Page 1 of Revenge of the Elf Lord

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Alfheimr

The royal summons hit him as Cyran Daralei plunged his hands into the elf’s abdomen, bodily fluids and lacerated organs rising to meet him. Focusing on his magic, he searched his vast knowledge for anything to save this elf’s life. The situation might not have been so dire if he had gotten here a few minutes sooner. His frustration grew as he sensed the elf’s spirit slipping away.

Lamruil, I will be there as soon as I can. This boy’s injury is…bad.

The Elven co-regent’s royal presence slid through his mind.Come when you are able. We need to talk.

Cyran’s anxiety rose. He didn’t like not knowing what was happening around him, and because the new co-regents, twin brothers who just so happened to be his best friends, rarely asked for anything, it gave him pause. Since returning from helping the humans in their global war, he had felt increasingly anxious with each passing week.

With a strength of will he had used over and over during the Midgardian war, he focused everything he had on healing the holes and lacerations in the intestines, breathing through his mouth to keep the odor of raw meat from turning his stomach. After what seemed like hours—but, in reality, was only a few scant minutes—he resealed the fluids inside the twisting organ where they belonged.

Next, he used his healing magic like a suture and restitched tissue and muscle, using the bright red blood as the thread. The last stitch sealed the skin over the scar, the entire abdomen raw and angry as he tried to save the youth’s life. He leaned back on his heels, his knees digging into the soft earth.

Waiting to see if the sutures would hold, his thoughts returned to the twins. Why would the co-regents summon him? They never did that, so why now? A frisson of fear stuttered through him as a single thought hit him. Had the Elven kings discovered what he had done so many years ago? Had they come across the one thing he had kept to himself? What he had done to his father?

Closing his eyes, he erased all evidence of blood. He looked down at his young patient, still sleeping off the magical sedative, before glancing up at the boy’s parents. The father’s face was white, fear in his eyes as he held his wife, who sobbed against his shoulder.

Cyran stood. “Bastien will live, but he needs to rest for the rest of the day—let the magic continue to heal him.” He forced a crooked grin, which was almost impossible with the fear of what the summons meant beating at his insides. “The next time he sees a unicorn, tell him to leave it alone. They are notoriously ill-tempered and do not like giving rambunctious young elves rides.”

With a slight nod to the relieved parents, he apparated to the Elven realm of Alfheimr. His last sight was the mother pulling her son into her tight embrace, relieved tears coursing down her ravaged face.

The fountain in front of the Elven palace sent out calming waves with every pulse of color as the water splattered into the stone pool enclosure. His gaze lifted, and he stared at Alfeimer’s co-regents, Ailuin and Lamruil Vakas.

The elf brothers were his closest friends and confidants. Tall and lithe, they had fair skin and white-blond hair down to their waists with narrow braids at the temples. They were identical twins, yet their personalities were as different as night and day. Though he admired and served both, it was Ailuin he confided in and fought alongside during the Great Elven War, a conflict that nearly destroyed their kingdom.

Not even the wisdom and strength of the twin’s father, King Glanduil, had stopped the rising forces of the three Elven factions—Black, Light, and Dark—each vying for supremacy. Their struggle had nearly torn the realm apart, and now, its embers still smoldered, threatening to reignite.

During the past few months, Cyran had sensed a growing malevolence around their world, a silent and deadly presence. Whether others noticed or not, he couldn't tell. The clashing of events during their civil war reminded him of the global conflict on Midgard, where one man’s delusions of control led to years of hardship in which betrayal lurked even among the most loyal. Instinct whispered to him that understanding these parallels was vital to averting a similar fate in their world.

His gaze swept across the lush, vibrant countryside, the heady scent of flowers teasing his senses. Standing by the palace fountain, its soothing gurgle a constant backdrop, he took in the vision his friends had tirelessly worked toward.

Under Lamruil and Ailuin's reign, a hard-won peace seemed to have settled among the elves. Crops flourished, and the nearby village, once in ruins, now buzzed with life. Yet, beneath this tranquility, a shadow seemed to lurk, an intangible darkness he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“You both have done well,” he remarked, his voice betraying none of his inner unease as he maintained his aloof persona.Did they know?He longed to return to a time before the world's weight did not seem to rest on his shoulders. But he kept these thoughts hidden, especially from the twins. Their burdens with rebuilding Alfheimr were all too clear to him.

“That’s high praise coming from you.” Lamruil smirked. “Going from one adventure to another, I’m surprised you even noticed. You’re too busy having fun. We could have used your help.”

“Oh, stop badgering him,” Ailuin said. “At least one of us should have some fun now and then. We can’t always be buried in work and worries.” He turned to Cyran. “Have you seen the new shops in the village?”

Below them, the village sprawled, a mosaic of stone and painted wood, with several new structures rising from the long-forgotten foundations. Despite the shadows in his mind, hope flickered. Perhaps everything they fought for in the war had not been entirely lost.

“A new baker opened for business this morning,” Ailuin continued in a light tone. “Raisa bought out the entire store, sharing delicious sweetbreads, cakes, and tarts with everyone in the village. What was left over, she gave to the palace staff.”

Cyran shot a teasing glance at his friend. “So, I take it your wife didn’t let you sample anything?”

Ailuin scowled. “Not even a tiny bite, but what I saw looked delicious.” He shrugged, his usual grin returning as he nudged Cyran several times. “Oh, and before I forget, the baker also has a beautiful daughter.”

Cyran rolled his eyes. “Stop. While you may enjoy being married—and Raisa is an adorable wife foryou—I agree with Lamruil. I’m not the marrying kind. I cherish my freedom and don’t have to answer to anyone—no obligations or constraints. Honestly, I would miss the thrill of having adventures.”

“Hear, hear,” Lamruil chimed in with a low chuckle. “Not to add to your misery, Cyran, but we all must grow up one day. Have you given any more thought to our offer? Your stepfather, no matter the part he played in the Elven war, was a gifted healer and believed your magic surpassed his. We need a royal physician.”

Ailuin laid a hand on Cyran’s shoulder. “I know you do not take this lightly, my friend. I know your feelings for your stepfather, but Lamruil has a point. You are a remarkable healer, a talent I witnessed many times in the war on Midgard. Don’t let your stepfather’s choices diminish this gift. Our people need you.”

Cyran inhaled, letting the soft scent of honeysuckle fill his lungs. Ailuin was right. This decision wasn’t easy, and everything in him screamed to run away. Leave the elves to their fates. But he couldn’t.

He sensed no animosity or anger from either brother, so his secret had not been discovered. Still, these two were his only family. While not blood, they were his brothers, nonetheless. Only he and his mother had known the truth of his parentage, and his mother had died, taking the secret of his birth father’s identity with her.

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