Malick Dra’ak was a dark elf of the formidable enclave of Shadow Weavers, a sect of dark elves distinguished by their notorious hostility and cruel ambition to conquer any lands unfortunate enough to cross their path. At just twenty-nine, he was considered remarkably young for his kind—who could live up to three centuries. On this particular night, Malick had just secured the carcasses of two impressively large dire wolves and was effortlessly hauling them back to his village of Nightshade.

  During his trek home, a peculiar sight caught his attention. In the distance, Malick saw a radiant blue light shining through the treetops. He paused for a moment, lost in silent contemplation, before moving forward again, the weight of the dire wolves still dragging behind him as the strange light’s intensity grew stronger. The luminous anomaly grew ever brighter as Malick approached the village, and he could feel an unnatural heat radiating from it—intensifying, rising to a level that could scald his thick lilac-hued skin, even from such a distance.

  Both concerned and intrigued, the dark elf quickened his pace, tentatively watching as the light of the spectacle continued to intensify. As he emerged from the forest, he was met with the startling sight of Nightshade engulfed in the blinding brilliance of a mysterious blue orb. The orb’s heat was now unbearable against his flesh. Malick halted, squinting against the blinding light, his hand raised in a futile attempt to shield his face. In stunned disbelief, he watched as his village—and the blue orb—seemingly vanished into thin air, as if erased from existence.

  In profound shock, he stood frozen, scanning his surroundings in search of a clansman who might explain what he’d just witnessed. Surely, there had to be a logical explanation. Yet, as the dark elf moved toward what had once been the entrance of his village, he found himself alone—utterly alone. The only thing that greeted Malick was the scorched earth—an empty expanse where a thriving village had once stood literally moments before.

  A creeping sense of fear began to settle in Malick as he processed the gravity of the situation he now found himself in.

  As a Shadow Weaver, he would be shunned if he sought help from any of the nearby villages or towns—the Shadow Weavers’ legacy as tyrants and conquerors had seen to that. His connections had been confined to the insular circle of his tribe, and now that they were gone, Malick found himself in a dire predicament, uncertain of where—or to whom—he could turn for help.

  Casting a desperate glance around, Malick searched for anything that might offer even a glimmer of hope, but the landscape was truly and utterly barren. Not a single remnant of his village remained. He was on his own, for the first time in his life, and although he refused to admit it, he was terrified.

  Malick took a long, deep breath, reminding himself that he was a seasoned warrior of the Shadow Weavers. It was crucial that he remain level-headed so he could navigate this new challenge with the ease and grace expected of any of his fellow tribesmen. To show weakness would bring disgrace upon his clan, and he would not allow that.

  He was aware of a city of scholars in the northernmost reaches of Aetheria. Savantra was its name. The city was considered sacred ground, largely due to the presence of the Scriptum Sanctum—an ancient library housing an extensive repository of knowledge. For those seeking insight and enlightenment, the Scriptum Sanctum was the ultimate destination. Perhaps it could provide the answers he needed, offering a way to uncover the origins of the strange blue orb and the questions he had surrounding his village’s sudden disappearance.

  Driven by a determined resolve, Malick decided that journeying to Savantra was his only viable option. A sense of unease settled within him at the thought of venturing away from the security of his enclave. He had never traveled a lone before, and the thought of it brought a tightness to his chest that was hard to shake. Yet he knew he had to move forward—he had no other choice.

  Reluctantly, Malick left the carcasses of the dire wolves behind—their weight would only slow him down. With nothing but a few coincs and his trusty blade strapped to his back, he set off toward the neighboring village. If he moved quickly, he could reach it by nightfall.

  *****

  Malick made a short trek through a vast expanse of dense woods, keeping watch as the sun slowly sank below the horizon. When the stars began to twinkle overhead, he finally arrived at his destination—the village of Duskwood.

  Despite the late hour, many villagers were still out and about, and Malick couldn’t shake the chill that crept over him from their cold glares. His lilac-hued skin turned heads, as onlookers silently debated whether he was just another dark elf or a Weaver who warranted their scorn. He became acutely aware of the tribe’s distinctive mark branded on the back of his right hand and unconsciously clenched his fist tighter to his side.

  As he walked through the streets, the dark elf couldn’t help but reflect on the day, at just five years old, when he had received the branded S&W mark. He had been terrified when he saw the scorching hot iron being pressed into his skin, his young body trembling with the urge to cry as two village elders held him still. Yet, he never shed a tear. The Shadow Weavers frowned upon such weaknesses—sadness, fear, joy, and love—all sentiments to be suppressed. The clan’s ethos demanded that dark elves be strong hunters, warriors, and conquerors. They were taught to bury their emotions, to strike down their victims without hesitation or remorse. Crying and screaming were signs of weakness, and Malick could not afford to be weak—doing so would mean a brutal lashing from the elders.

  Malick shook off the haunting memory and, in defiance of the frosty glares directed at him, held his gaze with unyielding steel, his head raised high in pride. He was a Shadow Weaver, after all, and these villagers were weak, insignificant creatures unworthy of his time or energy.

  A small tavern, snugly nestled between a general store and an inn, beckoned to Malick. Through its windows, he could make out the silhouettes of the patrons inside. Taverns, beyond serving alcohol, were often valuable hubs for gathering information. He decided to enter, hoping to gather more details about Savantra or the mysterious blue orb.

  Inside, the tavern exuded a dim ambiance, its atmosphere softened by the warm glow of oil lamps and flickering wax candles. The rich scent of mulberry wine mingled with the smoky air as Malick settled onto a stool at the bar.

  “What can I get ya?” asked the stout barkeep.

  “One Fireball on ice,” Malick replied, his eyes sweeping over the diverse array of patrons scattered throughout the tavern.

  Without realizing it, Malick placed his left hand over his right, subconsciously hiding his mark again. There were many other clans of dark elves far less notorious than the Shadow Weavers, and though his skin alone made onlookers uneasy, he feared their reaction if they recognized him for what he truly was.

  Malick glanced to his left and watched a petite female gnome swiftly down a pint of alcohol nearly as big as herself. To his surprise, she immediately smashed the glass over the skull of a now-irate one-eyed man seated beside her. Tension soared as the man glared at the gnome, veins throbbing at his temples. Just as a brawl seemed imminent, a tavern worker stepped in and swiftly escorted the drunken gnome out the door.

  Across from the recently vacated seat of the gnome, a young man leaned casually against the bar, a mischievous grin playing on his lips. Short, rust-colored curls framed his head, and his piercing green eyes scanned the room with sharp interest. His slender frame was accentuated by a snug black ensemble.

  Despite being a mere human, Malick found the man somewhat attractive and couldn’t help but glance at him discreetly. As a Shadow Weaver, relations outside of the clan were frowned upon. Sex was seen primarily as a means of preserving the tribe rather than an expression of personal desire.

  With his well-toned, athletic build, the dark elf was undoubtedly an alluring and highly sought-after mating partner within his tribe. Physically, Malick possessed strong masculine features: a broad brow, straight nose, and square jaw. His dark violet hair was meticulously styled—shaved on the sides and back, with the longer length on top neatly tied into a ponytail.

  Though aware of the eager attention from many clanswomen wishing to mate with him, Malick found himself somewhat inexperienced in matters of intimacy. None of the females had ever truly captured his interest. When he was fifteen, he spent a lot of time with another boy in the village, developing feelings he didn’t quite understand. He kept these feelings to himself, as same-sex unions were uncommon—such relationships didn’t result in offspring, which were vital for the tribe's growth.

  Yet now, as he observed the handsome human across the tavern, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to experience a union with someone of a different race and sex— something outside the norms of his own tribe.

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  A tightness gripped Malick’s chest as a sudden thought struck him—what if his tribe was lost forever? Would he spend the rest of his life alone? He knew that other Weavers had spread across the continents, claiming and settling in the territories they had conquered. Most had divided into private enclaves, many hostile to outsiders—even other Shadow Weavers. The prospect of easily finding a place among them seemed unlikely, leaving him with a growing sense of isolation.

  This realization marked a rare moment of fear and uncertainty for Malick, who had always been shielded by the security of his tribe. The thought of being discovered as a Weaver, especially while traveling alone, unsettled him deeply. If anyone found out, his life could be in serious danger.

  Shaking off those thoughts, Malick turned his attention to the bar, where his drink awaited. He hastily took several swigs, then set the glass down with an audible clink and signaled for another. The barkeep nodded and promptly took the glass to mix a fresh drink. As the barkeep gently placed it back on the counter, Malick leaned in and quietly inquired about Savantra.

  “Savantra? It’s up north from here. Not an easy place to get into, though. If you somehow manage to get through the Cursed Hollows unscathed, you still need an official invite from the chancellor to get in,” the barkeep explained while mixing another patron's drink.

  “And how does one get an invite?” Malick asked.

  “Unless you know ‘im, you don’t,” the barkeep replied, giving Malick a begrudging once-over. “The Hollows would probably get ya first.”

  The barkeep glanced away for a moment to nod farewell to some departing patrons, then turned his attention back to the dark elf. “A Weaver would never get invited into the city o’ scholars anyway,” he muttered, his tone laced with disdain.

  As Malick met the barkeep’s gaze, a cold, hostile stare sent a shiver down his spine. For the third time since entering Duskwood, he shifted his posture, instinctively hiding his branded hand beneath the bar. Returning a steady gaze, he silently reinforced his resolve, determined not to show any weakness to the lowly human.

  Eventually, the barkeep’s eyes drifted downward, and he absently wiped away some imaginary dirt with a cloth. The silence between them lingered, thick with an unspoken clash of wills in the dimly lit tavern.

  Sensing the mounting tension, Malick decided that staying any longer might invite trouble. He rose from his chair, dropping a few coins onto the bar. His gaze briefly lingered on the branded mark of his tribe—a symbol he had once worn with pride, but now it felt more like a target, a reminder of his vulnerability without his tribe's protection. Quickly, he shoved his hand into his pocket and left the tavern, the door swinging shut behind him.

  Glancing over at the quaint village inn, Malick considered the cost of a night’s stay. He knew he had only a few coins left in his pocket. Tomorrow, he would need to venture out to hunt and gather resources for future bartering.

  From behind, Malick could hear footsteps drawing nearer, causing his body to stiffen with anticipation as he prepared to defend himself if need be. A hand tapped his shoulder, setting off a swift, reflexive response, and without a second thought, the dark elf swung around, delivering a powerful fist into the face of his unseen assailant.

  “Bloody Hells!” the man cried, staggering backward.

  Malick’s eyes widened in surprise as he recognized his assailant: the young man with the devilish grin he’d noticed earlier at the bar. It was a shame, really, that the man’s handsome face was now marred by a bruise, blood slowly trickling from his nose.

  “Relax,” the young man winced, raising a hand to signal Malick to keep his distance. “I just want to talk.”

  Malick gradually relaxed his fighting stance, though his muscles remained taut, primed to throw another punch if needed.

  “I overheard you asking the barkeep about getting into Savantra,” the young man said, dabbing at his nose with a cloth he'd pulled from his pocket.

  “What of it?” Malick responded sharply. Despite the young man’s slender, charming appearance, the dark elf wasn’t about to lower his guard for anyone.

  The young man’s gaze flicked to the brand on Malick’s hand. “Dark elves are usually known for their battle prowess,” he said, “but they’re generally peaceful people.”

  Malick said nothing, his expression unreadable as he studied the young man carefully.

  The young man tilted his head, eyeing Malick with curiosity. “That lilac colored skin of yours—only found among Weavers, if I’m not mistaken,” he said, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

  “Get on with it!” Malick snapped, his patience wearing thin.

  “That brand, on your hand, too,” the young man remarked, his eyes studying the dark elf closely. “Anyone could see you’re not a typical dark elf. It’s curious to find a Weaver traveling alone.”

  “What’s your point?” Malick snarled.

  “My point is...” The man began, slowly circling Malick with a playful air, but Malick couldn’t tell if the movement was meant to intimidate or amuse. “I know someone of your kind has a lot of enemies... Having an ally could be quite beneficial, don't you think?”

  The young man ran a rough hand through his short ginger curls and leaned against a wooden post that was supporting the tavern’s awning. With a confident smile, he extended his hand,“Let’s be traveling companions.”

  Malick ignored the man’s attempt to shake hands, offering nothing more than a disinterested glance in response to his gesture.

  Unfazed, the young man pretended not to notice the dark elf’s impudence and continued introducing himself. “The name’s Soren Dagger, though most call me Soren the Swift.”

  “The Swift,” Malick snorted, a brief chuckle escaping his lips. “Not swift enough to dodge my throw, though?” Malick chaffed.

  Choosing to ignore Malick’s jab, Soren got straight to the point. “I also need something from the Savantra,” he said, his tone steady. “I can help you get in. I have connections”

  Malick regarded him with evident skepticism, his gaze narrowing.

  “Traveling together would be safer for both of us,” Soren explained. “Especially for a lone Weaver like yourself.”

  “What's in it for you?” Malick asked, his tone uncertain.

  “I just need you to help with one teensy little thing,” Soren replied, pinching his fingers together to emphasize the word “teensy.”

  Malick crossed his arms, “I'm listening.”

  “Simply help me retrieve a book from the Scriptum Sanctum. That's it! Easy peasy!” Soren flashed his most charming smile, as if the task were nothing at all.

  “Wait... you want me to help you steal a book from the Scriptum Sanctum?” Malick asked, incredulity edging his voice. “If we're caught, we'll be sent to Vorash! Even a Shadow Weaver knows when to avoid trouble.”

  “Come on... Aren't Weavers always looking for trouble?” Soren provoked, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

  “Not that kind,” Malick replied sharply, his tone leaving little room for debate.

  Vorash was a barren, desolate expanse, stretching like a vast, unyielding desert. Its harsh terrain was home to malevolent beings known as Infernaliths—creatures that embodied pure evil. With dark skin, obsidian eyes, and twisted red horns jutting from their skulls, they were a terrifying sight. Their mouths, lined with sharp, yellowed fangs, only added to their sinister appearance. The Infernaliths cast a looming shadow over the forsaken land, their presence as ominous as the wasteland they inhabited.

  For this reason, Vorash had become a place of exile for the criminals. Those cast into its depths faced not only the brutal, unforgiving environment but also the sadistic torment of the Infernaliths. These malevolent beings reveled in inflicting grotesque acts of punishment and suffering, their twisted enjoyment making Vorash a nightmare from which there was no escape.

  By comparison, the Shadow Weavers seemed merciful. Though they engaged in deeds that could be deemed dark, the Weavers fought for what they believed was the greater good. They considered themselves God’s chosen, convinced that they were fulfilling a divine purpose by cleansing the lands of the unworthy. Unlike the sadistic Infernaliths, Shadow Weavers did not take pleasure in the atrocities they committed. Their actions were driven by a rigid sense of honor, rooted in the belief that, at times, contributing to the greater good required undertaking unsavory tasks.

  Malick’s tribe held a firm conviction that if Shadow Weavers rose to power, the world would ultimately be a better place, even if the immediate benefits were not clear to others. This belief was rooted in the idea that the ends justified the means.

  But for those unfortunate enough to be sentenced to Vorash, the relentless torment and suffering that awaited them in that cruel realm were far worse than the release of death—a mercy forever out of reach. Being exiled to Vorash was like being thrown directly into the Hells themselves!

  Malick carefully weighed the young man’s request. A traveling companion could indeed prove beneficial, but the risk of getting caught in any form of criminal activity within the city of scholar’s walls was too great to ignore. Savantra was known for having strict laws and punishments and even the smallest infraction could result in death.

  Shadow Weavers, despite their fearlessness, were not fools.

  “I understand your hesitation,” Soren said. “If we get there and the situation seems too risky, I’ll back off. Honestly, I’m not all that eager to visit Vorash myself.”

  Soren had noticed Malick glancing, earlier, at the inn next door and saw an opportunity to build some rapport. “It’s getting late, and I see you’re not exactly prepared,” he said. “I was planning to stay at the inn tonight. Let’s grab a room—my treat. Tomorrow, we can gather what we need for the trip. Take tonight to mull it over.”

  Though not entirely comfortable with the idea of spending the night with a stranger of uncertain trustworthiness, Malick knew he had little choice. Truth be told, he wanted to conserve what little coin he had. With a resigned sigh, he agreed to Soren’s proposal. The two young men proceeded to the inn, where Soren, as promised, paid for the room.

  They agreed to share a single room—it was more cost-effective, after all. There was only one bed, and Soren had insisted that Malick take it. He didn’t argue. He removed his hide armor and carefully laid it in a neat pile on a decorative ottoman at the foot of his bed. The idea of sleeping in the same room as a stranger wasn’t ideal. Malick was suspicious that the young man might harbor ill intentions and was reluctant to sleep without his blade nearby—so he kept it close.

  As he lay in bed, he thought about his village and wondered what had become of his mother and father. He wasn’t particularly close with his parents, but they were his family. In moments like this, where Malick felt adrift, he normally would have sought their guidance. Now, he had to rely on his own judgment, though a sense of wariness crept in. He had never been allowed to venture beyond the safety of their enclave. Lacking "worldliness," he feared his inexperience would lead to trouble—trouble he might not be able to handle.

  He glanced down at the floor and saw Soren already fast asleep. He wondered if he could really trust him. He tightened his grip on his blade, keeping it close as he shut his eyes. He knew he wouldn’t be getting a good night’s rest—had too many things on his mind. But he closed his eyes anyways, allowing the darkness to settle in.

  As one hour passed after another, he eventually slipped into a light and restless sleep.