The Sinful Young Master

"Humans?" Edor scoffed, his voice edged with the arrogance of youth. "What do they know of the old magics? What can steel and fire do against creatures born of the primordial depths?"

Ivyona studied the scene below thoughtfully. "Do not underestimate them, my son. Humanity has faced extinction before and prevailed. Their resilience is their greatest strength."

"Indeed," Akurnni agreed.

"They have quite a few individuals who are capable of dealing with this threat."

Akurnni's voice resonated with the deep currents of the ancient and powerful ocean. "Edor… your faith in humanity blinds you to the nature of this threat."

The sea deity gestured toward the scene, where the nyphorite horde was present—their razor-sharp appendages, their hunger-filled eyes, and the distinct symbols carved into their very flesh.

"These are not mere creatures of the deep," Akurnni continued, his eyes reflecting the endless depths of the ocean. "These are the forgotten children of abyssal entities, the very existence of darkness."

A heavy silence fell over the chamber as the implication of his words sank in.

"The humans will fight valiantly," Akurnni said, his tone softening slightly. "They will sacrifice much, as they always have. But ignorance of the true threat will be their downfall—and perhaps the downfall of all."

Inadrys sighed, making everyone stop talking. He said, "Humans will take care of them, and they always do. We just have to wait and see."

Akurnni stared at his brother for a moment; he couldn't tell what Inadrys was thinking. He wouldn't help them, that's for sure. The threat of Nynthralls was quite serious this time, but Inadrys was leaving the matter to the humans to deal with.

Ivyone also thought the same.

They didn't voice their opinions.

Then Inadrys said, "Edor, I want you to answer their prayers; help them if the situation looks desperate."

Edor exclaimed, "What!? WHY?!!"

Inadrys turned to him and gave him a blank stare, and Edor stepped back. He wasn't one who could stand against his father.

Edor bowed and nodded, accepting his father's orders.

Ivyona and Akurnni exchanged glances. They thought he was not going to help them, but he was sending his son. They couldn't comprehend what he was thinking.

Inadrys, still a mystery to the ones close to him and to the ones who sought his help, simply nodded and walked away, leaving Edor to fulfil his duty.

All of them stood there, watching the monstrous horde scramble over the depths.

***

In the midlands, far in the northern region, deep inside the chained mountains, Jolthar stood motionless as the ashen-skinned elves bound his wrists with silk-strong cords.

Their touch was cold against his skin, their violet-hazed complexions a stark contrast to the fair-skinned elves he knew. They were completely distinct from what he had expected an elf to be.

These were different beings altogether—some lean as whipcord, others with muscles rippling beneath their ashen skin like marble statues. The violet haze which was present on their skin, like straight lines, pulsed with each heartbeat, a visible manifestation of the chaos energies they had evolved to harness over millennia.

Jolthar let himself be caught and remained restrained.

He could have broken free.

The familiar silver energy of his voidwrath stirred within him, eager to be unleashed. It would have been simple to fight them. Yet Jolthar remained still, allowing himself to be led through the strange settlement of crystalline structures and living trees warped by mysterious energies.

His grandmother's words resonated in his mind; when he met the chaos elves, he needed to be careful. He shouldn't disrespect them in any way.

More importantly, he shouldn't draw his blade.

The elves led him to the village centre, a circular clearing dominated by a pool of liquid that shimmered with an impossible spectrum of colours.

The gathered elves stood at a respectful distance, their violet eyes fixed upon him with a mixture of curiosity and undisguised hostility.

"A human touched by chaos walks freely," one whispered in their different tongue, a language Jolthar didn't understand. "He should be consumed by madness."

Murmur spread through the crowd, but Jolthar couldn't make out what they were saying.

He looked around; the elves stood staring at him, like he was some alien creature invading their lands.

I am an alien to them, obviously. Jolthar thought to himself.

He could tell by the faint glow of violet energies around them. All of them were touched by chaos, and yet they don't seem too disturbed and struggle against the chaos. It was like breathing air, simple.

And he could tell that his presence in these lands made them hostile towards him. He could tell just by their glaring and their hissing at him.

A path cleared among the crowd, and an elderly elf emerged, his skin bearing more pronounced violet veins than the others.

Unlike his kin, whose bodies seemed untouched by age, this elder bore the marks of centuries—perhaps centuries-of—existence. He leaned upon a staff of white wood that seemed to drink in the surrounding light rather than reflect it.

The elderly elf strode towards Jolthar, taking his time. As soon as he entered the scene, everybody stopped talking and silently waited for him to speak.

The elder circled Jolthar slowly, examining him with eyes that held the depth of ancient oceans. His steps were deliberate, measured, as though each movement was a calculation completed after careful consideration.

He took in every detail of Jolthar, his frame, and the ring on his finger. Jolthar put his swords inside his ring, so he wasn't carrying any.

"Who are you?" the elder finally asked, his voice carrying both authority and genuine curiosity. And it was a human language, surprising Jolthar.

"I'm Jolthar," he replied simply, keeping his tone level.

The elder completed another circuit around him before speaking again. "Why did you come here?" His eyes narrowed slightly. "Did that man send you?"

Jolthar knew instantly whom the elder meant. Jolthar understood that the elder was talking about the ancestor from whom he got the sword. And he was sure that only he was the man who reached the lands.

He nodded once, a simple confirmation.