery replacement, but it's not all that bad. The crystals are tasty; you'll probably like them too. You can chew them almost constantly."
By the way, the dolls can fly too. Or rather, not fly, but jump far. A mass-reduction weave, like on the Pepelats, pulse engines, a harpoon. As a result, you can move from wall to wall with big jumps and long lunges. And if you overshoot—turn off the weave and just fall. The doll is sturdy; it can withstand a lot.
It was hard to imagine how much effort DaVi had killed to assemble this. Just as it was hard to imagine how much time it would take to pay off these new bodies.
"A project of months. I started making them even before I pulled you out. In my spare time. I thought, made, and remade. It was more of an idea that only recently became a full-fledged project. I didn't even know if you'd agree."
They agreed. Even after hearing that they would cover the cost of the bodies in an average of five hundred and ten years. Given the complexity of the project… they could believe it.
***
The ritual took several hours for each of them, but in the end, they had bodies. New bodies. Real, mechanical bodies. Their sensitivity was weak, as if your fingers were frozen and you were trying to feel something with them. But Davilinia, mentioning her gloves which she almost never took off, said that this would pass.
That turned out not to be the only problem, of course. The dolls were heavy, the center of gravity was unusually high, higher than it should be. Then there was the tail—long, flexible, and strong. Knocking over every small object in its path with every turn. Or not so small objects. This was a general problem with the new bodies; they were uncommonly strong, reinforced with magic, and had weak sensitivity. Because of this, any careless movement led to a disaster. And the body carried a heap of weapons that would activate with a careless motion. Punching through a door with claws when you're just trying to grab the handle was normal.
The resurrected eventually even asked Davilinia to remove some of the weapons for now, until they got used to the new bodies. To avoid accidental harm. Davilinia refused to remove the tail, but she removed the claws and blades without issue.
The Wizard was with them the whole time. To talk, help with advice, give tips. To support them. Kenoen's question spoiled the mood slightly:
"But why strain yourself so much? Is it really that important to you? I remember you saying you didn't even remember us, so you weren't sure how to feel about us. What changed?"
The Wizard answered directly then.
"I need comrades. Friends, subordinates. I want to gain more—my workshop, trade, production. A security force if we're going to trade with Goblins. And I'd like you to help me."
Such an overtly mercenary approach upset them, but not much. After all, of the four of them, only Samain and Silanira ultimately decided to become combatants. Kenoen, and after some discussion, Ivelian, asked for some kind of civilian work. It was all the more surprising that Davilinia didn't try to change their minds, simply agreeing with their choice.
This became the point where Silanira's conscience pricked her, and she agreed to work with her friend as a combatant. Even if she had to learn to fight. Still, the dead elf felt guilty for the problems she had caused her friend and how much effort she had spent to save them.
"I'll go with you, Commander. But I still want to visit the city often."
The somber Davilinia brightened and allowed herself to be hugged.
"Thank you."
"Thank you," the former Wizard countered, "I can't abandon my best friend after everything that binds us. And because I literally owe you my life, that too."
Samain intervened here.
"Is it so bad to receive help if the helper also gets their due in the end?"
It was hard to argue with this resurrected one; demanding that someone who helps voluntarily should also do it selflessly would be foolish. These bodies, as they quickly realized, were sturdy, strong, multifunctional, and allowed them to live, albeit partially. To live again after everything they had endured. To choose their own path. And the amount of weapons—to tear apart any jerk who doubted them.
Everyone got dolls. They were humanoid, made of white material, tailed, and had a similar set of weapons, though the girl got a more feminine figure, and the guys got one like Samayl's. Nothing to complain about; they changed their wigs, chose outfits. And a week later, they were ready to leave the basement for the first time since their resurrection.
To see the world with their own eyes. To test their new life. Not as an elf, but as an immortal doll.
***
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