"Oberon, are you even listening?"

  The sharpness in Ophelia Raindancer's voice cut through the mellow hum of the market. Her silver eyes, usually pools of tranquil moonlight, now shimmered with barely restrained vexation.

  "You cannot hope to grasp the arcane arts with such a fractured understanding of magic."

  "I have been listening, Master," Oberon replied with a sigh, his tone tinged with theatrical weariness. "But forgive me if I find it rather difficult to concentrate when you're delivering a lecture while licking an ice cream cone. There's still... ah, a dab of cream on your lip, right there."

  Ophelia paused, blinked, then dabbed hastily at her mouth with a silken handkerchief. Her cheeks flushed rose-petal pink as she murmured, "How embarrassing..."

  With an exaggerated sigh of self-reproach, she glanced down at the nearly-melted cone in her hand and raised her free one in a makeshift gesture of penance.

  "Oh Sacred Darkness Lumi, and Goddess Metrina, Saint of Serenity—may such indignities never befall me again."

  But the gods, it seemed, had a wry sense of humour.

  A passing guard, broad-shouldered and brutish, shoved past her without the courtesy of a glance, his sneer filled with hatred. "Watch your step! Are you blind or just brainless? Keep your eyes open, wood-lover!"

  To add insult to injury, he leered, adjusting his trousers crudely before striding on.

  Oberon stiffened. The insult was fire to kindling.

  "A touch of manners might elevate you, you barnyard miscreation!" he snapped, his voice ringing clear.

  Ophelia, ever the mediator, offered a conciliatory smile. "Apologies. It was I who blocked your path."

  The guard scoffed. "Gracious words from a sun elf? Astonishing." His mocking laughter echoed as he disappeared into the crowd, trailed by snickers.

  But the female guard who had accompanied him lingered, concern flickering across her brow. "Wait... wasn't that Lord Oberon? Should we be worried about—"

  "Bah," the man dismissed. "He's just a young noble with pointed ears and a wounded ego. Doubt he even remembers our faces."

  Oberon seethed.

  "Why did you stop me?" he muttered, gaze fixed on the guard's retreating form. "You're a sun elf—these worms aren't worthy of your breath."

  Autumn's fingers had begun painting the trees in shades of flame, and the air bit ever so slightly with the promise of winter. Oberon pulled his cloak tighter.

  "I wish I were like you," he said bitterly. "Not this—this half-shaped thing. I'm human in all the ways that matter. And none of the ways that don't."

  The words clung to the air like frost, and for a moment, Ophelia said nothing.

  They passed beneath a garland of drying herbs hung above a fruit stall. A wooden sign swung lazily in the breeze: Autumn Harvest – Nature's Bounty for Honest Folk.

  A toothless farmer and a plump merchant exchanged goods in cheerful bartering tones.

  "Two bushels for your bundle of wool," the merchant declared.

  "A fair trade!" the farmer grinned, handing her the fruit.

  It was mundane, unmagical—and yet to Ophelia, oddly comforting.

  She licked the last of her ice cream, scanning the stalls absently for something sweeter. Her mind often drifted like that—though Oberon had long since grown used to her meandering thoughts.

  Suddenly, his eyes lit with boyish excitement.

  "Master!" he whispered urgently, tugging at her robe. "Look—over there. The bard! Illyria Lunarsong! The moon-singer herself!"

  His voice trembled with wonder as he pointed towards a small clearing where a moon elf adjusted her silver lute. Her hair shimmered like starlight; her robes clung to her in artful layers of violet silk. She radiated charm and mystery in equal measure.

  Illyria caught his gaze—and winked. She traced two fingers across her lips and blew a kiss.

  Oberon's ears went pink.

  Ophelia thwacked him lightly with her holy tome.

  "You naughty child," she chided, though a smirk betrayed her amusement. "Well... perhaps there is a lesson to be found in such performances. One must always remain open to... alternative methods of communication."

  A hush fell over the crowd. Then—music.

  Illyria's voice rose like mist on a lake, ethereal and cold. The melody coiled around the crowd, spellbinding them, each word a thread in a tapestry of prophecy and ruin.

  In harvest's final, flickering light,

  Sacred Darkness crowns the night!

  Nae, O mighty, hear our cry—

  Seal our fate as stars collide!

  O Sathiel, blade of cursed flame,

  Strike the heavens, damn their name!

  Sentinel bold, your wrath return,

  Let autumn blaze, let towers burn!

  Crush the strong, consume the meek,

  From chaos born, the strength we seek!

  The night grows heavy, sharp and cold—

  The gods shall reign, as was foretold!

  Tiamat, wyrm of ceaseless wrath,

  Carve your ruin down every path!

  Beneath your wings, the old world dies,

  As darkness wakes and tyrants cry!

  O Warrior, lone and forged by strife,

  Battle-born, unbound by life!

  To chaos sworn, our banners rise—

  We strike as wolves beneath black skies!

  Crush the strong, consume the weak,

  Harvest power, havoc seek!

  Through fire and ash, through storm and snow,

  The gods of chaos overthrow!

  Lucidia, flame of twilight's grace,

  Guide us through this shadowed place.

  To heaven or hell, our hearts ignite—

  Lead us to war, or into light.

  Eloharis, song beyond the veil,

  Lift our souls where light grows pale.

  Beneath the moon's unblinking stare,

  We stand unbowed, beyond despair.

  Akashirae, crimson bane,

  Let rivers run with battle's stain.

  No mercy now, no solemn course—

  Let blood and ruin be our force!

  Ouroboros! Dragon King supreme!

  Crowned in flame, devour the dream!

  In autumn's breath, the old world ends—

  Darkness gathers, fate descends!

  The final notes faded into silence. Then, thunderous applause erupted. Cheers rose from the crowd, mixing with the scent of cinnamon and roasting chestnuts.

  "More!" they cried. "Sing the Reckoning! Do your usual thing!"

  The crowd continued to roar in delight as Illyria, moon elf and muse of twilight ballads, let her mischievous grin bloom. Her silver eyes glittered like frost beneath starlight.

  "Very well, my dear friends!" she cried, voice lilting like wind-chimes in a summer gale.

  With a twirl that sent her silken skirts flaring like petals caught in a breeze, she launched into a dance as fluid as moonlight upon water. Her bare feet traced ancient sigils into the cobblestones, her every motion a seductive spell woven in rhythm. Gasps rippled through the crowd, applause swelling like a tide. Laughter, cheers, whistles—the market square had become her stage.

  Oberon, eyes wide, leaned toward his absent-minded mentor. "Master, can all elves dance like that?"

  But his words found no reply.

  His heart skipped a beat.

  "...Master?"

  Ophelia was gone.

  Oberon spun in place, his breath catching in his throat. The crowd surged around him—faces blurring, colours smearing. A bead of panic welled up inside him.

  "Master Ophelia!" he called, pushing through the throng. "Where are you?!"

  A forge-stained dwarf, hair braided with soot and iron filings, looked up from polishing a short sword. "Oi, lad," he rumbled, noticing the panic in the young noble's face. He jabbed a thumb toward a nearby vendor. "That the lady you're after? She's got the look of a moon-touched priestess. Bit of a beauty, though I've never been good at guessing an elf's age... Could be forty. Or four hundred."

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  Following his gesture, Oberon spotted her—radiant as ever—chatting politely at the counter of an ice cream parlour, two decadently adorned cones in her delicate hands. He exhaled in relief.

  "Thanks, old man!" Oberon called out, flipping a gold coin in the dwarf's direction as he sprinted away.

  The coin landed neatly in the dwarf's palm. His face brightened—until it soured.

  "Old? Hmph. Seventy-three years young, thank you very much," he grumbled, tucking the coin into his belt pouch.

  "Oberon!" Ophelia called, waving cheerily as her protégé approached. "You really must stop running off every time I go searching for dessert!"

  Oberon slowed his pace, panting lightly, his expression torn between exasperation and affection. "You vanished again. Let me guess—you saw someone with one of those ridiculous cones and just had to investigate."

  She gave him a sheepish smile. One of the cones was already dripping, caramel trickling onto the stone.

  "I would've paid, you know," he continued, eyeing the gourmet treats with faint envy. "Word is, the cathedral's been rather stingy. All ceremony, no coin."

  "I manage," she said with a wink, carefully shifting the cones to one hand as she produced a small napkin.

  At that moment, a small grey cat appeared, drawn by the scent of sugar and cream. It lapped at the puddle of ice cream pooled at her feet. Oberon bent down, gently lifting the feline.

  "Poor thing," he murmured. "You shouldn't eat that, little one..."

  Ophelia muttered a soft healing spell, her voice like a hymn in the wind. Pale light danced across her fingertips as she brushed them against the cat's fur.

  A young woman rushed over—fox ears twitching with concern. "Mochi! Oh thank goodness. Thank you so much!"

  Oberon returned the cat to her arms, and she bowed gratefully before retreating to a nearby bench, where two children devoured fruit pies with sticky fingers.

  Ophelia watched them with quiet warmth.

  "You're kind, Oberon," she said softly. "Kindness begets kindness."

  She extended the slightly drippy cone.

  He took it with a mumbled thanks, gaze falling to the melting swirl. "You always say things like that... but..."

  His voice faltered. There was bitterness there—unspoken and bristling.

  "It must be nice," he muttered, "being an elf. Ageless. Beautiful. Unbothered."

  Ophelia didn't flinch. Instead, she raised her cone in a silent toast to the past, her gaze drifting to the statue that loomed in the centre of the square: a man clad in radiant armour, sword held aloft, his half-smile etched in unyielding stone.

  "Matthias was a paladin," she said quietly. "A half-human. A cambion."

  Oberon frowned. "They all say he was some golden saviour. But if he was so powerful, why is the kingdom still drowning in rot?"

  He looked away, ice cream forgotten, hands clenched.

  "The commoners think he was human. Only nobles and royalty know the truth. Lies stacked on lies."

  Ophelia watched him for a moment, letting his words hang in the air like falling leaves.

  Then she said, "Matthias didn't save me because he had power. He saved me because he chose to. He raised me as his own, taught me to see people—not bloodlines."

  Her voice softened, turning pensive. "It's not our lineage that defines us. It's the choices we make. What we do with the pain, the fear, the yearning."

  She touched Oberon's arm gently. "You have potential. But it's not enough to dream of greatness. You must cultivate it—with humility, with care. You can rise above your circumstances... but only if you stop letting them chain you."

  Oberon stared down at his ice cream. "...Master," he murmured, cheeks tinged pink, "I sometimes forget how ageless you are."

  She chuckled. "I'll take that as a compliment."

  They turned from the statue, letting the warmth of caramel and clove and autumn sun guide them through the crowd once more.

  Far from the sunlit market square, buried beneath the holy stones of Sanctumaria's ivory castle, a lich stirred from his wine-stained slumber.

  Morgrath the Black awoke shirtless atop his throne of vapour and bone. Wisps of noxious smoke coiled around his ribs like the spirits of regrets long devoured. Red wine bottles lay like discarded offerings at the foot of his skeletal bed, some still dripping, others shattered in forgotten fervour.

  "How long has it been?" he murmured, shielding his eyes from the faint, ethereal glow emanating from the soul lanterns above. "It's a wonder dreams still find me..."

  He reached down, retrieving a coral-threaded blanket from the floor, the only relic of his lost warmth. Wrapping it over his shoulders like a king weary of his crown, he sat in silence, caught between wakefulness and memory.

  "What kind of lich am I... reclaiming the very memories I once cast aside?"

  His gaze drifted to the chamber's centre—where the ceiling opened into a circular shaft that descended into darkness. From that void echoed a voice, angry and unrelenting.

  "You're the scum of the earth, Oberon Montague!"

  Sebastian's words, though aimed at another, found no audience but Morgrath.

  "Once my father—or my siblings—learn what you've done, your downfall will be carved into the annals of disgrace!"

  Morgrath yawned.

  Dangling upside-down above the pit was Sebastian—captive prince of the holy kingdom, his body bound by cursed unicorn bone, his pride bleeding from every ragged breath.

  "Mock me all you want!" Sebastian shouted. "But your games won't last forever!"

  "Sebastian, Sebastian. Always the golden boy. Such rage. Such poetry," Morgrath replied, stretching as he slipped into his ash-grey priest robes. "Your threats are like sweet melodies to my ears."

  He stepped closer to the pit's edge, looking down with the fondness of a collector admiring a rare insect in a jar.

  "The moment I first saw you, I knew... I wanted to bury you in your own self-worth."

  Below him, Sebastian's eyes widened at the reeking mire that filled the pit—a grotesque mixture of spiritual waste, alchemical rot, and royal refuse.

  "I see you've excelled in your duties. Admirable work!"

  "You're mad," Sebastian spat. "Keeping me alive with death magic... Just for this? And to think, I had believed your intentions were to overthrow Sanctumaria, or worse."

  Morgrath's grin deepened. "My dear Sebastian, you flatter me with your suspicions. I've no grand plan to topple Sanctumaria—not yet. But you..." His gaze darkened. "You remind me of someone. From long ago. Same entitled sneer. Same inherited righteousness. I loathed him too."

  Sebastian stared at him, and for a moment, something flickered in his eyes—understanding, perhaps. Or pity.

  "I feel sorry for you," he said at last. "There's something so empty about a man who finds joy only in suffering."

  "Is that pity I hear? How precious," Morgrath whispered, delighted. "I believe it's time you had a refreshing dip in your own filth."

  With a casual snap of his fingers, the enchanted spine unravelled from Sebastian's leg.

  He dropped like a stone.

  The pit welcomed him.

  A splash. A scream. A gasp. Then silence... save for the bubbling churn of rot.

  "Behold," Morgrath intoned, raising both arms, "the culmination of twenty years' necro-theurgical research: Ultimate Forbidden Spell — Pit of Eternal Shite!"

  From every corner of the room, black glyphs pulsed. The filth below surged into motion, spiralling into a whirlpool. Within its eye, Sebastian flailed—his strength meaningless, his magic nullified by the anti-divine circle carved into the pit's walls.

  Morgrath's laughter echoed like a church bell twisted by madness. "Hahaha! Suffer, Sebastian! Let your sins cling to you—literally!"

  The prince choked, sputtered, but could not cry out. Every breath brought more agony. The filth seemed to mock him, dragging him down like the weight of expectation.

  A spell sparked in Sebastian's mind—then fizzled into uselessness. Another. And another. Nothing worked. The vortex was more than physical—it was psychological, spiritual. It knew him.

  And it fed on shame.

  Morgrath watched with a calm that bordered on reverent.

  "You mortals always crumble eventually. There's a beauty in that."

  He turned away from the pit as the whirlpool slowed, Sebastian no longer visible, only faint ripples marking where he had vanished.

  At his side, the shrunken Skull of Leviathan—a sacred relic corrupted to serve his unholy priesthood—rattled softly.

  Morgrath whispered, almost to himself, "So ends another trial. They all lose their fire in the end."

  He reached for a scroll and a feather quill, scribbling Sebastian's name in a long, tattered list.

  Then he sighed.

  "Ah well... Suppose it falls to me to conduct the funeral rites. Someone must say the final words."

  He lit a single candle, placed it by the pit, and whispered:

  "Rest, Prince of Pride. May the filth remember you better than the world ever did."

  Then he opened his mind.

  Through the unseen threads that spanned the tapestry of the omniverse, his thoughts twisted and wound, leaping across realities until they reached another him—a doppelg?nger with a different face, a different fate, yet the same fire in his marrow.

  The vision came like a memory he'd never lived.

  In a kingdom forgotten by history and devoured by time, under the blackened spires of a ruined Camelot, the air in the dungeons was thick with damp and despair.

  A cell lay open to the torchlit corridor. Its walls wept moisture. Its bars groaned in the silence.

  Within, Morgan le Fay lay crumpled against the stone, her limbs splayed, her once-regal form stripped of majesty. Her raven hair was matted with grime; her eyes, once embers of infinite cunning, flickered now with dull, dying light.

  Over her loomed a red-clad giant—Sir Ironside, the Crimson Butcher.

  He held her by the ankle, rough fingers around delicate bone.

  "Still clinging to your precious wisdom, witch?" he sneered. His voice was a growl, forged in violence. "Let's see it crash."

  He leaned in, breath hot with sweat and hunger. And then—he spoke two words.

  "DEMON THRUST!!!"

  Not a spell. A mockery. A violation of identity. A name for his act of dominance, roared like a cursed warcry.

  Morgan gasped—but not in pain. Not quite. It was the sound of surrender—of something precious slipping from her fingers.

  Above her, a grimoire hovered, bound in the flesh of forgotten gods. Its pages fluttered as though breathing, drinking deeply of the brilliance bleeding from her mind. With each stolen thought, it pulsed—its hunger fed.

  Morgan whimpered. Her lips moved, but only syllables fell—disconnected, infantile. Her genius, her legacy, unravelled like silk caught in a storm.

  At the cell's threshold stood another man, cloaked in shadows.

  Morgrath's doppelg?nger.

  He watched, impassive, as Ironside's zealous conquest drained the sorceress dry. His eyes, twin abysses, betrayed no joy. Only inevitability.

  Ironside turned at last, wiping sweat from his brow. His teeth bared in a wolf's grin.

  "My lord," he said. "The book fattens nicely. Another day or two and she'll be emptier than a widow's bed. And our bargain?"

  Morgrath's voice—velvet and blade—cut through the fetid air.

  "Even the fiercest flame gutters in time, Ironside. Morgan's spirit is no exception." He stepped into the light, the sigils on his robes glowing faintly with dead starlight. "Patience. When the grimoire is sated... you may have your prize."

  Ironside laughed—an ugly, scraping sound that echoed like broken bells.

  "A pleasure as always, my lord."

  He turned back to Morgan, and the cell trembled with renewed fervour.

  Outside, the rain began to fall, silent and unceasing.