The Autumn Veil
Here, within the hallowed sanctum of my lord,
I—Sir Spudsworth, noble and—
Ah, whom do I deceive?
I am but a humble sentient potato, a child of the
Emerald Matriarch’s grand harvest, bound to the willows’ sacred whisperings. No
more, no less.
Before me, the digital specter of Shaq’Rai—the
estranged daughter of my lord—dissolves into the ether, her form unraveling in
a silent requiem. A phantom woven from light and code, she flickers, pixel by
pixel, each fragment a dying ember in the vastness of the unseen. The air, once
thick with the weight of her presence, now bears only absence—an aching
stillness, a whisper of something unfinished, like a song left unsung.
“Alas,” I murmur, “even the children of light
fade as morning dew upon the trembling leaf.”
Then—
“Fear not, child of the great harvest.”
A voice, rich as the hush before dawn, unfurls
through the void. I turn, but sight fails me. There is only radiance—brilliance
that shatters the gloom, silver light steeped in gold, cascading over the
clearing like the first breath of a newborn sun. It is warmth. It is wonder. A
beacon against sorrow’s tide.
“The… Silver Wing,” I breathe, the name a relic
of legend, a whisper carried on the wind of forgotten tales. A guardian of lost
groves. A keeper of hidden lore. The light pulses—once, twice—a heartbeat of
the heavens, before retreating, solemn and slow, like a waning star
surrendering to twilight.
And then, from within the ebbing glow, a hand
emerges—slender, graceful, moving with the quiet certainty of a petal unfurling
beneath the moon’s tender gaze. Fingers, cool as morning mist and soft as silk,
graze my humble form, and a tremor ripples through me, through the very starch
of my soul.
The last breath of light exhales, leaving in its
wake a vision of surpassing splendor.
A Wood Elf.
Fair as the dawn, her eyes gleam like emerald
pools hidden within an ancient glade, her hair spun from the amber threads of
autumn’s last embrace. Verily, she is the most exquisite being these unworthy
eyes have ever beheld—her beauty humbling even Princess Ember’s gilded
radiance.
She laughs, and the sound is the tinkling of
crystal chimes upon the wind, the sigh of leaves in the arms of autumn.
“I have been called many things, little one,” she
says, her voice a melody of rustling leaves and murmuring streams. “But a
mythical guardian of the forest? That, I fear, is a tale I cannot claim.”
The touch, though feather-light, shatters my
reverie like a stone cast upon a still pond. I, Sir Spudsworth, noble guardian
of my lord’s inner sanctum—who mere moments past braved a most perilous
fray—recoil with righteous fervor. With a decisive sweep of my stubby limb, I
swat the hand away.
"Halt!" My voice rings forth,
sharp as a warhorn in the quiet gloom. "By the sacred decree of my
lord’s divine will, I stand sentinel against all who dare trespass upon these
hallowed grounds!"
The maiden startles, her emerald eyes widening,
twin mirrors of the moonlit glade. For a moment, she is as still as the forest
before a storm, then she tilts her head, regarding me with the curiosity of a
scholar beholding an unfamiliar text.
"Oh… brave knight," she murmurs,
her voice a sigh woven from wind and willow leaves. "I mean no harm to
your lord’s sanctum. I am but a traveler, a wanderer upon the paths of
fate."
I narrow my gaze, my form unyielding as the oaken
bulwarks of yore. "A traveler, say you? Then name thyself, lest I mark
thee as foe."
She lifts her chin, her bearing regal as an
autumn maple clothed in gold. Then, with a grace that speaks of ancient courts
and whispered legends, she curtsies—a bow so fluid, so deliberate, that even
the willows might weep in envy.
"I, good sir, am Elara Wynn, first
daughter of Merydeth Von Wyllt, of House Wynn." Her words chime like
silver upon stone. She unfastens a pin from her cloak—a sigil wrought with
exquisite precision, the emblem of those who weave the arcane threads of
knowledge. "A Merlin-in-training," she proclaims, extending
the emblem before me like an offering of peace.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
A thrill sparks within my very being, a flicker
of hope igniting in the embers of duty. "Egads!" I exclaim, my
eyes alight with sudden wonder. "A Merlin? Then art thou the
reinforcement sent to aid us in this most dire hour?"
But before her lips can part, before the weight
of certainty may settle upon this meeting, the world trembles.
A horn bellows—a deep, resonant call, laced with
magic older than stone, older than the stars. It quakes through the marrow of
the earth, an omen carved into the bones of time itself.
And then—like a comet loosed from the heavens—she
descends.
Princess Ember.
She lands between us with the force of a falling
star, her arrival sundering the stillness as dust and golden light billow
outward in a tempestuous swirl. The very ground quakes, the air shuddering
beneath the weight of her presence.
In the wake of her entrance, silence lingers. A
single breath held in the palm of fate.
And then—
The world exhales, and destiny surges forth once
more.
A most unseemly cry bursts forth from Princess
Ember, shattering the fragile stillness of the clearing like a stone cast upon
a moonlit pond.
"Ow… son of a bitch! What in the nine
hells—!" she exclaims, her voice a discordant jolt against the lingering
hush of the sanctum.
"Princess…?" I murmur, my tone a
measured note of gentle reproach. "Ahem. Language, Mi’Lady. We are in the
presence of company."
She whirls upon me, eyes burning with an
intensity that might set the ancient oaks themselves to smoldering.
"SPUDS!" The single syllable quivers
between disbelief and relief before she lunges forward, arms coiling around me
with a force that nearly sundereth my breath. Warm as a hearth fire, yet wholly
unanticipated.
"I thought—I thought I’d lost you
forever," she murmurs, her voice thick, near breaking.
"Likewise, Mi’Lady," I manage, though
the words emerge softer than I intend. "But… if you are here—"
Her grip tightens before she suddenly releases
me, her gaze sweeping the surroundings with growing alarm.
"By the Abyss…" she breathes. "Is
this—hell?"
"What…?" I blink, momentarily
confounded. "Of course not, Mi’Lady. This is—"
"Right. Right. Hell." A sharp, bitter
laugh escapes her lips, the sound brittle as fractured glass. "I’d know if
it was, wouldn’t I? I am a demon, after all."
I clear my throat, regaining composure.
"This, Mi’Lady, is your father’s inner sanctum. If you stand before me
now, then I fear—"
"Those bastards got me, Spuds," she
growls, venom seeping into each syllable. "Those damn Blood Raiders."
A breath of silence follows, heavy as a shroud.
Then, Elara, who has stood as still as a wraith, steps forward. The emerald
gleam of her eyes sharpens, her fair brow knitting with measured concern.
"Did you say… Blood Raiders?" Her voice
is hushed, as though the mere utterance of their name might stir dark things
from the shadows.
Princess Ember’s fiery gaze flickers away from my
humble form, alighting upon the fair Lady Elara. A shadow of recognition glides
across her face, fleeting as dawn’s first light—there, then gone, chased by
doubt.
"Big sister… is that you?" The words
tremble between disbelief and longing, woven with a hope so fragile, I scarce
dare breathe for fear it might shatter.
Elara stiffens, her emerald gaze sharpening.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Nay, Mi’Lady," I interject swiftly,
striving to impose order upon the gathering tempest of confusion. "This is
Lady Elara of House Wyn, a Merlin of—"
"Merlin?" Ember’s voice cuts through my
own like the edge of a well-honed blade. The very air seems to still, drawing
taut as though bracing for a storm. Her eyes flash—wild, primal—darkened by
something old and wary. A shadow stirs within her, cast not by light, but by
the unseen fire of past wounds. And I, mere Spudsworth, feel its chill creep
into my very roots.
Then, in an instant, she moves—darting behind me
as though my diminutive frame might serve as an impenetrable bulwark.
"Ah… Mi’Lady," I murmur, tilting my
helm in gentle reproach. "Manners."
A nervous chuckle spills from her lips, taut and
uneasy as a bowstring drawn too tight. "Sorry, Spudsy," she mutters.
"But Merlins aren’t exactly known for their kindness toward demons."
Elara’s laughter follows—not mocking, nor unkind,
but edged, like the whisper of steel unsheathed. "This is true," she
admits, though her tone bears no hostility, only understanding. "Yet if
our gallant knight calls you ‘Princess’—and judging by the sigil of a silver hourglass
upon your brow—then you are no mere demon, Mi’Lady. You are soul-touched… as am
I."
A pause. Measured. Weighty.
"And thus, by sacred law, harming you would
be… quite the taboo."
Ember exhales, some of her tension unraveling,
though caution lingers in the crease of her brow. "So… parlay?" she
ventures, the word slipping forth like a tentative offering.
Elara smiles, though there is gravity in the
curve of her lips, as though she alone holds the weight of fate’s next turn.
"Parlay," she echoes, the word ringing through the silver-lit
clearing like the chime of distant bells.
Then, stepping forward, her gaze sharpens once
more. "Now… about these Blood Raiders you mentioned."