Varthiel Arakanos did not sleep the whole journey back to Argonar. He barely ate. He did not allow himself to rest. He pushed Icepaw to the absolute limit in his urgency to reach the realm of the Dark Elves, for the tidings he bore after his detainment by the strange humans, the Americans, were of such world-shaking importance that he could not afford even a moment's delay. The Dark Elf scout had never felt such urgency in all his three centuries of life. What he had seen in the human realm had shaken him to his core.
Icepaw sensed his master's distress. Though the creature's mighty heart strained against its ribs and its breath came in ragged gasps, it did not falter. The bond between rider and mount ran deep, far beyond mere loyalty. Icepaw understood, on some instinctual level, that this journey carried significance beyond any they had undertaken before. Though exhaustion plagued the creature, it sensed its rider's desperation and pressed onward through storm and clear skies alike. If Varthiel needed speed, Icepaw would give his last breath to provide it.
By the time the jagged peaks of the Great Mountains came into view, both rider and mount were near collapse. Varthiel's crimson eyes burned from lack of sleep, and his normally immaculate appearance had deteriorated to a state that would have mortified him under any other circumstance. His silver hair, usually bound in intricate braids befitting his station, now whipped wild and tangled. He felt faint with hunger and parched with thirst, but his loyalty—to his liege, to his Queen, to his people, and most of all to his paramour and young son—drove Varthiel to draw on reserves of endurance he did not know he possessed.
"Just a little further," Varthiel whispered as Icepaw's wings faltered for a moment. "You have served me well, old friend. Just a little more."
The zburator responded with a low, exhausted growl but pressed on, his powerful body trembling with fatigue. Days of relentless flight had taken their toll on him, too. Where once Icepaw's silver-white fur had gleamed like fresh snow, it now hung dull and matted with sweat. His ice-blue eyes, once sharp and alert, now drooped with fatigue. The mighty beast was running on willpower alone, just as his master was.
When they finally reached the icy peaks that marked the farthest extent of Sarnath’s southern coastline, Varthiel almost sobbed with relief. Argonar was less than a day’s flight away now, and with luck, he’d reach Lady Nyrena before dark.
The coastal watchtowers spotted them first—a lone zburator and rider approaching from the south, flying erratically. They sent the alert through the network of signal fires that connected Sarnath's defenses. Varthiel knew that word of his arrival would precede him by hours, and that was all for the better.
Just a little more, he thought. Just a little further.
It was just after nightfall when Argonar’s telltale sea of spires and towers finally emerged out of the fog and icy mist that lay perpetually over Sarnath like a gauzy funeral shroud. Varthiel banked Icepaw over the capital. Lady Nyrena’s estate holdings lay on the northeastern edge of the city, where the black mountains folded into glacial valleys.
"We're almost there," Varthiel urged, his own voice cracking with dehydration. "Just a little further, old friend."
But Icepaw had already given everything he had. As they approached Lady Nyrena's estate, the zburator’s strength finally deserted him. Instead of the graceful descent that would normally carry them to the landing platform on one of the many towers, Icepaw plummeted the final hundred feet, crashing onto the obsidian courtyard with a sickening thud. Varthiel’s beloved mount rolled head over heels several times before coming to a stop in a mess of tangled limbs and wings.
The impact threw Varthiel clear from the saddle. For a terrifying instant, the world spun around him as he tumbled across the cold obsidian stones. Pain lanced through his body, but it was nothing compared to the fear that seized his heart when he heard Icepaw's pained whimper.
Guards rushed forward as Varthiel staggered to his feet, his vision swimming. He ignored them completely, pushing past their reaching hands to stumble toward his fallen mount. Relief flooded through him when he saw Icepaw's sides still heaving with labored breath. The zburator lived, though it would need days, perhaps weeks, of recovery.
"Scout Arakanos!" One of Lady Nyrena's household guards reached for his arm. "We had almost given you up for dead. You require immediate attention. Allow us to—"
"No!" Varthiel's voice was a harsh rasp. He shrugged off the guard's grip with surprising strength for one so clearly exhausted. "I must see Lady Nyrena. Now. Immediately. And get food and water and a healer for my mount—he needs it more than I.”
The guards exchanged concerned glances. Even by Dark Elf standards, Varthiel looked half-dead. His normally immaculate appearance was in shambles, his face gaunt and haggard from days without proper nourishment or rest. His eyes, normally a vibrant crimson, were dull and bloodshot. Yet there was an intensity in them that gave the guards pause.
"My lord," the captain of the guard said more firmly, "Lady Nyrena would have our heads if we brought you to her in this state, and she has already retired for the evening in any case. Surely whatever news you bear can wait until morning. Let us at least—"
"I care nothing for your heads or mine!" Varthiel snarled. "The tidings I bear cannot wait for such trivial concerns as my appearance or comfort, nor can I allow another hour, another moment, to pass without imparting them!" His hand shot out, seizing the captain's wrist with surprising strength. "I have flown for days without rest, without sleep, without food or water, to bring word to Lady Nyrena of matters that concern the very fate of our realm. I will not be delayed by protocol or concerns for my well-being. If Lady Nyrena wishes to take my head once I have discharged my duty, that is her prerogative, but only after she has heard what I need to say! Take me to her now!”
The guards took a few involuntary steps backward at Varthiel’s sudden outburst. Even their captain was unnerved. Even in all his years of service, he had never seen the normally composed Varthiel in such a state. No self-respecting Dark Elf would put on such an emotional display. Something truly momentous—or catastrophic—must have occurred to affect a scout of Varthiel’s caliber this way.
Lady Nyrena did not like to be disturbed after retiring to her chambers. At all. But the desperation in Varthiel’s eyes, the ragged edge in his voice, swayed the captain’s mind.
"Very well," he relented, signaling to his subordinates. "Tend to the zburator. Give it water and whatever sustenance our beast-masters recommend for one so exhausted. The rest of you, with me." He turned back to Varthiel. "Come. I will take you to her."
The captain led Varthiel through the twisting corridors of Lady Nyrena's estate, past ancient tapestries depicting the glory of Sarnath and sculptures of obsidian and ice that gleamed in the pale blue witchlight. Under normal circumstances, Varthiel would have appreciated the austere beauty of his liege's home, but now he barely registered his surroundings.
His mind raced with the images he had seen in the human realm—the flying machines, the vessels that moved without sails, the weapons that spat death without magic, and most disturbing of all, those infernal "satellites" that even now might be watching Sarnath from above the clouds. The thought made his skin crawl.
Servants, guards, and lesser nobles alike stopped and stared as they passed, shocked by the Varthiel’s disheveled appearance. Dark Elves prided themselves on composure and elegance at all times; to see one of their most respected scouts in such a state was deeply unsettling.
Varthiel could not have cared less as the captain and his men led him up a spiraling staircase that seemed to stretch endlessly toward the heavens. Lady Nyrena's solar was located in the highest tower of her estate, as befitting her station, but that was little comfort to the exhausted scout. Each step was agony for his depleted body, and more than once, his legs nearly gave out beneath him. Only sheer stubbornness kept him moving forward. The briefcase of human gifts felt impossibly heavy against his side, but he clutched it in a white-knuckled grip.
After what seemed an age, they arrived at the ornate entrance to Lady Nyrena's private solar: two double doors of sturdy oak sheathed in a coat of gleaming silver and inlaid with stones of onyx jet. Two guards stood outside it in rigid attention, clad in full plate armor the color of a starless night sky. These were not mere household guards but elite warriors of the Lykaia, sworn to serve the elite of Dark Elf society. Their presence here, outside her private chambers, spoke volumes about her growing influence within the court. As Varthiel and the others approached, they crossed their frost-forged halberds to block their path.
"The Lady has given explicit instructions not to be disturbed," one of the guards said flatly.
The captain hesitated. "Scout Arakanos brings urgent tidings. He has flown without rest for days to deliver them."
Varthiel stepped forward. “Please. I must see her. This cannot wait—you do not understand what is at stake." His voice cracked with desperation, all pretense of Dark Elven composure abandoned.
The guards exchanged glances, their stoic expressions betraying the faintest hint of uncertainty. They had served Lady Nyrena long enough to recognize genuine desperation when they saw it, and the scout before them was clearly at the edge of collapse. You couldn’t fake that kind of urgency. Whatever dire news the scout carried, it was sufficiently alarming to have driven him beyond reason, beyond protocol, beyond any regard for his own safety.
Finally, one of them stepped back. "Wait here,” he ordered, and without waiting for a response, he disappeared through the doors, closing them firmly behind him.
Varthiel swayed on his feet. The captain of the guard reached out to steady him, but the scout shook him off with a snarl. He would not show weakness. Not now. Not when he was so close.
Inside her solar, Lady Nyrena Arany'ar was seated at her writing desk when the guard entered, her elegant fingers tracing arcane symbols onto a scroll of parchment. The soft blue glow of witchlight illuminated her features—high cheekbones, alabaster skin, and eyes the color of fresh blood. Her hair cascaded down her back in an intricate pattern of braids. She was clad in a shimmering white dress—a nightgown, really, and one that did little to conceal her flawless curves or the swell of her breasts beneath.
Her chambers were a testament to her refined taste—sparse yet elegant, with furniture carved from ancient ice-oak and adorned with silver filigree. Floor-to-ceiling windows of flawless lattice-worked glass, as delicate as the wings of a butterfly, looked out over the glittering expanse of Argonar and, beyond it, the frozen seas. Ancient tomes and scrolls filled shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling along one wall, while artifacts gathered from across Loriath sat in locked display cases or rested on pedestals of polished obsidian.
Nyrena did not look up from her scrollwork as the guard entered. She continued tracing the glowing sigils with practiced precision.
"I believe I made my wishes clear," she said, her voice soft yet edged with unmistakable authority. "I was not to be disturbed."
The guard bowed deeply. “A hundred apologies. Forgive the intrusion, my lady, but Scout Arakanos has returned. He is... insistent that he speak with you immediately."
At this, Lady Nyrena's hand paused mid-stroke. The glow of the half-formed sigil faded as her concentration broke. She had sent Varthiel south weeks ago to investigate rumors of strange happenings beyond their borders—rumors she had deliberately kept from the Queen and the Twilight Council. He’d been gone far longer than anticipated, and in fact, she’d begun to doubt if he’d return at all.
"How does he appear?" she asked, carefully setting her quill aside.
The guard shifted uncomfortably. "Forgive me, my lady, but... he looks as though he has been to the gates of the underworld and barely escaped. He is haggard, exhausted, and appears not to have rested or eaten in days. His mount nearly died bringing him here, so great was his haste to return to us.”
Lady Nyrena's eyebrows rose a fraction—the closest she ever came to displaying surprise. Varthiel was one of her most trusted agents, a scout of unimpeachable loyalty and skill. For him to return in such a state of urgency meant something significant had occurred.
"Send him in," she commanded, rising from her desk with fluid grace. She paused only to don a shimmering robe of fine sable fur over her thin, gossamer gown. It did little to conceal her form beneath, but it at least maintained a veneer of modesty.
A heartbeat later, Varthiel stumbled into her presence. He nearly fell over onto one side as he sank to one knee before her. One of his hands clutched a satchel or case of some kind. His normally immaculate appearance was in shambles, his silver hair tangled and matted, his face gaunt from hunger and exhaustion. Yet his eyes burned with an intensity that sent a chill down Nyrena’s spine.
"Rise, Varthiel," Lady Nyrena commanded, her voice betraying none of the concern that flickered behind her crimson eyes. She gestured at one of the chairs. "Sit yourself, and speak freely. What news do you bring that could not wait until morning?"
Varthiel swayed as he rose to his feet and managed the few steps needed to sink gratefully into the chair, his body nearly betraying him as his muscles threatened to give out entirely. The exhaustion that had been held at bay by sheer determination now crashed over him in waves. The guards exchanged concerned glances, but Lady Nyrena waved them away with an elegant flick of her wrist. "Leave us," she ordered. "All of you. Have food and water brought here at once.”
They hesitated only a moment before bowing and withdrawing from the solar. The heavy doors closed behind them with a soft thud that seemed to echo in the sudden silence.
For a moment, the only sound in the solar was Varthiel's labored breathing. Nyrena waited patiently for him to catch his breath.
"My lady," Varthiel began, his voice hoarse. "I have seen... things beyond imagining. At your command, I flew south to investigate the strange occurrences, to seek out the source of the Disturbance that shook our realm and ascertain the truth of certain…rumors…that reached your ears in the days that followed it.” He dared to meet her gaze. “They were all true. Every single one of them. Yet still none conveyed even the fraction of the full reality.”
Lady Nyrena settled into a chair opposite him, her expression betraying nothing as she folded her hands in her lap. "Speak plainly, Varthiel. What did you find?"
"A realm torn from its roots." His voice cracked with the strain of delivering his report. "Cast adrift upon the tides of fate until it arrived here. How and why such a thing has happened, I know not. I know only that the humans who dwell there call it 'America,' and it is vast beyond comprehension—far larger than any human kingdom we have encountered before."
Nyrena's eyes narrowed fractionally. "How large?"
"Thousands of leagues across, my lady. From sea to sea. Millions upon millions of humans dwell there." Varthiel drew a ragged breath and reached into the folds of his cloak. Clasping the sealed scrolls upon which he’d written all his observations before his detainment, he held them out to her.
Lady Nyrena accepted the scrolls with a graceful hand, her crimson eyes scanning the first page with remarkable speed. As she read, her composure—that perfect mask of aristocratic indifference which had served her so well in the cutthroat politics of Sarnath—began to slip. Her eyes widened, her lips parted, and for the briefest moment, genuine shock registered on her flawless features.
"I was captured," Varthiel continued, the admission clearly paining him. "Detained by their soldiers after I was spotted flying over their territory. They possess flying…machines, my lady—metal constructs that put even the Dwarfs to shame, and soar faster than any zburator could hope to match. They intercepted me with ease. I did not even know my presence had been detected until they were already upon me."
Lady Nyrena's fingers tightened on the parchment, crinkling its edges. "They dared to detain a scout of Sarnath?" Her voice was soft, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. In all his centuries of service, Varthiel had never failed in a mission. For any Dark Elf, to be captured by humans—creatures the Dark Elves viewed as little more than clever animals—was a profound humiliation. The braziers flickered, their flames dimming as if in response to her anger. “What did they do to you?”
"Nothing," Varthiel replied, and the stark simplicity of his answer bewildered Nyrena even more than his appearance. "That is what confounds me most, my lady. They did not torture me. They did not even attempt to use magic to extract information from my mind. They simply...questioned me. Politely. They fed me, housed me, and treated me with a curious sort of respect I have never encountered in humans before."
Lady Nyrena's brow furrowed. This defied all logic. Humans, in her experience, were brutish creatures prone to violence. "A deception, then? Some form of psychological manipulation?"
"I thought the same at first." Varthiel leaned forward, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the urgency of his report. "But no. They have no need for such games, my lady. Their power..." He swallowed hard. "It exceeds anything we could have imagined."
A servant entered silently, carrying a tray of food, and placed it on Varthiel’s lap. Nyrena did not reply until the young Elf-girl departed and the chamber doors were once again firmly shut.
“How so?” Nyrena asked. “How can human barbarians rival the might of the Sar’Kadan? Even with their flying machines—”
"But the flying machines are only the beginning." Varthiel's voice lowered to a whisper, as if afraid the very walls might hear him. "They have devices that allow them to communicate across vast distances in an instant. They have weapons that can kill from hundreds of paces without using magic. They have vessels that travel beneath the waves like fish and cities so vast they seem to stretch on forever.”
Lady Nyrena's fingers tightened on the armrests of her chair, the only outward sign of her growing alarm. "And you witnessed these things personally?"
"Yes, my lady. But worse still—" Varthiel paused, steeling himself. "They can see us. They see everything. While I was captive, they showed me images of Argonar. Our city. Our home. Viewed from above the clouds as if by the eyes of a god."
A chill swept through Nyrena's body. For the first time in decades, genuine fear flickered behind her crimson eyes. "This cannot be. It is impossible."
"I thought so too, at first. But they have yet more machines—satellites, they call them—that hang in the sky and see all. They can see our troop movements, our defenses, even individual guards patrolling the walls. Every tower, every fortress, every building is laid bare to their gaze. They are, I am sure, watching even now.”
It took every ounce of Nyrena’s formidable self-control not to grip the edge of her desk to steady herself. The implications were staggering. For millennia, the Dark Elves had relied on secrecy and isolation as their first line of defense. Their homeland's harsh climate and treacherous terrain had kept all but the most determined invaders at bay. Now, these humans—these Americans—had stripped away that protection as easily as peeling an onion.
"You are certain of this?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "These humans—these Americans—they can truly see Argonar? All of it?"
"I saw it with my own eyes, my lady," Varthiel insisted. "Nothing is hidden from them. Not even sorcery seems able to blind their infernal devices.”
"And the Disturbance?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
"It was the result of America’s arrival here," Varthiel confirmed. "A whole realm torn from its roots and cast into our world. The Americans claim it happened without their knowledge or consent. And as they have no way to reverse it, they are here to stay.”
Lady Nyrena moved to the latticed windows, staring out at the glittering expanse of Argonar as if she might glimpse these human "satellites" lurking beyond the stars. Her reflection stared back at her, a pale ghost superimposed over the dark cityscape, and for the first time in centuries, she saw fear in her own eyes.
“Why did they let you go?” she finally asked.
"To bring their word to you, and to our Queen.”
“Which is?”
“They claim they want to establish diplomatic relations," Varthiel said, straightening in his seat despite his exhaustion. "They released me as a supposed gesture of goodwill, to demonstrate their peaceful intentions, and asked me to convey to you their desire that we send emissaries to them, that negotiations for trade and peace might begin.”
Lady Nyrena turned from the window, her face a perfect mask once more. "And you believe these overtures to be genuine?"
"I believe they are pragmatic," Varthiel replied, choosing his words carefully. "These Americans understand that conflict benefits neither side. They have already established contact with the Under-Realm and will soon enter into talks with King Firebeard if they have not already. More, consider their position: they are adrift in a world they do not know. They are disoriented, confused, and almost certainly severed from the supply lines and trade routes they might once have counted on. They have nothing but themselves and what they brought with them in their exodus. They are alone here. They need raw materials and markets for their goods. They desire to understand this world they've found themselves in, and more importantly, they cannot use magic. During my incarceration, I never saw any mages or sorcerers among them. Not a one.”
That got Nyrena’s attention. "No magic?" she asked skeptically. "If all you’ve told me is true, how can they do such things without mastery of the Art?”
“Through machines, and their own ingenuity," Varthiel explained. “I have seen them communicate across vast distances using small, slab-like devices that they hold to their ears. Such a feat can only be accomplished by a trained warlock with a scrying crystal, yet the Americans can accomplish it with ease. Even their young children are able to do it.”
Nyrena thought back to the strange device one of her other scouts had brought back, the same device she’d held in her hands and whose function even her House’s best diviners had not been able to discern. “So that is what it is for,” she murmured.
Varthiel blinked. “My lady?”
“Nothing.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Yet surely their machines, no matter how powerful, have their limits. Metal rusts and gears corrode and break, whereas magic endures. It is inexhaustible, and everywhere, and accessible to any who feel its touch.”
“I agree,” said Varthiel. “I have thought on this. I have pondered it. And if it is clear to us, I assure you, the Americans will figure it out for themselves soon enough. It troubles them deeply, for magic is the one great unknown for which they have no answer. This, too, we might yet turn to our advantage.”
“Do you think we could defeat them, if it came to war?” Nyrena asked.
“No.” Varthiel’s answer was chillingly plain. “We might exact a fearful toll upon their armies, but they are as many as leaves upon an autumn wind. They could lose thousands and barely notice. Their flying machines can rain death from above without ever coming within range of our most powerful spells. They have weapons that can strike with pinpoint accuracy across vast distances, and warships larger and stronger than any I have seen before. It pains me to my very core to even say the words aloud, but against these Americans, there can be no victory.”
Nyrena's face betrayed nothing as she processed this admission. The chill that had begun in her spine now spread throughout her body, though not a flicker of it showed in her crimson eyes. She was a daughter of House Arany'ar, after all, and centuries of political maneuvering in Sarnath's deadly court had taught her to keep her thoughts hidden behind a mask of cool indifference.
"You truly believe this,” she murmured. It was a statement, not a question.
"I would not say it if I did not believe it with every fiber of my being," Varthiel replied. His crimson eyes held no deception, only a bone-deep weariness and the haunted look of one who had gazed upon something that had fundamentally altered his understanding of the world. "I would advise that we tame this sleeping giant rather than provoke it. If we cannot defeat the Americans through force of arms, then perhaps we can bend them to our will through guile and diplomacy. They are mighty, but they are still humans, with all the weaknesses inherent to their kind. If we move quickly, we can define the terms of engagement while they are still relatively vulnerable. But once they find their footing, once they have shaken off their sense of malaise and fear and turned their gaze outward, that window of opportunity will be lost and will not appear again.”
Nyrena nodded slowly. Wise counsel indeed, she thought. It was exactly the sort of stone-cold rationalism that had allowed her people to survive and endure when so many others had fallen onto the ash heap of history. If the Sar’Kadan moved with haste and purpose to establish themselves as equals rather than subjects, they could secure favorable terms. And once secured, they could use all their guile and subtlety to influence the Americans from within, subtly guiding their policies to benefit Sarnath's interests.
"You have done well, Varthiel," she said at last. "Few would have endured what you have and returned with such clarity of purpose. You have done me, and our Queen, and all our people a tremendous service.”
Varthiel's shoulders sagged slightly at the praise, as if the weight of his duty had finally been discharged and he could at last permit himself to acknowledge his exhaustion. He bowed his head. “Thank you, my lady.”
Lady Nyrena paced serenely across the gleaming black marble floor. The fur robe swished around her ankles as she moved.
"And what of this?" She gestured to the strange case clutched in Varthiel's hands.
"Gifts, my lady,” Varthiel said. He set the case on a nearby table and opened it. “For you, and for the Queen. Small but symbolic things—tokens of goodwill that represent each of their provinces, which they call 'states.' There are fifty in all, or so my captors claimed. And also books that explain their history and governance."
Lady Nyrena approached cautiously, as if the case might contain some trap. Inside lay an eclectic assortment of objects: small bottles, trinkets, books, and various curiosities. She lifted a tiny vial of golden liquid, examining it in the witchlight.
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“What is this?”
"Maple syrup," Varthiel explained. "A sweetener made from sap, which they extract from trees."
She put the vial down and picked up a small bottle of some red liquid. She removed the cap, sniffed, and made a face. It stung her nose.
“A spicy sauce. Tabasco.” The strange word tasted foreign on his tongue. “Made from a certain pepper in one of their southernmost provinces, from what I understand. In the interest of ensuring your safety and that of Her Majesty, I took the liberty of putting a single drop on my finger and trying it during my journey here. I would not recommend it.”
"And this?" Nyrena plucked a small, carved figurine from the case—a bear standing on its hind legs, fashioned from some pale material she didn't recognize. The craftsmanship was surprisingly delicate, and the details of the bear's fur and features were rendered with remarkable precision.
"Whalebone, I believe," Varthiel answered. "From Alaska, their northernmost territory. A land not unlike our own—cold, harsh, and unforgiving."
Nyrena turned the carving over in her slender fingers, studying it with newfound interest. After a moment, she set it aside and reached for one of the books, her eyes narrowing as she examined the unfamiliar script on its cover.
"Their written language," she mused. "It will need to be translated."
"Indeed, my lady. I suspect our mages will make short work of it."
“They must feel very sure of themselves to share such information about themselves so freely. Knowledge is power, and the wise do not share power with strangers.”
Varthiel nodded grimly. "I believe that is precisely their intent, my lady. To demonstrate that they have nothing to hide—and nothing to fear. Yet it is precisely this confidence that makes them vulnerable to our influence. They believe in openness, in transparency. We can make great use of that.”
"Indeed.” Lady Nyrena closed the briefcase with a decisive snap. For weeks now, she had kept her investigations into the Disturbance secret, sharing them with neither the Twilight Council nor the Queen, save for only vague reports of rumors and hearsay. But now the time for secrecy was over. It was time to play her hand and make her move.
"Rest now, Varthiel," she said, her voice softening slightly. "You have done more than enough. Rest, and eat, and go see to your lover and your son. I will ensure that Icepaw receives the finest care our beast-masters can provide."
"My lady, what will you do?" Varthiel asked, his voice barely above a whisper as exhaustion finally claimed him.
"What must be done," Nyrena replied. She reached for a small silver bell on her desk and rang it once. The doors to her solar opened immediately, and one of the Lykaia entered.
“Instruct one of my servants to help Varthiel to a bed. Once you’ve done that, muster your comrades and prepare to depart for the palace,” she said crisply. “I must seek an audience with Her Majesty.”
The guard’s eyes widened. “Now, my lady? But the Council surely sits in session already. They will not appreciate the interruption—”
“They will overlook it when they hear what I have to say,” Nyrena snapped. “We depart for the palace immediately.”
The Lykaia guard stiffened at her tone but bowed and departed to carry out her commands. A second later, one of the estate’s many attendants came to help Varthiel out of his chair. The scout had to lean on him to keep his balance as he was helped from the room.
As the door closed behind him, Nyrena's crimson eyes gleamed with a calculating light. For too long, she had been denied a seat on the Twilight Council, that inner circle of twelve who guided Sarnath's destiny. Now, with this information—with what Varthiel had brought her—she finally held something of immeasurable value. Something that could elevate her House to unprecedented heights when she was the one who delivered it. She discarded the fur robe and began to don raiment more fitting for the occasion: a gown of midnight blue so dark it seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, adorned with tiny diamonds that caught the witchlight and glittered like stars in the night sky. A circlet of silver studded with sapphires was placed upon her brow, and a necklace of diamonds adorned her slender throat. A white fur cloak edged with crimson completed the ensemble. Her staff—both a tool of her sorcerous trade and a symbol of trade—leapt from where it leaned against one corner and all but flew into her open hand with the barest exertion of her iron will.
Less than sixty minutes later, flanked by her seneschal, her personal guard, and several attendants, the head of House Arany'ar strode purposefully through the frost-glazed streets of the Dark Elf capital. The night was unusually cold, even by the standards of Argonar. Frost clung to the obsidian spires like delicate lace, and the breath of the Dark Elves crystallized in the air before them as they made their way toward the palace. Lady Nyrena's procession moved with practiced precision. Sar’Kadan of lesser rank moved aside, and many bowed as they passed. Her reputation as a rising star in Sarnath's political firmament preceded her.
She had lived in Argonar all her life, but even so, Lady Nyrena sucked in a breath as the palace hove into view. It was the grandest, most magnificent, and most foreboding edifice in all of Sarnath. It loomed over everything around it: a small city in and of itself, a colossal edifice of black iron, smooth obsidian, and enchanted glacial ice shaped by generations of sorcerers the way sculptors molded clay. It was crowned with towers higher than any of those in the city around it, towers that soared until they disappeared into the clouds. It had stood for tens of thousands of years, long before the first human kingdoms rose and fell. It had endured while other races and civilizations crumbled to dust. And long may we do so, Nyrena thought.
The Lykaia guards at the palace gates recognized Lady Nyrena immediately. Their postures stiffened slightly, but they made no move to challenge her or impede her progress. She was a well-known presence at court, and they knew better than to get on her bad side. She brushed past them without even glancing their way.
Inside, the palace was cavernous. Its halls were so big that each footstep and every whisper echoed. Torches lit with blue flame flickered from sconces set into the walls, and enormous chandeliers of ice and crystal hung from vaulted ceilings so high they disappeared into shadow. These were supported by fluted columns that were carved with images of snarling zburators and stood taller than trees.
The walls were adorned with tapestries depicting the glory of her people’s history—conquests, coronations, and the great magical achievements of the Dark Elves. Beneath their feet, the floor was a polished stone so perfectly smooth it reflected everything above it like a dark mirror.
Lady Nyrena swept through the halls with the arrogant confidence of one born to power. Lesser courtiers and servants alike scattered before her procession like leaves before a winter wind. The briefcase of American gifts hung from her seneschal's grip. Its strange, alien design drew curious glances from those they passed.
The Twilight Council chamber lay at the heart of the palace. To reach it, Lady Nyrena and her entourage had to pass through a series of increasingly grand antechambers, each guarded by progressively more and more elite warriors. In the final hall before the Council chamber itself, they encountered the Queen's own personal guard—the most lethal warriors in all of Sarnath, clad in armor of midnight blue that seemed to drink in the light around them. These were the Severed: Dark Elves raised from infancy to protect and serve Her Majesty. They were trained to utter perfection, the best of the best. Even the Lykaia could not aspire to best them. The Severed forswore all comfort, all material possessions, and all worldly concerns as part of their oath of service: they would spend their lives never knowing a lover’s touch, never holding a child in their arms, never basking in the warmth of hearth and home. Their only loyalty, their only attachment, was to the Queen. Even beds and blankets were forbidden to them.
The two Severed guards crossed their halberds, blocking Lady Nyrena's path with a decisive metallic clang.
"The Council is in session," one of them stated flatly. "None may enter."
Nyrena did not flinch. She had anticipated this resistance and was prepared for it. Her crimson eyes narrowed as she regarded the Severed coolly. These were not mere sentries to be intimidated or bribed.
"I bring tidings that may decide the fate of our realm. The Queen herself will want to hear what I have to say.”
The guards remained impassive. "The Council is in session," the one who’d spoken repeated, as if Nyrena had failed to comprehend his words the first time. “None may enter.”
She drew herself up to her full height. "Step aside, or you will be remembered as the ones who prevented vital intelligence from reaching Her Majesty's ears. Information that concerns not just the realm's security but also, perhaps, her own safety as well. Do you wish to jeopardize Her Majesty’s person, perhaps even her life?”
The Severed guards remained unmoved, their expressions hidden behind their featureless helms. They had heard similar claims countless times over their centuries of service. Every petitioner believed their business urgent, every noble thought their concerns paramount.
Still…the safety of the Queen was paramount above all else. To them, it was all that mattered. All that would ever matter. They would not abide any threat to their sovereign, no matter how remote or insignificant. Even courtly protocol was nothing when weighed against that one all-important objective.
The Severed exchanged a brief glance, a silent communication honed by centuries of service together. Then, with synchronized precision, they uncrossed their blades.
"On your own head be the consequences," one of them intoned.
Lady Nyrena inclined her head in acknowledgment and swept past them, her entourage following closely behind. The massive doors to the Council chamber swung open before her, revealing a circular room dominated by a round table of polished black stone. Thirteen high-backed chairs surrounded it – twelve for the Councilors and one, more ornate than the rest, for the Queen herself.
The chamber fell silent as Lady Nyrena entered. Inside, the twelve Lords of the Twilight Council sat in a perfect circle on raised obsidian thrones. Twelve pairs of crimson eyes turned toward her, some widening in surprise, others narrowing in irritation at the interruption. Nyrena fought down a surge of anxious excitement. These were the oldest and most powerful Dark Elves in Sarnath, the Queen’s most favored and trusted servants. In this room, the destiny of the Dominion was shaped and guided. The weight of thousands of years of history hung heavy in the air.
In the thirteenth and grandest throne of the circle sat the Queen herself.
Her Umbral Grace, Queen Alarae Ilyrian, Queen of Winter, High Enchantress, Eternal Monarch, and by the grace of the gods, Empress and Autocrat of the Dominion of Sarnath, sat the way one might imagine the moon would sit among the stars: apart, untouchable, utterly remote. Her throne was cut from a single block of translucent white alabaster, veined with mineral scarlet, and sculpted to suggest a blooming but wicked rose, all thorns and razors. That throne alone would have taken the master artisans of Sarnath a mortal’s lifetime to craft; the woman who occupied it was unimaginably more ancient.
But her age did not show upon her features. The Queen was inhumanely elegant, as coldly beautiful and flawless as a marble statue. She was so pale—paler even than her fellow Dark Elves—and her skin gave off its own faint, supernatural luminescence, but it was a glow that did not illuminate. Rather, it seemed to suck in warmth and light from the air around her like a black hole. Her features were of the sort that artists dreamed of capturing but could never hope to render in full: the line of her jaw so sharp it could cut, lips the color of a winter rose, and cheekbones so high and severe that they seemed to defy gravity.
Her hair, deep and dark as a moonless midnight, tumbled in shimmering, oil-slick ribbons down her back and across the wide shoulders of her opalescent gown, which seemed to change colors with every breath she took. One moment it was an icy blue, the next ivory-white, then the black of the interstellar void. Her hands—long, slender, each digit tipped with a long nail that curved into something just short of a claw—rested gently on the arms of her throne.
The air surrounding the Queen was so cold that even the other Dark Elves in the room felt the chill. Nyrena could see the steam of her own breath and the frost crusting the tips of her eyelashes. Magic radiated off of her in waves, like shimmers of heat from an asphalt parking lot on a hot day. It rippled the air around her and set the teeth of everyone in the room on edge, as did the implacable weight of her authority, which felt as unstoppable and immovable as a glacier. The Queen struck Nyrena as less an individual and more of a gravitational singularity that pulled at the mind and soul of every living being within its event horizon. And her eyes…her impossibly dark, fathomless eyes were so ancient that Nyrena found herself unable to hold the Queen's gaze for more than a few seconds before she had to look away. Looking at them, one felt the weight of uncounted millennia pressing down upon one's soul. Those eyes had seen empires rise and fall like waves upon a shore. They were like dragon eyes, old and terrible.
Even the usually imperious Lords of the Twilight Council were transformed in the Queen’s presence. The twelve Councilors, arrayed in ascending order of seniority, ringed the room from their own lesser thrones of black obsidian. Each was clad in ceremonial armor enameled in the colors of their House; each wore the signet of their lineage and carried themselves with the pride of ancient blood. Lady Mirasith of House Valeith wore a mantle of white feathers and a circlet set with a single massive moonstone. Lord Vexidon, the Queen’s Spymaster, was never without a visor of smoked glass that hid his eyes. Lady Azaela, the Speaker for the Law, wore a robe of iron scales and carried a ceremonial rod of judgment. Lord Zareth, the most powerful mage on the council—and, many claimed, the most powerful sorcerer in the Dominion after the Queen herself—wore simple black robes. He rose from his chair in outrage, but if the Queen shared it, if she felt anything at all, none could tell.
Her face was, as ever, utterly opaque and betrayed not one iota of surprise at Nyrena's unannounced arrival. She merely regarded the young noblewoman with the same remote detachment with which she viewed all her subjects—as if observing a particularly interesting, if ultimately insignificant, insect.
“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” Zareth asked icily. “How dare you disturb the sanctity of this Council?”
Nyrena dropped to one knee, lowering her eyes respectfully. "Forgive the interruption, my lords and ladies. Your Majesty." Her voice rang clear in the chamber. "I would not dare disrupt your deliberations were the matter anything less than urgent."
Lady Azaela narrowed her eyes. “I find it hard to imagine anything urgent enough to warrant such a breach of decorum,” she said. “Guards! Remove this interloper!”
“No.”
A single word from the Queen’s lips brought the entire room to instant silence. Her voice was ethereally soft, but all heard it clearly. She made a small gesture with one elegant hand. “Let her speak. I would hear what Lady Nyrena finds so urgent that she would risk the displeasure of my Council.” The way each word fell from her lips reminded Nyrena of snowflakes falling on still water.
The Council members settled back into their seats. None dared contradict their sovereign, but several, including Zareth, still regarded Nyrena with barely concealed disdain. They had not risen to their positions by welcoming disruptions to the established order.
Nyrena rose, her heart hammering against her ribs despite her outward composure. This was her moment—perhaps the most crucial of her political career. The chance to distinguish herself before Queen and Council both, and earn a place among them. She gestured to her seneschal, who stepped forward with Varthiel's written reports and the briefcase of American gifts.
"Your Majesty, my lords and ladies of this august Council, I bring tidings of grave import," Nyrena began, her voice steady despite the chill that permeated the chamber. "For weeks now, I have been investigating the source of the Disturbance that shook our realm. I kept my inquiries discreet, for I dared not waste Your Majesty’s time with unsubstantiated rumors and gossip, yet I now come forward with verified information that could decide the fate of our realm."
She presented the scrolls containing Varthiel's reports to the Council, laying them reverently on the obsidian table before taking a respectful step back. The thick parchment rustled in the silence.
“In the course of my investigation, I dispatched scouts to every corner of the compass, in the hope that they might ascertain the truthfulness of certain…rumors…that reached my ears in the aftermath of the Disturbance.”
“What rumors?” asked Vexidon.
"Rumors of an entire realm that sprung up as if from nowhere," Nyrena replied, her voice carrying clearly through the chamber. "A foreign land that appeared where none existed before, populated by strange humans unlike any we have encountered."
Lord Zareth scoffed. “Human realms rise as fast as mushrooms and decay just as quickly. What concern is that to us?”
"This is no ordinary human realm," Nyrena countered. "This land—which its inhabitants call 'America'—is a realm of unprecedented size and power. It is home to millions upon millions of humans who possess technology that rivals or even surpasses the greatest achievements of the Dwarven artificers."
Murmurs rippled through the Council. Several councilors exchanged skeptical glances.
"Technology?" Lady Mirasith inquired, leaning forward slightly. "You mean like the Dwarves' steam engines and mechanical contrivances?"
"Far beyond," Nyrena answered. She saw Zareth’s face curling into a sneer and held up a hand. "I was loath to believe such wild tales myself. Indeed, I shared your skepticism, my lords and ladies, Your Majesty, which is why I kept my investigations quiet until I could verify these claims. To that end, I dispatched one of my most trusted scouts, Varthiel Arakanos, to observe this strange new land and report back on what he found. He returned mere hours ago, half-dead with exhaustion, having flown without food or rest for days to bring word of what he found.” She looked at each of the Lords in turn. “The rumors were true. All of them. In fact, they did not even describe a fraction of the reality. This America is the source of the Disturbance that shook our realm, and it possesses power beyond our wildest imaginings."
Lady Nyrena opened her satchel and produced a peculiar rectangular object that seemed to be made of smooth glass and metal. The Council members leaned forward, curiosity overcoming their annoyance at the interruption.
"This device was recovered by another of my scouts," Nyrena explained. "Until today, we could not ascertain its purpose. Now I know it is what the Americans call a 'cell phone'—a tool that allows them to communicate across vast distances instantly, without magic. Any human, from their youngest children to their oldest elders, can use it."
She passed the device to Lady Mirasith, who turned it over in her slender fingers with evident fascination.
"But this is merely the beginning," Nyrena continued. “America is so vast in size all of Sarnath could fit inside it several times over. It possesses war machines of such destructive power that they can level cities as easily as one might step upon an ant. Their skies are guarded by flying machines that fly faster than any zburator. Their ships can sail beneath the waves like fish, and they possess weapons that can strike with deadly accuracy from many leagues away. But most troubling of all..." She paused, steeling herself. "They can see us."
A ripple of confusion passed through the Council. Lady Azaela leaned forward, her iron scales clinking softly. "What do you mean, 'see us'?"
"They possess machines that hang in the sky, far above the clouds—devices they call 'satellites.' These infernal contraptions allow them to observe even distant lands in their entirety. If there is a limit to how far they can see, I know not. I know only that Argonar lies naked before their gaze. They knew of us long before we even realized they were there.”
The Council sat in stunned silence. The implications were staggering—their realm, long secure in its isolation, now lay exposed to foreign eyes.
“And how did your scout learn of this?” Zareth asked. Nyrena noticed, with considerable satisfaction, that his arrogant demeanor had lessened somewhat.
"My scout was captured by these Americans,” Nyrena replied. “Though through no fault of his own. They have some way of knowing whenever anything or anyone foreign appears in their skies. He was intercepted by two of their flying machines and detained after he was spotted flying over their territory. Among other things, they showed him images of Argonar taken from above the clouds, with details so precise that he could identify individual guards patrolling the palace walls."
Zareth’s hands curled into fists. “Even without the affront of these humans spying on us, the detention of any citizen of Sarnath, let alone a scout in service to a noble house, is an egregious affront to our sovereignty. I am of the opinion that these humans must be taught a sharp lesson.”
"I agree," said Lady Azaela, her voice cold as winter frost. "If they have already seen our defenses, our only recourse is to strike pre-emptively before they can use such knowledge against us.”
“With utmost respect,” Nyrena said carefully. “I believe that would be…unwise.”
“Unwise?” Zareth asked, incredulous. “They dared to detain and torture one of our own. They must be punished!”
"Firstly, they did not torture him,” Nyrena’s tone was flat. “They treated him well—suspiciously well, by our standards—and after several days of interrogation, they released him.”
“Why would they do that?” asked Mirasith.
"To deliver a message," Nyrena replied. "According to my scout, they wish to establish diplomatic relations with Sarnath. They asked him to convey their desire that we send emissaries to meet with their leaders. They released him unharmed as a gesture of goodwill and, furthermore, sent him back with gifts intended for Your Majesty." She gestured to her seneschal, who stepped forward with the briefcase of American offerings.
A chorus of skeptical murmurs swept through the chamber. The notion that humans would seek diplomacy rather than conquest struck many of the councilors as absurd. Nyrena took the opportunity to open the briefcase and present its contents before the throne.
With the eerie grace of a spider, the Queen plucked a small bag of coffee beans from the briefcase, examining the dark roasted legumes with mild curiosity. She raised it to her nose, inhaling the aroma with an almost imperceptible flaring of her nostrils. Her expression remained unchanged as she set it aside and selected another item—a small bottle of amber liquid labeled "Kentucky Bourbon."
“These,” she said, “are most curious. What is their significance?”
“Each gift hails from one of fifty provinces from which America is made,” Nyrena explained. “I believe, in their own rather primitive way, the Americans are trying to demonstrate the breadth and diversity of their lands. According to my scout, they wish us to understand that their realm encompasses many different climates and terrains, from frozen wastes not unlike our own to sweltering swamps and everything in between."
The Queen set down the bourbon and picked up one of the books. Her long, pale fingers traced over the strange lettering on its cover. For a long moment, the chamber was utterly silent save for the soft whisper of pages turning as she examined its contents.
"And these markings?" she asked, her voice like the whisper of snow falling on ice. "Their written language?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. A crude script, but one we can easily translate using a basic conversion spell.”
“Rather strange for them to share such knowledge with us so openly,” remarked Vexidon.
"They are either very confident or very foolish," Zareth muttered. "Perhaps they believe knowledge of their realm will somehow intimidate us."
"But that still leaves a vital question unanswered,” said Lady Mirasith. “Which is why do these Americans desire relations with us or anyone else? If they are as mighty as you claim, what is stopping them from simply conquering all before them?”
"Because they are lost," Nyrena explained. "These Americans did not come here by choice. Their entire realm was somehow torn from its original world and cast into ours. The Disturbance was the magical backlash of this... transference.”
“Then it will not occur again?” asked Lord Vexidon.
“No. According to my scout, the Americans believe it was a singular event. They have no means of returning to their original world, nor do they expect further realms to follow theirs. They are adrift in a place they do not understand, cut off from whatever allies and resources they once relied upon. Even with their impressive capabilities, they must surely feel a pressing need to secure new sources of materials, new trading partners, new allies, and above all, knowledge of this world they now find themselves in."
She paused to let her words sink in. "This is why I believe we should be pragmatic, my lords and ladies. While we could exact a fearful toll upon their armies with our sorcery, they possess advantages we simply cannot match. Their numbers are vast. Their flying machines can strike without warning and wreak fearful devastation. Their armies are equipped with dreadful weapons and are as numerous as a swarm of flies. We are the Sar’Kadan, the Children. We are masters of the ice and snow. The words I utter now are ashen upon my tongue, but I say them without exaggeration and without artifice: to war against these humans is to enter into a fight we simply cannot win.”
The Twilight Council chamber fell into a tense silence. Several councilors shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Not one among them spoke as they grappled with the implications of everything they’d heard. The very suggestion that there existed a power the Sar'Kadan could not overcome through force of arms was anathema to their collective pride.
The Queen remained utterly still, her ancient eyes fixed on Nyrena with an intensity so sharp the younger woman felt it as a physical pain. The cold emanating from her throne intensified, causing frost to form on the obsidian table before her.
"And what would you suggest?” the monarch finally asked. “If war is folly, what alternative do you propose?"
Nyrena straightened her shoulders, acutely aware that her next words might determine not only her own fate but that of Sarnath itself. Her next words would either elevate her House to undreamt-of heights or condemn it to obscurity. "I would advise caution, Your Majesty, but not inaction and certainly not war," she said. "I propose that rather than provoke this sleeping giant, we tame it instead. If we enter negotiations with them now, if we bring gifts and fair words and open the way, we might yet bend them to our own purposes. Their technology, their resources, their ingenuity—all could be very useful and valuable to us. Humans are malleable creatures, Your Majesty. They are easily led, easily beguiled by flattery and shows of respect. These Americans, even with all their marvels, are still human. They can be flattered, manipulated, and bent to serve our interests. If we approach them with diplomacy rather than hostility, we can turn them to our benefit in ways so subtle they will not even notice the silken leashes we tie around their necks, or the gentle tugs with which we lead them on.”
She took a breath, heart racing. “I propose we do exactly as the Americans want. Let us send emissaries to the strangers, and rich gifts as well, and enter into negotiations with them. The Americans have already shown themselves willing to talk. We should exploit that willingness, along with their disorientation and sense of vulnerability. If we extend a hand in friendship now, we can shape the terms of the relationship while they are still finding their footing. Already, they have begun talks with the Under-Realm. Soon, they will reach out to other powers, too. We cannot afford to fall behind. We cannot allow the Dwarves or anyone else to gain advantage over us through trade or diplomacy with the Americans.”
Utter silence reigned in the chamber. The council members exchanged glances, some thoughtful, others still skeptical. Zareth looked like he’d just bitten into a lemon. His face was a storm of conflicting emotions—outrage at the suggestion of treating humans as equals, fury over the detainment of one of their own people, disbelief that humans could ever command such power as these Americans did.
Queen Alarae did not move or say anything for a very, very long time. She was so still, so utterly, inhumanly still, that one could not even discern the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. None dared break the silence.
Finally, the monarch of the Dark Elves spoke.
“You have done well, and I say to you, well done, Lady Nyrena,” she said. "You have acted with the prudence and foresight befitting a noble of Sarnath. You gathered intelligence before rushing to conclusions, and when the truth became clear, you brought it directly to us without delay." The Queen's dark eyes shifted to the rest of her council. "This is precisely the kind of initiative and loyalty I expect from all who serve me. They are noted and shall be rewarded."
A ripple of surprise passed through the Council members. The Queen rarely bestowed such direct praise, especially to one not seated among their ranks. Zareth’s face darkened with anger, but Nyrena barely noticed. She was too busy trying to keep the thrill she felt from showing on her face.
"Though I am relieved to hear that the Disturbance will not recur," the Queen continued, "I find myself troubled by the implications of what you have told us, in particular these 'satellites' that lay our realm bare to foreign eyes. I am not pleased by this. It sits ill with me." Her gaze swept the chamber, lingering momentarily on each councilor. "This is not the way of things, that the Sar'Kadan should be caught unawares.”
She made a negligent flick of her wrist. “Lady Nyrena has offered her counsel. Now I will hear yours. What say you all to the matter of the Americans?"
Lady Mirasith spoke first, her voice measured and thoughtful.
"If what Lady Nyrena says is true, then I must concur with her assessment. War would be folly. We must engage these Americans diplomatically, learn their weaknesses, and make use of them."
Lord Vexidon nodded. "I concur. Information is the key. We know too little of these strangers, and they already know too much about us. Lady Nyrena's scout has provided a glimpse, but only a glimpse. We must find out more, and the only way to do that is to engage with them directly. Inferior though they may be, we cannot ignore them, and if we cannot best them in battle, then negotiation is the most reasonable course.”
“I, too, concur,” said Lady Azalea.
“And I,” added another.
One by one, each of the members of the Twilight Council voiced their assent. Only Zareth demurred. "We cannot simply roll over and expose our bellies to these humans, no matter how advanced their toys may be,” he said, folding his arms. “We will come to regret this, mark my words.”
“Consider them marked,” the Queen said. “And overruled.”
Then, without warning, she stood from the throne. All others in the room instantly went to one knee.
“So it is with the Council, let it be done also in accordance with my will.” A hint of steel crept into the Queen’s voice. “Hear now my decision. With all haste and speed shall an expedition to this America depart, to open diplomatic relations with its people and reclaim the initiative we have lost. Lady Nyrena, as you have shown such insight in this matter, you shall lead this expedition. Take with you your seneschal, your advisors, and as many servants, aides, and other members of your household as you require. Take with you furthermore a company of the Lykaia guard, and five thousand of our finest soldiers. Such a display of might will impress upon these humans that we are not to be trifled with."
The chamber erupted in whispers. Five thousand soldiers represented a significant force—far more than a typical diplomatic mission would require. Nyrena’s head spun as the weight and honor of the task she’d just been given fell across her shoulders. This was beyond her most ambitious hopes—a direct commission from the Queen herself! She bowed her head so deeply her hair fell over her eyes.
"You honor me beyond words, Your Majesty.”
"You shall also take with you a king's ransom in treasure," the Queen continued, her voice cutting through the murmurs like a blade through silk. "Gold, jewels, enchanted artifacts—gifts befitting the majesty of Sarnath. Let these Americans see the wealth and splendor of our realm." She flicked to the briefcase Varthiel had brought back from his journey. “You say the Americans have sent books along with their gifts. Do any of them say where their king holds court? Where is their seat of power located?”
Nyrena didn’t actually know the answer to that off the top of her head, and her heart stuttered as she struggled to find words. “Your pardon, Your Majesty. Allow me a moment, and I shall find the answer for you.”
She clicked open the briefcase and rummaged inside it until she found what she was looking for: a map of the United States, the large, folded kind one might use on a long road trip, complete with towns, cities, and highways. The English words were unknown to her, but a quick, murmured spell shifted them into the Dark Elven script.
“Here,” Nyrena said, approaching the throne and holding the map out in front of her for the Queen to see. She tapped a finger at one particular spot. “Their capital city is located here, in a city called Washington. According to what my scout learned during his captivity, that is where the human king and many other persons of note reside.”
The Queen's dark eyes flickered with satisfaction as she studied the map. "Then that is where you shall go. You will sail to this Washington with all haste." She gestured to her Master of Ships, who had been silently observing the proceedings from his place among the councilors. "Lord Thalaes, you will provide Lady Nyrena with thirty of our finest war-galleys to ferry this expedition."
A collective gasp rippled through the chamber. Thirty war-galleys represented a significant portion of Sarnath's naval strength. They were the pride of the Sar’Kadan fleet. Each of them was three hundred and fifty feet long and forty feet wide, with four banks of oars, and four lateen-sailed masts. They were floating fortresses capable of carrying over a thousand warriors apiece, along with supplies, horses, and even siege engines if needed.
"Thirty?" Lord Thalaes echoed, his surprise evident despite his efforts to maintain a stoic demeanor. "Your Majesty, with all due respect, that is nearly a quarter of the largest ships in our fleet."
"I am aware," the Queen replied, her voice as cold as the depths of winter. "But this mission must succeed. The Sar'Kadan shall not appear before these foreigners as supplicants or beggars. We shall arrive in a manner befitting our status." She turned her gaze back to Nyrena, who still knelt before her. "You will sail to this Washington and bring my will and word to their king. You will learn all you can of their ways, their customs, their strengths and weaknesses. You will assess their intentions and determine how best they may be manipulated or bent to serve our interests. In short, Lady Nyrena, you will defang this dangerous human realm by any means necessary, short of force of arms. Make them our allies, or failing that, make them our pawns--I do not particularly care which. This is my command." Her dark eyes met Nyrena’s until the noblewoman had to look away. “Do not fail me.”
"I hear, and I obey, my Queen,” Nyrena replied, her head still bowed. A cold, nervous sweat was breaking out on her skin. This was her opportunity to elevate her House and secure her own place in the annals of Sarnathi history. Failure was not an option.
“Let all this be done,” concluded the Queen. “For the glory of Sarnath.”
“For the glory of Sarnath!” the Council intoned.
