Chapter 75: The Kingdom of Elarian.
The air, thick with the scent of pine and aged magic, usually calmed Leornars. Today, however, it only felt stagnant. The high, arching roots of the Elven Kingdom's entrance were impressive, sure, but the reception committee? Less so.
"Seriously? Arrows?" Leornars muttered, a flicker of crimson deep in his eyes.
They were surrounded. A neat, precise circle of Elven Royal Guards—all tall, slender, and armed with bows strung taut. The tips of a hundred arrows were pointed directly at his chest. Annoying.
From the center of the formation, a figure stepped forward. He was an Elf of staggering, almost arrogant beauty, crowned with a circlet of woven mithril. This was clearly the Crowned Prince, Aerion. And his smile? It was a masterpiece of cockiness. A grin that suggested the world existed purely for his amusement.
"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in," Aerion drawled, his voice a smooth, irritating baritone that echoed in the silent, moss-covered archway. He made a show of looking Leornars up and down, letting his gaze linger on the simple white shirt and comfortable brown slippers. The contrast with his own elaborately embroidered tunic was intentional.
"I must admit, your style of 'invasion' is rather… pedestrian," the Prince continued, placing one hand dramatically on the hilt of his ornate, purely decorative sword. "To think a handful of ill-equipped individuals would dare step foot on Elarian soil? It's almost a pity I'll have to have my men shoot you before you can be properly interrogated. Unless, of course, you grovel first. That might earn you a quick death."
Leornars didn't move a muscle. He wasn't even offended. This prince was clearly all talk and no battlefield experience. A glorified model in heavy armor.
No, groveling isn't my style, Leornars thought, focusing only on the minuscule, nearly invisible black threads he had already positioned: razor-sharp filament, barely thicker than a hair, looped around the neck of every single elf, including the prince. One thought, and this entire welcoming party turns into a modern art display.
A flutter of movement behind the prince pulled Leornars's attention. That movement turned into another figure emerging from the shadow of the great tree-gate: Princess Shylah.
Shylah was Aerion's twin, but while her brother radiated cold arrogance, she had a quiet grace. She was dressed in practical leather, unlike her brother's ceremonial silks. As she stepped into the sunlight, her eyes—the color of faded emeralds—swept over the scene, taking in the standoff.
And then she saw him.
The princess's confident posture shattered instantly. The casual, almost bored expression she wore vanished, replaced by a sudden, intense flood of recognition, concern, and maybe even a slight, frantic panic. Her cheeks took on a faint, pink flush.
Her gaze locked onto Leornars's crimson eyes, bypassing the slippers and the casual wear. She saw the deadly stillness in his stance.
"My, my, Leornars," she said, her voice dropping the formal, royal cadence and taking on a breathless, almost intimate tone. "Long time no see, huh?"
Leornars tilted his head, a minimalist response. "I guess so. Now, be a dear and tell your boyscouts to drop those arrows. And be quick about it. If I get bored, I probably won't be able to guarantee no one here ends up having an unfortunate accident."
The air immediately thickened with dread, but not from the threat—from the delivery. He said it so casually, as if asking her to pass the salt. The elves, trained to precision, looked to their princess, their fingers twitching on their bowstrings.
Shylah didn't hesitate. She lifted her hand and snapped an order. "Drop them! Now, Captain! Secure your weapons."
The sound of a hundred arrowheads clattering onto the soft forest floor was surprisingly loud, a final, metallic admission of defeat. The tense circle dissolved into awkward confusion.
Prince Aerion was positively vibrating with disbelief. His grand entrance had been ruined, his authority openly defied by his own sister.
"Sister! Are you insane?!" Aerion demanded, his voice cracking with indignation. He lowered his voice, but the venom was clear. "Do you know this man? He looks like a vagrant! He just threatened to butcher the Royal Guard! We have him dead to rights!".
"The fact that you are still alive is enough to show you he comes in peace,if he wanted he could have killed you and everyone here and even the entire kingdom if he chose to, stop being stupid and understand your opponent. He is a ruler for a reason not a unicorn hunter" The princess said.
"So you know him?" Aerion asked
Shylah sighed, rubbing her temples as if dealing with a particularly slow child. "Yes, Aerion, I know him. And no, you absolutely do not have him 'dead to rights.' You would be dead, and he would be right. He saved me a few months ago, down near the Whisperwood." She paused, then delivered the fatal blow, the information that would turn her brother's cockiness to ash.
"Also, he's the King of Avangard Kingdom."
The forest fell silent again. The silence wasn't just physical; it felt like the entire ancient forest held its breath.
Aerion's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, emitting a pathetic, sputtering sound.
Zhyier and Bellian, who had been spectral shapes of irritation hanging in the air, instantly dissolved, vanishing back into the convenient pocket dimension of Leornars's shadow realm. Leornars merely tilted his head and spoke to his own shadow, a ripple of darkness beneath his feet.
"Zhyelena, go to Avangard and swap with Stacian," he ordered, his voice low and firm. "Bring her here, and you can stay and look after things on the coast for the day. You deserve a break from paperwork she's suited for here."
A fleeting, almost amused feminine silhouette warped the shadow, a silent acknowledgment before the figure stretched and vanished into the ground. A second later, a subtle warp of air miles away confirmed the exchange. Leornars always traveled with a small, terrifyingly competent personal army.
Prince Aerion, having successfully navigated the first shock, latched onto the only part of the exchange he understood.
"Avangard? What in the sacred oaks is an Avangard?" Aerion scoffed, trying desperately to recapture his superior tone.
Even Princess Shylah, who was currently wrestling with a whirlwind of mortification and relief, paused to stare at her brother.
"Sacred oaks? My kingdom?I'll make sure to kill him" Leornars thoughtfully said
"Avangard?" she repeated, her voice dripping with incredulity. "It's the new nation that popped up on the northern coast of the continent, the one that swallowed three smaller duchies in two weeks and is apparently challenging the Empire's northern shipping lanes! How the hell do you not know that, Aerion? It's been the talk of every diplomatic assembly for the past six weeks!"
Aerion simply blinked, managing only a weak, dismissive shrug. "I… don't know. I've been busy preparing for the next Great Hunt and ensuring the banquet menus are acceptable. It sounds dreadfully unimportant."
"So I've heard of your recent - activities, like the killing of the entire royal family in Lurtra and placing a new king, saving the town of Vurnam and several other things, you have been busy huh?" The princess said calmly
"I didn't know you survived the banquet, pretty sure I thought you were in it and died accidentally. Oh well, let's hope it doesn't happen here" Leornars said nonchalantly as a threat.
Leornars sighed, the sheer absurdity of the Elven court hitting him full force. It was like dealing with pampered children playing with world-ending toys.
The tension dissolved further when Shylah—now clearly in charge—stepped forward, her eyes never leaving Leornars's.
"Lord Leornars, I am so incredibly sorry for my brother's… idiocy," she admitted, bowing her head in a gesture of sincere apology. "He has spent too much time hunting unicorns and too little time reading geopolitical reports. Please, sheathe your… threads and follow me. I will personally escort you to the High Queen's castle and ensure my mother makes a proper apology for this appalling welcome."
Leornars felt the urge to roll his eyes. He had been planning the annexation of this kingdom for six months. This whole charade just confirmed his initial assessment: ripe for the taking.
Fine.
He allowed the barely visible lines of razor-thin thread, which had been delicately pressed against the necks of Aerion and the Captain of the Guard, to retract back into his sleeves. The Elven prince and guards shuddered slightly, suddenly feeling a cold draft or perhaps just the psychological relief of escaping unconscious doom.
"I'll be the adult here and not murder children who clearly don't know the first thing about warfare, I'm surrounded by idiots" Leornars stated, his voice flat. It was an insult so perfectly delivered that it was indistinguishable from a simple statement of fact.
The second those words left his mouth, a sudden, blinding flash of blue-white light flared beside him. It was a teleportation that left no scorch marks and made no sound—the signature warp of his shadow-realm logistics team.
Standing where his shadow had been was Stacian.
She was stunning, a sharp contrast to his own casual attire. While Leornars wore his simple black trousers, white shirt, and slippers, Stacian was a vision of royal serenity. She wore a beautiful blue sapphire kimono, cinched with a black obi, her dark blue hair held in place by a simple but elegant black hairpin, accented by a golden necklace. Her blue eyes, usually soft, now gleamed with the intense sapphire light of powerful magic in the bright sun.
Leornars turned to her, his own movements fluid and practiced. He reached up, removing his own golden hair pin, allowing his signature, metallic silver hair—hair that felt cool to the touch and carried the faint scent of ozone—to cascade over his shoulders.
With a gentle, tender touch that belied his cold exterior, he removed Stacian's black hairpin and replaced it with his golden one. Then, with a flourish, he placed her black pin securely in his own silver mane, sweeping his long hair back into a functional knot. Their eyes met—her bright sapphire and his dim crimson—a private, silent exchange of power and intimacy.
The sheer, unspoken intimacy of the gesture—this casual, public swapping of treasured accessories—hit Princess Shylah like a physical blow. Her cheeks turned an alarming shade of bright crimson, and a small, uncontrolled giggle escaped her lips.
"Oh, my word," she whispered, fanning herself lightly. The sight of the powerful Veiled King and his radiant surbodinatetheir silent exchange of devotion and ownershipwas far too much for the romantic princess.
Before Stacian could fully adjust, Shylah swooped in, grabbing the woman's arm with surprising strength.
"There we can't have unmatching ornaments" Leornars adds
"I was wondering where this hair pin was, didn't know you had it" Stacian said nonchalantly
"Lord Leornars, I simply must steal your surbodinate for a moment! We have so much to discuss about… well, everything!" Shylah chirped, already dragging Stacian away toward the cleaner, less arrow-riddled path.
"Lord Leornars?" Stacian asked, her voice holding a slight note of protest, though her face held a soft smile.
"Yes, the path to understanding women is none of my business" Leornars thought.
"Later, Stacian," Leornars called after her, his eyes now distant. He was already shifting his focus. He turned to Zaryter, one of his few companions left visible, who had been leaning casually against a root, observing the entire exchange with a smirk.
"You know, I was right," Zaryter said, adjusting the rifle slung over his back. "You two really should just go get married already. The tension is ridiculous."
Leornars narrowed his crimson eyes. "Die."
Zaryter merely chuckled and followed the retreating figures of the two women.
The royal entourage, now led by a highly deferential Princess Shylah and a thoroughly chastised Prince Aerion, led the King of Avangard into the ancient Elven Kingdom.
The scenery was breathtaking, a testament to two millennia of meticulous growth and magic. They walked along paths paved with smooth, glowing quartz, flanked by trees that seemed to kiss the very clouds. Waterfalls cascaded down moss-covered stones, their pools filled with fish that glittered like scattered jewels. It was a place where time felt slower, heavier, and utterly beautiful.
Aerion, still sulking, finally spoke, his voice much quieter. "The kingdom… it is overwhelming, is it not?"
"It's well-maintained," Leornars said, refusing to grant the elf the satisfaction of awe. A beautiful setting for a new capital, he thought, but beautiful things are often the most fragile.
They moved deeper into the wood toward the central castle—an organic structure grown from a single, massive tree. As they approached the gates, however, the atmosphere shifted abruptly. The overwhelming light and cheer gave way to a somber, silent pocket of grief.
Standing near a carved marble bench was an old Elven lady. Her dress was fine, but hopelessly outdated, and her face was a roadmap of ancient, endless sorrow. She was slowly, meticulously rocking a doll dressed in tiny, elaborate Elven royal robes.
She wasn't merely holding it; she was talking to it with the gentle, focused intensity of a mother comforting a fussy child.
"There, there, my little Lysandra," the old woman cooed, running a trembling finger over the doll's painted cheek. "Mother is going to tell you the story of the moon again. The queen is busy, but we don't need her. We have each other, don't we? Yes, my precious Queen."
The royal twins froze. Shylah's face crumpled with deep, genuine sadness, and even Aerion lowered his gaze, his arrogance momentarily extinguished by a sense of profound shame.
"She is our aunt, Lady Iolanthe," Shylah whispered to Leornars, her voice barely audible. "We rarely speak of her. It is... too painful. She lost everything and left to look like an ornament in the coup, sadly"
Shylah glanced at the Lady Iolanthe, whose eyes were wide and glazed, reflecting a reality no one else could see. "She was the true heir. Two hundred years ago, she was the Crown Princess. The people loved her. She was wise, kind, and married to a powerful, kind lord. She had her only daughter, Lysandra, and everyone knew that Lysandra would one day be the Queen of Elaria."
Shylah took a deep, shaky breath, her composure cracking.
"Then, my mother the current Queen Selalyndra plotted a coup. She didn't want to wait. The coup was swift, brutal, and utterly heartless. During the fighting, Lysandra, who was just an infant, was killed. Some say she was accidentally crushed in the stampede. Others say my mother ordered it to break Iolanthe's spirit."
The image was agonizing. A tiny, perfect life extinguished in the name of political ambition.
"My aunt found her daughter, just a small, still thing, wrapped in a tattered nursery blanket. The shock broke her. A few years later, her husband, who never recovered from the loss of his wife's mind and his daughter's death, succumbed to a swift illness. He just… gave up on living."
Leornars glanced at the old woman. Her lips were moving again, silent pleas addressed to the doll.
"Aunt Iolanthe has been like this for two hundred and thirty-seven years," Shylah finished, tears welling in her eyes. "She believes the doll is Lysandra, who is destined to be queen. She gave up on everything—hope, life, love, and sanity. She is the living, breathing conscience of this court, a constant reminder of the price of my mother's crown."
Two hundred and thirty-seven years of unbroken madness. Leornars felt a cold respect for the tragedy. This wasn't just sadness; it was a cosmic devastation, a soul willingly sacrificing its own reality to hold onto the ghost of a child. It was a perfect, crushing weakness.
The Queen of Elaria is a woman who murdered a child for a throne and then allowed the victim's mother to wander her halls for two centuries as a public display of her victory and her decay. Not heartless, but arrogant, Leornars calculated, filing the information away. Arrogance is a weakness I can exploit.
The entourage was led into a lavish reception room in the castle's main spire. It was all polished dark wood and shimmering green tapestries.
"Please wait here. My mother will summon you shortly," Shylah said, offering a stiff, professional curtsy this time.
She left, and barely five minutes passed before a few Elven servants glided in, setting down a low table with meticulous care. They placed three cups of delicately steeped tea and a small platter of exotic, beautifully prepared finger foods.
When the elves departed, there were four people left in the room: Leornars, Stacian, Zaryter, and Shullah—Zaryter's little sister , who was currently curled comfortably asleep on Zaryter's lap.
The three conscious adults and the child looked at the three cups, the three plates, and then at each other.
"So, who's not eating?" Zaryter asked, raising an eyebrow at the blatant mathematical error. "Shullah will riot if I don't give her some of the sweet berries, and I haven't eaten since we left the fortress."
Before either Leornars or Stacian could speak, Leornars reached out, picked up one of the porcelain cups of tea, and took a slow, deep sip, his eyes scanning the room for listening devices. He placed it down, satisfied that it was mostly unpoisoned.
Stacian immediately reached for the same cup, raising it to her lips and sipping from the exact spot Leornars's lips had been. Next, she picked up a small spoon, used it to sample one of the exotic nut pastries on a plate, and then offered the very same spoon, without cleaning it, directly to Leornars.
He accepted it without hesitation, taking a bite from the spoon and nodding in silent approval. They continued this silent ritual of shared consumption—same cup, same spoon, different plates—as if it were the most natural, unremarkable thing in the universe.
The door creaked open slightly. Princess Shylah, having returned to check on them, saw the scene unfold: the powerful King and his beautiful Queen, sitting across from each other, sharing every piece of food and every sip of drink in a display of seamless, utterly unselfconscious intimacy.
Shylah's face turned scarlet again, but this time, the blush was extreme. She gripped the door frame.
"The… the boldness is divine," she stammered, pulling her hand to her chest. "My ancestors would faint. To share a cup and a spoon like that in public! Such an unparalleled, open declaration of love and trust!"
Both Leornars and Stacian stopped chewing and looked up at the princess, their expressions identical blank masks of confusion.
"You stupid or what?" Leornars asked, his voice completely devoid of charm. He sounded genuinely perplexed by her emotional outburst. "I can't let Stacian stay hungry, and I don't want to waste time calling the kitchens to cook more. Plus, I already checked the tea for poison. I'm not going to force her to drink an untested cup. We just improvise. It's efficient ."
Stacian nodded once, concurring with her King's entirely pragmatic logic, and then went back to sharing the spoon.
Shylah wilted, her romantic fantasy utterly crushed by the heavy boot of practicality. It's not romance, it's just efficiency! She retreated a step, utterly deflated, just as a messenger arrived, breathless.
"Your Majesty, the Veiled King," the messenger announced, ignoring Shylah entirely and directing a nervous bow toward Leornars. "Queen Selalyndra will see you now. She requests the audience of The White Plague."
The honorific, the ancient name given to the terrifying, shadow-based magical force that preceded his rise, hit the room like a hammer blow. The casual atmosphere vanished.
Leornars rose to his full height. His posture became rigid, his movements economical. The slight amusement in his crimson eyes was extinguished, replaced by a gaze that was cold, depthless, and calculating.
He straightened his white shirt, adjusted the black hair pin holding his silver hair in place, and spoke, not to the messenger, but to the air. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble.
"If the Queen is as heartless and tactically astute as the rumours claim, taking this kingdom will be difficult. It will require a slow, careful severance of its alliances and its infrastructure. But if she is merely as self-obsessed and foolish as her Prince, then the annexation will be swift. A surgical strike and a change of flags."
He walked toward the door, leaving the shocked messenger standing in the center of the room.
"I need to expand my nation, and I need to do it now," he continued, the words now a private, burning internal monologue fueled by cold ambition. "I have the Kingdom of Lurtra secured and in my palm. Durmount will be mine in a matter of days. But I need more territory. More resources. More manpower. If I am to end the Northern Empire and the Holy Kingdom, I cannot waste time playing diplomatic games with complacent Elves. I need to hurry. And this Pollium incident is also annoying me"
Leornars paused at the door, glancing back at Stacian. He offered her a faint, possessive smile—a smile meant only for her.
"Wait for me, Stacian and Zaryter. I won't be long. I'm just going to go talk with a bitch of a woman."
"What's a bitch?" Shullah asked in her childlike tone.
He pushed through the massive door and stepped out, the King of Avangard, the Veiled King, the White Plague, ready to talk with the Elven Queen.