Filavandrel aén Fidháil stepped forward, his eyes never leaving the exposed face of the human sergeant. He noticed the lack of scars from pox, the straightness of the man's teeth, and the strange, humming vitality of the metal skin he wore. This was not a starving Nordling soldier; this was something else entirely.
"I am Filavandrel aén Fidháil," the elf declared, his voice carrying the weight of a king in exile. "I lead the Aen Seidhe. We are refugees. In the south, our blood waters the earth in pogroms and our homes are ash. We fled the racism of the human kingdoms seeking only a place where our children might breathe without fear. We had no knowledge of a nation in this frozen waste. We sought only the silence of the North."
Sergeant Silverback listened, his HUD recording every word for linguistic analysis. He noted the term 'Aen Seidhe'—it didn't match the 'Elves' of the old Terran nursery rhymes, confirming his belief that these were simply the indigenous intelligent life of Terra 2.
"Racism and pogroms," Silverback muttered, a grimace flickering across his face. "Some things never change, no matter what planet you're on." He turned to his squad, clicking his comms. "They aren't hostiles. They're displaced civilians. Switch to escort formation."
He turned back to Filavandrel. "We are authorized to let you cross the perimeter, but you cannot enter the urban sectors yet. You will be moved to a designated holding camp. I have to contact the President to inform her of your arrival. Only she can make the final decision on your status within the Republic."
Filavandrel tilted his head, the word tasting strange. "President? Is this your King? Or perhaps a Great Mage?"
"Neither," Silverback replied with a dry chuckle. "She's an elected official. She runs the government, not the elements. Now, move your people forward. Follow the light-strips on the ground."
The hundreds of weary Aen Seidhe crossed the invisible line of the Automated Defense grid, their breath hitching as they passed the silent, predatory Shredder Turrets. They were directed toward a cluster of modular buildings nestled in the valley.
As the elves approached, a murmur of confusion rippled through their ranks. They saw structures made of smooth, white composite materials, with large windows that glowed with a warm, steady luminescence. There were climate-control units humming softly, and the ground was paved with a heated polymer that melted the snow on contact.
"We have gone the wrong way," a young elf whispered, clutching Filavandrel's cloak. "The soldier said a 'camp.' This... this is a palace of glass."
Filavandrel stopped a passing soldier, whose power suit hissed as he turned. "Pardon, but we were told to go to a camp. We do not wish to intrude upon your nobility's guest houses."
The soldier looked at the elf through his visor, his voice echoing slightly. "This is the camp, pal. It's a standard-issue temporary housing unit. Now keep moving, there's hot soup and medical scanners waiting inside."
By the standards of a modern Terran city, the modular units were merely functional transit houses. But to the Aen Seidhe—accustomed to mud-slicked tents and the draughty stone halls of the south—the "camps" were a marvel of luxury. They found beds with synthetic wool, running water that stayed hot, and air that smelled of nothing but cleanliness.
Meanwhile, back at the command post, Sergeant Silverback engaged a secure, high-latency orbital link. The holographic shimmering of a woman appeared before him. She was young for her position, with sharp eyes and a professional poise.
"Sergeant Silverback," President Jasmine Smith said. "I'm looking at your report. Thousands of indigenous humanoids with pointed ears claiming to be refugees from a southern war? Is this a joke?"
"No, Madam President," Silverback replied, standing at attention. "The Aen Seidhe are real. They've arrived in the hundreds, with thousands more likely behind them. They speak a variant of Common and show signs of extreme trauma from what they call 'pogroms.' They're currently being processed in the Sector 9 guest houses."
Jasmine Smith leaned back, tapping a pen against her desk. "Centuries of isolation, and now we have a humanitarian crisis on our doorstep. Keep them contained but comfortable, Sergeant. I'm convening the Congress. We need to decide if the Terra Republic is ready to stop being a secret."
******
The air in the processing hall hummed with a sound the Aen Seidhe could not identify—the constant, low-frequency vibration of a high-capacity climate control system. Filavandrel stood in the center of the room, his eyes fixed on a pedestal that suddenly shimmered with blue light.
Particles of light coalesced, weaving together to form the life-sized image of a woman. She sat behind a desk of polished synthetic glass, her hair pulled back in a sharp, professional bun. This was President Jasmine Smith. To the elves, she looked like a spectral apparition, a ghost of power.
"I am Filavandrel aén Fidháil," the elven leader repeated, bowing his head slightly, though his hand remained near his sword. "We have seen your 'camps.' We have tasted your 'rations.' We do not understand this magic, but we know when a cage is gilded."
The holographic image of Jasmine Smith leaned forward. Her voice, transmitted through hidden speakers, was crisp and devoid of the melodic lilt of the Elder Speech. "It isn't magic, Filavandrel. It is engineering. And you aren't in a cage. You are in a processing center of the Terra Republic."
She paused, looking at data scrolls—digital tablets—off-screen. "Sergeant Silverback has briefed me on your situation in the south. The Republic does not recognize 'pogroms' as a legitimate tool of statecraft. We are a nation of academics and builders. We value stability and output."
"Then what is our price?" Filavandrel asked, his voice hardening. "In the south, humans want our land or our lives. What do the people of the North want from the Aen Seidhe? Is it labor? Are we to be your serfs? Your miners?"
Jasmine Smith offered a faint, clinical smile. "The Republic has no use for serfs. Inefficient labor is a drain on our resources. We are granting your people Temporary Citizenship effective immediately. This status provides you with housing, healthcare, and protection under the Automated Defense grid."
Filavandrel exchanged a wary glance with the Sage standing behind him. "And the cost of this 'citizenship'?"
"Merit," Jasmine replied firmly. "In Terra, your value is defined by what you contribute to the collective progress. If you show merit, your citizenship will become permanent. You mentioned labor, but we are not looking for slaves. We need citizens. You can be laborers, yes, but you can also be shopkeepers, technicians, factory workers, accountants, fishermen, hunters, or farmers. Whatever your skills are, the Republic will find a place for them."
A heavy silence fell over the elven delegation. For centuries, they had been pushed into the wilderness, told they were "vermin" who had no place in a human world unless they were cleaning stables or dying in mines. To be told they could be accountants or technicians—words they barely understood but recognized as positions of dignity—was a shock that hit harder than any physical blow.
"You want us... to work as equals?" Filavandrel whispered, his voice cracking for the first time.
"We want you to work as Terrans," Jasmine corrected him. "We don't care about the shape of your ears or the length of your lifespan. We care about your aptitude and your willingness to uphold the law of the Republic. If you build for us, we will protect you."
Filavandrel looked back at the hundreds of elves through the transparent walls of the guest house. They were eating warm food, their wounds were being treated by automated med-drones, and for the first time in generations, they weren't looking over their shoulders for a torch-bearing mob.
"The Aen Seidhe accept," Filavandrel said, bowing deeply this time. "We will show you our merit."
The hologram nodded once. "Welcome to the North, Filavandrel. Sergeant Silverback will begin the aptitude testing. We have a lot of work to do. The Republic is expanding, and we can always use more hands on the frontier."
As the light of the President faded, the elves felt a strange sensation—not the fear of a new master, but the weight of a new future. They were no longer the "Elder Race" hiding in the woods. They were the newest employees of a machine that intended to swallow the world.