This new lock is different, with a space specifically for the placement of hands; it finally signals that I am inside the palace. It took two months just to get here. The previous facilities are gargantuan—as if it were a walled city, the palace features numerous city-sized gates. On each wall, there are access codes, everything designed to be activated by magic. The first ones were merely area locks; you would arrive and have exactly one minute to charge a rune on the floor. Failure to do so meant countless vermin in the basements would be released, or so I assume. Despite the architectural beauty, the glyphs tell me this is a service entrance. I place my hands. The trick is to fill the runes slowly, as if I lacked power. The castle's systems must believe I am a mere servant; I have no desire to relive what happened at the beginning.
The first door was a joke. The rune had three charging levels, which isn't unusual, but I decided to charge them quickly. A grave mistake. Immediately, dwarves began to emerge—nothing like that warrior or his hosts. These were idiots, deformed in body, all rushing to attack me using only their bare hands. I tried to ward them off, but they were persistent. Blindly, they threw themselves against my sword, time and again. Their limbs fell severed; they felt pain, I am sure of it, yet they did not stop. More than a hundred bodies fell that day. Just as the last one died, the light faded from the opening rune. It was then I saw that within the rune lay layers upon layers of tiny, infinitesimal runes. These faded as well, and a message painted itself upon the wall: "Welcome, elven brother. I hope my gift pleased you." I spent two days burying bodies. They were nothing more than an obscene gift for anyone with the power to activate that child's play.
When I calmly read all the runes, I discovered they activated various mechanisms within their charging times. If the time limit was exceeded, they immediately released those miserable beings—rewards for the power an elf could exhibit, a monster bloated with ego, vanity, and bloodlust. For the second door, I activated the rune as slowly as possible, one layer of magic at a time. It took about five minutes. When it finally activated, a whip descended and tried to lash my back. It wasn't a threat, even with its metal tips, but the door didn't open. Instead, crisp, condescending letters appeared: "Inferiors, do not attempt to advance beyond your level. Your power is insignificant for your aspirations. Stay in your place or suffer the consequences!" Admiring and troubled, I spent another two days reading their runes—a mixture of hatred and admiration for a race so alien to reason.
I soon discovered that two minutes was the limit. If I did it between two and three minutes, the doors would open, allowing one to proceed. I suppose that was the level of the servants for the next gate. I continue wandering through these houses and businesses; every door has its own. They are empty, but they mutely explain what this place once was: a slavery both simple and complex. The beings who lived here felt and possessed the essentials, except for the right to decide for themselves. The hierarchy is starkly marked—the quality of materials, their functions—everything a jumble of what they could and could not do. Every time I advance (and this is the worst part), I must traverse the imitation city from one end to the other just to locate the next door.
The nights continue to pass, but it isn't so easy here. The walls grow taller. Now I am in what are considered the warriors' quarters. The houses have beautiful decorations; there are training grounds and well-planned smithies—nothing like the hovels from the beginning or the houses crammed atop one another. Here, each house had its own trees and gardens. They are withered because everything runs on magic. They didn't farm; they kept seeds in baskets which, upon activating their runes, would germinate. In a few seconds, you'd have apples juicier than desired. It was a complete waste of magic! I cannot imagine how overconfident they were, using their power to bake bread, clean streets, or simulate photosynthesis with a thousand demons from hell. It's no wonder they were feared; such power wouldn't be squandered just because… but they did it. Even germinating a single meal considerably drains the power of a level-four mage. I don't want to imagine the cost of spending every day that which provided your survival, but in exchange, took so much away.
The absurdity of these places, besides having to search for their damn doors, is knowing they didn't just activate their daily needs—that would be an easy task for beings of such power. No, each rune sent a portion of this magic to a central hub. I imagine enormous stones, the product of the extermination of thousands, storing the magic of these idiots, making the king someone who cannot be dethroned. Even today, they must be preserved. Without those stones, I am curious to know where the power of those who desperately abandoned the palace went.
As I exited the door, I realized I was close to arriving. It isn't shown by the luxury of these facilities, which look on par with any palace hall; rather, it's that the next wall is only two meters high, leaving considerable space for the sun to reach. Like an aberrant rule, the privileged elves did deserve the true sun. Their windows didn't need to overlook the filthy inferiors, but they did overlook the fields of their personal servants—all exquisite so that if one day the loyal peers of the realm decided to descend to their meadows, they would be perfect for a being of their quality. I imagine royalty rarely traveled by foot or horse; most employed magnificent beasts like hippogriffs, which, due to the runes etched into their skin, could not disobey. They were used so often they died of exhaustion—and sadness, given they weren't allowed near their eggs. Many hatched without ever knowing their parents' love. I saw them on the island, with faces of solemnity, hatred, and misery.
Despite having the "aesthetic" wall so close, I chose to look for the door. I feared a trap would activate and send me back to the beginning. So, I walked among all the sites. Several doors appeared along the way, lavish, but after several minutes of wasted magic, they only opened to liquor stores for sybarites. Words like "Plebeian Blood of '50" or even "Trent Wine" led me to believe their vices were varied. I confirmed this when I opened another red door. There, after the nausea subsided, I managed to analyze what had occurred. Hundreds of remains of men and women lay on the floor. A great number of them had broken bones, stripped of marrow; others were inside the skin casing of what was undoubtedly a naga. Lacking food and any way to get it, she went mad and devoured as many as she could—most of whom were too weak to fight back. A brothel of death where people abandoned their toys, who died waiting for deviants who never returned.
When I thought I would have to spend the night in one of these places—the mere idea makes me long for the Black Forest or the elven dungeons; at least there I knew what to expect—here, in dead gardens surrounded by statues of gold and jade, a soft breeze finally envelops me. This is magical, but not elven. It is something natural. It smells good, like mornings after the rain. I walk toward the origin of the sound.
Reaching the esplanade, I can see a beautiful understory. The dwarf trees are in incredible colors for being natural, but they glow, and small flowers adorn the clearing. My eyes, even before my magic, tell me that dryads dwell there. They are magical threads of plants, their "children"; these are the ones who fertilize the trees of this place. Although they are a bit startled, they approach curiously, as befits their species. They are beautiful. Even seeing them as they are without magic, I can see the life force growing here. At that moment, trumpets sound. The first time, they scared me, but they are just automatically activated mechanisms. Words materialize in the air: "Dryads are stupid, small, and simple. They feel as beautiful as we do. Elf, if you feel entitled to enter, eliminate half of their population and return! Fail, and we will return you to the first gate."
Rage consumes me. I can see the counter; it's a trap that sends everything organic back to the first door. I lost too much time getting here, but eliminating them is something I cannot do. They are the only beautiful thing in this place. I cannot kill the only decent thing the elves produced. But the dryads huddle around the sheath of my sword; I think they want me to free them. So, I grip my sword and prepare to destroy the door. To hell with this! I will cut through everything, tearing apart whatever stands in my way. No more subtleties!
But in that moment, I hear their lament. They ask me to kill them. "We are seeds," they say. No one truly dies; they will feed their parents, grandparents, and future children. Furthermore, if I destroy the trap, their grandfather—the one who gave birth to this garden—will die. They have him tied to that magic. They live life the best they can because they know something like this will happen every time someone comes to pass through the elven palace gates. Though I hate it, I have no other choice. I obey.
The counter is full. Throughout the garden, hundreds of dead plants mark the loss of their dryads. Piles of ash from what were once joyful beings. The doors open to reveal a sumptuous hallway, but I see nothing. I have stopped giving power to my eyes. My pain is too great, but I cannot cry. I leave that to the trees, which shed their leaves with a whispered lullaby to shroud the fallen and comfort those who remain standing. They will pay dearly for this! I swear they will hate the day they created me! It is the only promise I can make to the dead.