The elf stepped carefully as he approached the rise. It was strange, as if he were dreaming. Here, during what the servants and slaves told him had only been a single day ago, he had found himself drawn into what could only have been a hallucination. Yet it was real. Or was it? He didn’t know.

“Check,” he said brusquely to Illiria, who had looked more than annoyed at his brusque manner when he had approached her at the dawn – an hour earlier – and told her to accompany him. From what he had seen of her chambers, he assumed that she had spent the night ‘entertaining’ somebody, though Saarin could not have cared less. Her nocturnal habits were her own affairs, and until she explicitly attempted to involve him, he would stay out of it.

“And what, young prince, do you wish for me to examine?” she asked coldly. “If you wished for me to probe this area yesterday, when you had this hallucination you insist was magically created, you should have said so then. Instead, you chose to act with little more character than that of those magical constructs your father employs as guards within your family mansion. You said not a word.”

“I have no memory of that,” Saarin said irritably, waving her off and fighting the urge to draw his sword – Illiria was favoured by his father, after all, so anything he did would be an empty threat. And they both knew it. “Now check.”

She scowled, evidently believing nothing that he had told her, then turned and concentrated on the area. Saarin, meanwhile, occupied himself by quietly observing the tree. It was as dead as it had been in the aftermath of Illiria’s magic the day before, giving no sign that it would recover. He had given some thought to this, but an answer eluded him. He knew – in vague terms, for he was no spellcaster – of the supposed ‘waystone network’ that could be found in Ulthuan, and of the Vortex at the center of the island continent. After the Witch King had triumphed over the pretender, Caledor, he had decreed that none should attempt to tamper with it. Saarin didn’t understand why – Lord Malekith had used the Chaos Gods to his own ends before, so reducing their power in this world when he could control them was odd.

Not that he questioned it, of course. The Witch King was far superior to Saarin, and perhaps he had a purpose for the decree that Saarin couldn’t comprehend. Everything had happened long before he was born, after all.

Illiria frowned. “Prince Saarin,” she said shortly, I sense-”

***

“You aren’t necessarily inferior to him,” Tathel’s voice informed Saarin pleasantly from somewhere nearby. The Dark Elf dropped into a fighting crouch and his hand snapped to his sword, a string of sulfurous curses bursting forth. Normally, he considered himself far too cultured to use such words – he had even degraded himself by using the human language in his utter shock – but this mage unnerved him. Especially with how he came and went.

“What do you mean?” Saarin managed to compose himself, despite keeping one hand on his sword. Not that it would do any good… wait. He scowled. “Why is there a sense that this has happened before?” he asked.

“One question at a time,” the other said. “To the first, you are not necessarily inferior to Malekith. To the second, this hasn’t happened before. You’re merely experiencing the same problems that many do when brought to this place.”

“I thought this was an illusion,” Saarin said angrily.

“You’re not ready for that particular answer yet, I think,” Tathel said. He cut off Saarin’s opened mouth with a flick of his wrist. No sound emerged. “One at a time. Now, draw your sword.”

“Fine,” Saarin said, cursing to himself as he realised that he could speak again. With a single smooth motion, his blade cleared the scabbard. The weapon was forged of black steel, limned by a faint red glow. The gold and black crossguard and hilt were topped by a single ruby that served as the pommel stone. It was Saarin’s most favoured weapon, and he found himself wanting to beat his ‘teacher’ into submission. He was tired of being led around by the nose.

“You might not find it to be that easy,” Tathel said calmly, hefting his own weapon, a slender sword with a mirror-bright blade. It had appeared from nowhere, but then, many things in this place did. He almost looked surprised at Saarin’s startled glance. “You’re like an open book, Saarin. Something else that you’ll need to control, given time – you’re too emotional. Now,” his voice became pleasant once more, “strike me. If you can.”

Saarin leaped, his sword moving like a striking serpent as he lashed out, a lunge. Tathel merely seemed to twist and step aside, and he was gone, over to Saarin’s right. He reached out with his own blade and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Too slow,” he informed the astonished Dark Elf. Resisting the attempt to begin cursing once more, Saarin unleashed a volley of cuts and slashes, yet Tathel simply stepped aside from each one, eternally quick on his feet as though he were dancing.

“I did tell you it wouldn’t be easy,” he noted as Saarin stopped his wild frenzy of blows, panting slightly to catch his breath.

“Why won’t you attack me?” he asked in response.

“There was no need,” Tathel said with an almost imperceptible shrug. “I am teaching you, not trying to defeat you. Why do you think I can so easily avoid you?”

“You’re faster than I am,” Saarin said, almost as an accusation. “Or you’re able to do it because you created this place.”

“I did create this place,” he agreed, “and I am faster than you, yes. But why am I faster than you?” Tathel smiled. “You think too much,” he explained. “Before you make each move, you think about what you want to do. Even if it is only for a split second, it is enough time for an opponent to read your action and respond accordingly, if they are not burdened by a need to think.”

“I don’t understand.” Saarin was confused.

“Swordplay is a dance,” Tathel said then. “Let it flow from you, through you. You won’t need to think then, and you will be the better for it. But understand that combat is not the only dance. Almost everything can be, in one way or another.”

“So you want me to move, talk, speak, all without thinking, no matter what it is,” Saarin said sarcastically. “In Dark Elven society, to do such is foolish. It would destroy me.”

“No,” the other disagreed, shaking his head. “When you understand, then you will know.” He flicked his wrist, and the sword vanished. “Perhaps we will continue this another time,” he said, in a tone that indicated their ‘lesson’ was over.

“One question,” Saarin said, a suspicious tone in his voice. Tathel motioned for him to continue, indicating assent, and he went on. “I think you removed any memories I gained after our last encounter. Did you? Would you do it more than once?”

“That was two questions,” Tathel said. “To answer one of the two: yes.”

“Which question was that?”

“That makes three questions.”

***

“-something.”

Saarin blinked, and Illiria’s expression darkened. “I told you,” she said, “that I did indeed sense something just now.”

“It is… of no moment,” Saarin replied, slightly hesitant. Gaining in confidence, he waved her off. “No moment,” he repeated.

“What I sensed was a magic unlike that which we make use of, young prince,” she said pointedly. “Our magic is that of dhar. What I sensed is that used in the construction of the waystone network, qhaysh. Harmony of magic and self.”

“Stronger magic than your own?” Saarin made an effort to sound mildly interested, but it largely failed.

“Different,” she said in a dismissive tone, “and probably weaker. A user must be serene and tranquil. To use my magic is to have a mastery of the will.”

‘Serene and tranquil’ certainly suited Tathel, Saarin thought to himself. “It is of no moment,” he said again, turning to begin the walk back to the mansion. “Perhaps just a fragment of whatever magic exists within the waystones.”

He didn’t notice Illiria’s glance at his departing back. Angered, to be sure, but there was also curiosity. And suspicion.

***

“The problem with revels like these,” Kurl informed his younger brother, “is that one can never tell who sides with you, and who sides against you.” The tone was patronizing, but Saarin didn’t rise to the bait.

They were in Anlec, at the palace of the Witch King himself. Though Malekith wasn’t present right now, having left for the colonies, the Queen Mother had decided to hold a celebration, and all the High Princes of Ulthuan had been obliged to attend. Many, such as their father, Drukh, had brought their direct heirs with them. And, Saarin noted, of all the High Princes, only Drukh of Saphery and Arakh of Cothique had more than one heir to their position. Which meant, of course, that Saarin (and Kurl) were stepping very carefully around one another. Yet they were still united by family, and so they chose for tonight to present a united front, indicating that the house of Vraneth remained strong.

While his brother continued to speak – something about the strength of Vraneth, though he wasn’t paying attention – Saarin allowed his eyes to rove the length of the chamber. It was one of the greater halls of the palace, though not the largest. Floors of dark stone were covered by muted colours in varying shades, while black marble columns stretched up to the distant ceiling. All around, the Dark Elf could see the banners of various families, though the reason for displaying all together so prominently was unknown to him. Above all, though, towered the banner of the Witch King, depicting a blackened, scorched phoenix upon a purple background. The rune of Khaine was seared into the breast of the dead firebird, and even from here, Saarin could sense the magic within the cloth. He knew the stories, that the Witch King’s armies had marched under that banner when the pretender had been cast out of Ulthuan, and now it remained here in Anlec, an everlasting reminder of the victories that had granted the Druchii Ulthuan.

“For all that it was worth,” he murmured to himself, his thoughts coming back – as they so often did, in these days – to Illiria’s attempt at rejuvenating the land, even on such a small scale.

“You said something, brother?” Saarin shook his head at Kurl’s question, and the other elf merely shrugged and turned away, eyes roving across the crowd in a futile attempt to discern ally and enemy. It would never work, the younger of the two decided, moving away from his brother’s side. He was almost absent-minded as he did so, his mind occupied by what seemed to be wrong with Ulthuan, and so it was that he almost missed it.

It was not much. A flash of grey, a brief flicker of silver-blue, and the figure was gone from his peripheral vision. But Saarin still saw it, and his head snapped around, drawn fully into the moment as time seemed to slow around him. There, again, vanishing through a door in the side of the hall. He hurried after it, sliding past and through the milling elves like water, quick and flowing in his movements, thinking of nothing but the frantic search for another flash of grey. Alliances didn’t matter, enemies didn’t matter. Everything he could see was in shades of black and white, all but that elusive flash of silvery-blue. His gait smooth and steady, he cleared the milling press of the crowd and strode over towards the door that he was sure Tathel had vanished through.

Stepping through the door, he found himself in a side chamber – a private lounge, perhaps – rather than in one of the many corridors of the palace. And there, before him, with his back turned, was a grey-robed figure, hood up presumably to conceal his features. Saarin rushed to confront him… and stopped, confused, when the elf turned to reveal himself as Saarin’s own father.

“Yes?” the High Prince of Saphery inquired, a slight trace of curiosity evident on his face. “Was there something?”

“I… no, father,” the embarrassed Dark Elf said with a bow, retreating from the room. “I do apologise.”

“Then go,” Drukh instructed him. “And do not apologise, Saarin. Some will take it to be a sign of weakness, and react accordingly. Your brother, for one. Or Illiria, should you allow her to gain a hold over you.”

Saarin nodded quickly, turned, and departed.

***

Drukh watched his son leave impassively, but once the door had closed, he turned to his right, where another elf moved up alongside him. The High Prince shook his head.

“He almost reached you,” Drukh said. “He is learning.”

“Yes,” the other agreed. “When he moved after me out in the hall, for a brief moment, he understood the dance, was a part of the song. It was only a flash, but that is all that is necessary for him to comprehend. Now that his mind has been opened to it, he will naturally follow along the course whether he wishes to or not.”

“You never told me why you chose him,” Drukh noted quietly. “Or what you will do to him, either.”

The other elf shrugged. “I chose him,” he said after a moment of reflection, “because of all your people, he is the most open to the old ways. Perhaps in no small part due to his position as your own son. I have no doubt that you did much to place his feet on this path.”

“I only attempted to set him there,” the High Prince responded, “leaving you to guide him on this journey. And,” he said then, a trace of humour creeping into his voice, “do you not mean the true ways?”

“Truth is a matter of perspective, High Prince.”

“Perhaps.”

“Ready your followers for what is to come, High Prince of Saphery,” Tathel said as his image began to grow insubstantial. “Malekith died two hours ago in Elthin Arvan.”

“What?!” Drukh reeled back from the words even as he heard them. “Impossible. How can you possibly know? How can it even be?!”

“I was there, watching. Alith Anar slew him. Even now, Morathi is receiving word, and soon she will move to openly ally with the Cult of Pleasure. Malekith’s edict forbidding Chaos worship may not hold for much longer, now that Morathi moves to take control.”

“There will be war,” Drukh said softly. “Malekith dead… there can be no mistake?”

“None. Morathi will cast blame upon Sarthailor and the other kingdoms of Elthin Arvan, so expect a campaign soon. Ensure that the Cult of Asuryan remains safe. It cannot be allowed to fail now, for too many of us have invested too much time – and too many lives – to let it all come undone.”

“Who are you?” Drukh demanded, desperately reaching for something, anything, that he could hold on to. In mere moments, his entire world had fallen apart around him, and shock was racing through his bones. Malekith was the Witch King, the anchor of the entire Dark Elven society. He couldn’t die. Could he?

Tathel was gone, and as he vanished, Drukh could hear the sounds of the revel fade away, to be replaced with a deathly silence broken only by the quiet voice of the Queen Mother Morathi as she told them what he had just learned – that Malekith had been slain, cut down by the blade of one who was an enemy to Ulthuan. It appeared that the mysterious elf had been correct, and with a heavy heart, he strode out into the hall.

***

Far across the seas to the west, a lone monk watched the white-hot flame before him as it blazed steadily. The monk was not surprised when the grey-robed elf stepped past him to observe the one who seemed to float within the fire, held aloft by some otherworldly force. He came once a year. It was always on the same day, and always at the exact same time.

Tathel was silent as he observed the flame, and the occupant – one who had slept within the fire for ages now. Turning, he moved out of the room, feeling magic swirl through the air about him once more. It beckoned him away in what was not so much a language as it was a communicated need for… ‘something to happen’ was the only term he had ever found to describe it. Concentrating upon that need, he willed himself elsewhere with but a thought, disappearing through a fold in the air and carried away upon the winds of magic.

The fire continued to burn.