Saarin reined in his black steed, eyes narrowing as he looked over the fields on his father’s estate. Times were becoming harder, he knew, with what had once been a bounteous land enchanted by magic now slowly degrading, dying before the eyes of the true elves. His father spent much of his time travelling, conferring with the other members of the Council of Princes as to the nature of the change. As patriarch of the Vraneth family, High Princes of Saphery, Drukh Vraneth was required by the Witch King himself to attend gatherings of the Council in Anlec, the heart of Malekith’s dark empire.

His great-grandsire, Saarin knew, had fought during the epic conflict known as the War of the Beard, as had Khalir Vraneth’s daughter, Idril Vraneth. And from there, the line descended to his father, Drukh, and then Saarin and his brother Kurl.

Saarin didn’t like Kurl. He never had. Perhaps it was the attempts on his life that his brother had continually made, though in retrospect, he had never really blamed Kurl for those. After all, Saarin had attempted to have his brother slain as well. If he became firstborn, then he would become High Prince of Saphery upon the death of their father. And to be High Prince was the highest honour that one could attain in the Empire. None could eclipse the Witch King or his mother, High Priestess of the Cult, but even to stand in the shadow of greatness was better than death.

And so they played their little games, dancing around each other, not always drawing blood, but continually fighting for the upper hand. Their father knew this. He approved of it, even, for he had done the same when he was young. Still, Saarin would need to end it for good before long. Kurl would be planning the same thing, of course, and so Saarin would need to not only be faster than his elder brother, but he would need to be better prepared. But then again, that was the thrill of it, move and countermove. Sometimes, he wondered if he preferred the game to the reward.

“Young lord?”

Saarin turned at the sound to look at the sorceress (and sometime paramour, if one put stock in rumours) who advised his father, Illiria. She was fairly typical today. Long black hair, descending almost to her knees, shrouding her like a veil of night. It was certainly concealing more than her clothes were, that much he could – quite clearly – see for himself.

“Yes, sorceress?” Saarin tried to keep his voice mild, but some element of his annoyance at being drawn from his train of thought must have seeped into his voice, for her eyes darkened slightly.

“I would merely wish to inform you that we are near a group of slaves,” she said pointedly. “I doubt you wish to mix with their kind, do you?”

“Perhaps not,” Saarin said in a thoughtful tone of voice, which brought the beginnings of a satisfied smile to Illiria’s face. He continued, then. “Yet I have a question,” he said, rather pointedly.

Her face was confused as she bowed her head. “Then ask, young lord.” He chose to ignore the mockery in her tone. Concealed, but it was there.

“Two questions, truth be told,” he said pleasantly. “First, what answers do you have as to why this land continues to degrade itself around us? I have heard the stories of Ulthuan being a bounteous land, rich with life, yet I am not blinded, Illiria. I know of the tales that come to Ulthuan from Elthin Arvan and that wretched kingdom of half-breeds and fools. Tales that would seem to imply that Ulthuan – no, that the true elven people – receive less blessing than traitors!” His voice had risen slightly, though it was perhaps due to his frustration more than anything else. All the elders seemed to do was talk, these days. Talk, and talk again. “Use your magic,” he said, and indicated a nearby sapling. It was wilting, dying. “Make it grow.”

Illiria looked at him with a face completely devoid of expression, then turned and flicked a finger in the direction of the tree. Saarin felt the roar of surging power, flowing over him like a wet sludge, and watched as before his eyes, the tree began growing, the natural life cycle accelerated by the force of Illiria’s magic. Yet while it grew, it did not do so well. It began to curl, stunting itself, and the bark slowly blackened. The transformation was quick, and Saarin brought his horse up alongside the now-changed tree. Scraping his hand along the trunk, he rubbed at the black gunk on his fingers, then flicked it off.

“This happens every single time,” he said sharply. “Why? Why does our magic not invigorate the land?”

“Such things,” Illiria said coldly, her voice an indication that this line of conversation had ended, “are not for those who do not wield the magical arts. Your second question?”

“I already have my answer,” Saarin said, his lips parting in what was almost a feral grin. “My question would have been why those slaves do not work, but it matters not. Kill them, and have their bodies staked out in front of the slave quarters. Perhaps it will serve as an example, so that other servants will work harder. If magic cannot solve this problem, then blood and sweat must take pride of place.”

Turning his horse, he began the trek back towards his father’s mansion.

***

Saarin reined in his black steed, eyes narrowing as he looked over the fields on his father’s est-

“Stop.”

***

“Where am I?”

Saarin stood within a small clearing, in woods that he didn’t know. A rock was before him, and seated on it was something… different. It was an elf, of that he was sure. Clad in a grey robe, his face was obscured by a cowl. He carried a simple wooden staff, and sat cross-legged while the sun blazed down on him, surrounding the elf in a halo of light. There was something strange about this one. It was as if he were a spellcaster, but the trace of energies in the air around him was different.

Saarin had grown up around magic. Like many, he possessed the faint traces of a connection to the Winds, and could almost ‘see’ the threads of magic as they twined about in the world. He had always been able to see the black, sluggish tar that was the powerful energies wielded by the Witch King, by the Queen of Avelorn, and by the sorceresses in his father’s own household. Saarin even knew of the incredible force of will that mastering such magic required, and it was partly for this reason that he (and so many others) respected the incredible power that came with such strength commanded. But this… this was like… it was clean. He had no other explanation. It was so bright that it almost burned his eyes, filling him with a sense of calm and peace that he had never felt before. As if it scoured away everything within him, and though it left him raw, he felt himself almost palpably lighten.

“Hello, Saarin,” the elf said pleasantly, prompting the Dark Elf to draw his sword, the black steel feeling comfortable in his hands. Drawing back the cowl of his hood, the figure revealed the classical features of an elf – angular face, lobeless ears. His hair was white, though it did not seem to be the result of any great age on the part of the elf. Indeed, this figure seemed to be ageless. As he looked, he found himself constantly re-evaluating each impression as to just how old this elf was, before giving up. And the eyes. Oh, the eyes. One was entirely black, and the other was entirely white. They were like bottomless voids, descending forever. Yet as Saarin watched, they faded back to a silver-blue colour, and, though it may have just been his imagination, the elf imperceptibly shook his head, warning him off. Then the moment was past.

The mysterious elf nodded to the sword in his hand. “You will not need that,” he informed Saarin. And just like that, the sword vanished, gone as if it had never been.

“Where am I?” the Dark Elf demanded again, clutching at the hilt of a dagger. Though he doubted that it would be of much use, any weapon was better than none in this strange place.

“Where you are isn’t important,” the other noted. “It’s where you must go that is.”

“Who are you?”

“Tathel,” the grey-robed elf informed him, still in that pleasant tone. “You don’t want to leave, I know,” he continued. “You will understand why, in time.”

The scion of Vraneth found himself relaxing, and he removed his hand from the dagger. Yet then his will hardened, and, though it forced him to grit his teeth as his body seemed to almost fight against him, he slowly drew the dagger and held it out before him, advancing towards the elf. When they stood almost nose to nose, Saarin slowly reached out, feeling the strain as his muscles fought against him. In some dim recess of his mind, he knew that he was the one fighting to stop the advance of the dagger, but that made no sense, for how could he fight against himself?

With a gentle smile, the elf reached up and touched his hand, moving the weapon away.

“Even if you wished to hurt me,” Tathel said, “you would not find yourself capable of it. Here, it is your strength of will that defines what is possible. Here, regardless of one’s physical body, a person can, if they know how, be stronger than the mightiest of warriors.”

“And you are one of them? A weakling?” It came out in a sneering tone, and strangely, he instantly regretted the words. He would not have done so with any other save his father, the Queen of Avelorn or the Witch King Malekith himself. This ‘Tathel’, he realised, could quite possibly obliterate him between the spaces of an instant.

“No. I am merely a guide,” the other explained. “A teacher, if you will. And you are the student.”

Saarin looked at him for a long time before venturing the question. His mind was whirling with thoughts, but he finally managed to work them down to just seven words.

“What are you here to teach me?”

***

There was nothing but white. Saarin stood upon that white, feeling out of place in his black armour. Tathel stood beside him, his staff gone, his hands somewhere within the billowing sleeves of that plain grey robe. Surrounding the two of them were ten figures, arrayed in a circle. Shadowy in nature despite the light, they sat in throne-like chairs, each looking different. Saarin could recognise the faces of some – he had seen them working in the fields of his father’s estate, or in the halls of the mansion. Despite the palpable distance he could feel between who he was and what they were, he did recognise them. But he still knew not who they were, for all his recognition. They were slaves, but here, there was something more, just as his self-appointed teacher held something more about him.

“Who are they?” he asked, mindful of the confusion evident in his voice. It was in no way feigned – he very much wanted answers as to the nature of this place.

“That is something we are here to determine,” Tathel replied, motioning to the only two Saarin could not readily identify. “What do you see?”

“One chair is… unoccupied,” he said finally. “There is nobody there. The other…” he looked closely, then felt confusion welling up within him anew. “The other is me!”

“No,” Tathel replied, “but your answer is not entirely unexpected.” He drew Saarin back from the two thrones and the occupant on one of them, and motioned to the circle again. “What do you see?”

“Ten figures and an empty chair.”

“No. What do you see?”

“Ten figures and an empty chair.”

“What do you see?”

“Ten figures and an empty chair!”

“What do you feel?”

“Ten- no,” Saarin said. He drew in his breath sharply. He did not see, but he could feel.

“How many?”

“Eleven.”

“Good.”