"How many years has it been since you last came here?" Jóarnaliel asked, standing in the small boat.
"The last time was with my mother," Ishara replied, watching the cave as the little boat glided through the place. From the sides of the cavern, the sound of falling water joined the path the two followed.
What interested the young elf the most were the shapes that appeared on the stones as the water flowed over them.
"We've arrived." The small boat stopped at the edge. Before them lay a large circular space of white stones. The ground was dark earth, and the energy of the elves — harphesh — was strong there. It filled their lungs with vitality.
"I spent most of my life here, in meditation and study." The old elf placed his hand on a stone. A greenish-yellow aura took shape, and several miniature figures of elves appeared in the air, fighting against creatures of chaos — spirits in the forms of animals, deformed humans, and beings born from a disturbed mind.
"This…" Ishara felt her brown skin prickle and her pointed ears tremble. This was part of the ancestral war, from the time when the Goddess of Life was still with the elves. When the elves were numerous and powerful.
"And here is one of Baræshadã's creations…" Jóarnaliel ran his hand over another stone. Then it appeared: great golden cities, gigantic oases, trees, and power. An elven society was emerging, and from the sky came a four-legged winged being, completely scaly and gray.
"Our ancestors fought against him and his brothers many times," the old elf explained, looking at Ishara. "But he always returned and destroyed part of our home. His scaly skin and gray fire burned as if the sun itself gave him power. We called him Scales of War in the ancient tongue: Krarvathar."
"Now this ancient place is nothing more than clouds of sand," the old elf concluded.
Ishara then understood: that dragon was the same one her father was fighting now. But changed, transformed into something whose reason no one understood. Suddenly, the harphesh form vanished, and the old elf coughed weakly.
"Sir," Ishara said, helping him to his feet.
"We have little time. After we use the waters of the oasis to close the other fissures — because of Krarvathar's presence, the absence of our Mother, and…" the old elf looked at the young woman, "the breaking of the alliance between us and the humans…" He straightened his posture and placed his hand on Ishara's shoulder.
"We must take control of the humans. The freedom given to the first pharaoh has proven to be a long-term mistake. They need order. Not only them, but all the other peoples of the East." He sighed, as if it pained him to say it. "That is why we need to kill the prince. That is why you need to kill him — for the greater good."
Ishara nodded. She understood perfectly, even if she didn't want to admit it. Setarek was not to blame for what his father and the priestess had done. But according to Bialieash, the young prince was strange in his very essence. And Jóarnaliel claimed that he would not accept subservience after they killed Uras. Ishara was an elf, and she had been raised for this: to end the creatures of chaos and anyone who allied with them. She knew that.
"Very well. I will do it. I am an elf. I will do what is best for us and for the world," she said with determination, but she omitted the part where she would try everything to convince Setarek. She knew he would understand. Ishara trusted that the prince would agree and that she would not need to kill him. "I will kill him," she affirmed at last.
"Good. Very good. Bialieash is preparing. Fiaeliosh and his hermits are at the fissure with your aunt and the others. Viaeeshs has appeared and will go with us." The old elf adjusted his tunic. The light coming from the opening above dimly illuminated the chamber. "We will leave shortly. We will go as fast as we can. We will arrive before sunrise, and when we are done, a new day will dawn in Namar-Khep."