Re: In My Bloody Hit Novel

...The heart of the Elven Capital pulsed with unrest.

The city, known as Ael'thorien, was nestled within an ancient forest so vast and dense that the sky could barely touch the forest floor. But this city did not merely sit in the forest—it was the forest.

Mighty trees, some so thick it would take forty men holding hands to circle them, rose into the heavens. These were no ordinary trees. Their trunks were smooth and carved with glowing runes that bent nature to elven will.

Homes were not built but grown—branches had been taught to curl into walls, floors, balconies, and bridges. Flowers leaned into rooms as if to listen, yet glowed softly from within, illuminating chambers like lanterns. Vines spiraled like chandeliers. Leaves danced not with the wind, but at the whim of elven enchantment.

It was night in Ael'thorien, but that meant little. The city glimmered with quiet, bioluminescent life.

Until the alarm.

A deep, resonant horn call echoed through the boughs of the forest—slow, solemn, but powerful enough to stir the ancient wood itself.

And that was why they had gathered.

At the heart of the capital stood the largest tree in the realm—The Father Tree. Its base alone could swallow a village. Its bark bore the oldest runes known to elvenkind, some now too weathered to decipher.

At its center was a massive hall grown into its body, a chamber where decisions had shaped eras.

Tonight, the Elders had gathered.

They sat on chairs shaped from roots, smooth and humming with power. Each one carried age like armor—silver hair trailing, skin kissed by time. Their eyes bore wisdom that had watched empires rise and crumble.

Among them were a few younger elves, bold and burning with fresh idealism, but they watched mostly in silence.

On the polished bark-floor before them lay mutilated elven corpses, wrapped in cloths that had failed to preserve dignity. Blood stained the roots—a shocking sight in a realm where even nature had long been peaceful.

Of course, these corpses were the evidence of Chiron's uninvited arrival.

An elder in grey-green robes, long ears pierced with amber stone, massaged his jaw as he spoke with slow fury:

"According to the eye-witness report, the northern boundary has been infiltrated. Dozens dead. A single intruder, not of elven origin."

Another, clad in battle-woven bark armor, slammed his staff down.

"A lesser being!? This is an outrage! An insult to our lineage. To step on our soil is to court death!"

One of the younger elves leaned forward, his gold-threaded mantle catching the light.

"War is already on our shores. And I say we should meet it with fire and the fangs of our arrows. We should Rally the rangers, awaken the sentinels. Strike before the rot spreads."

Yet another voice—calmer, older—cut through. His eyes were tired.

"You speak like a child chasing thunder. We are not ready for war. The last time we opened our gates to the world, it bled us for a thousand years. Have you forgotten the history of the World War? Of course, you have. You were only a suckling then. The scars left by the fall of the Elven God King is the reason we are inside a Cardinal Forbidden Zone?"

The first rebutted with a sneer.

"Watch your tongue. You border on blasphemy. Do not speak of the God King's ruin so loosely."

A third elder, softer-spoken and robed in twilight-blue leaves, raised a placating hand.

"Let us not fall to division. There may yet be a path of knowledge in this. A way to understand what we face, before we feed more lives to the wind."

The hall filled with arguments—wisdom and passion clashing, rising like waves in the sea.

At the end of the chamber, beneath the crest of the tree's great crown, sat an empty throne. Carved from the purest heartwood and inlaid with glowing emerald runes—it was the throne of the Elven God King, it remained untouched since the end of the World War.

But beside it sat another throne. Smaller, yet radiating weight. Upon it sat a man of imposing presence.

Tall—even for an elf—and broader in the shoulders than most of his kind, his long white robe was adorned with crystal-like branches and veined silver. A crown of woven antler and moonleaf rested upon his brow. His features, though elegant, bore the calm steel of command.

This was Regent Talandor Vael'arien, the Warden of the Throne, keeper of the line until the next Chosen rises.

He had not spoken through the debate. Only listened, eyes shifting from speaker to speaker, tapping a silver ring against the root-arm of his seat.

Then, he lifted a hand.

The room fell silent.

His voice, when it came, was deep and resonant, with a weight that shook even the leaves above.

"It is no coincidence," he said, slowly. "That this... incursion arrives now. Not after, not before—but now, when the stars near their alignment, and we stand at the cusp of choosing our next monarch. It reeks of calculated blasphemy."

He looked over the room, his eyes sharp.

"We are not victims. But we are also no longer gods. What we face… is cunning. More cunning than brute. And that… concerns me."

The Regent, Talandor Vael'arien, turned his head to the left… and then to the right, casting his gaze upon the two seated closest to his seat. Both were not just spectators—they were the heirs to the fallen Elven God King, preserved during the twilight of war and grown in secret long after peace had returned.

These two were royal blood. The last.

Their very presence here was a reminder of the ancient bloodline, and now, in this hour of crisis, all eyes turned to them.

To the Regent's left sat the elder of the two, a towering figure whose mere presence demanded attention. His golden hair fell in sharp waves over his shoulders, braided with thin cords of silver and obsidian. His armor, though ceremonial, bore real battle scarring, and his voice, when it came, always commanded silence. His name was Prince Aetherion Vael'Thorne,

(Note: Elves carry their mother's last names and not their fathers. It is honor to the womb.)

...and the Elders watched him with the respect one might give a blade of legend.

He had fought beasts in the Deep Vale, ended border rebellions, and rebuilt the ruined Outer Glade with his own hands.

He was on his way to the top.

To the Regent's right was a very different figure: slender, nervous, and perpetually adjusting the circular spectacles that sat on the bridge of his narrow nose. He wore robes of muted green and bark-hued brown, embroidered with academic runes. His name was Prince Silmarien Vael'Ennis, and though he was often underestimated, none could deny his genius with runic sciences, diplomacy, and lore.

Both had been frozen in embryonic crystal, during the fall of the Elven God King—an act of desperation. Only centuries later were they grown to adulthood using the best of elven bio-rhythmic Rune cultivation. But time did not erase the chasm between them.

The Regent turned first to Aetherion. His voice calm, formal:

"Speak, son of Vael'Thorne. The court awaits your wisdom."

Aetherion rose slowly, his gauntleted hand gripping the edge of the ancient table carved from Father Tree's own roots.

"We are under attack. The enemy comes to our borders, spills the blood of our scouts, dares to walk our sacred ground... and you ask for wisdom?"

"I say this: let us remind the world why they once feared the Elven Kingdoms. Let us awaken the old weapons, the buried giants of stone and leaf. Let them know that we are still the blood of the God King, and we do not kneel."

A murmur of approval rippled through the chamber. Several elders nodded, hands tapping their armrests in subtle applause.

The Regent gave a slow nod. Then, turning to the right, he addressed the second heir:

"And you, Silmarien Vael'Ennis… what say you?"

The younger prince stood, though not as confidently. He adjusted his glasses once more, his voice a bit shaky but clear.

"We know not what or who this intruder is. One man—one—broke through our northern wardens. That alone suggests this is not mere war… it is strategy. Precision."

"We must learn. We must watch. Before we unsheathe the blade, we must know where to strike. And if we must strike at all. Let not pride blind us to possibility."

The chamber fell into a hush.

But only for a moment.

Prince Aetherion's fist slammed onto the table, the wood shivering beneath the force.

"Possibility!? Proud elven lives were slaughtered! Do you propose we wait while the invader walks to our door again? Your words reek of weakness, little brother."

A chorus of voices rose in support.

"Is he even of the blood of the God King?" one old general hissed. "He speaks like a human diplomat," another sneered. "Full of excuses, and cowardice wrapped in wit." "Feeble-hearted scholars never saved a realm," came a deeper growl from one of the military elders.

Silmarien stiffened, biting his lip. But he did not speak back.

The Regent said nothing at first, his eyes once again sweeping the room, measuring the rising heat of his court.

He sighed. "I will take both sides into account... At least before the chosen day, we must increase our defences at all borders. And find the intruder.... Someone has to pay for spilling Elven blood."