The throne room of Velkyn had seen countless royal audiences over its thousand-year history. Diplomatic envoys bearing trade agreements. Military commanders reporting victories. Tax collectors presenting tribute from distant provinces. The white marble walls had witnessed empire being built stone by stone, decree by decree.
They had never witnessed this.
King Ashtherion'vaur sat rigid on his mythril throne, his pale grey eyes fixed on the sealed scroll in his hand. The wax seal was unmistakable—a silver tree with twelve branches, rendered in such fine detail that each leaf was individually visible. The seal of Xyi'vana'mir. The High Elf Kingdom.
Around him, his advisors stood in shocked silence. The messenger who'd delivered the scroll—a royal courier who'd ridden four days without stopping—knelt on the polished floor, his head bowed, clearly terrified of the contents he'd carried.
The king broke the seal with deliberate slowness. Unrolled the parchment. Read.
His face remained perfectly composed, but those who knew him well noticed the subtle tightening of his jaw. The minute narrowing of his eyes. The way his fingers pressed slightly harder against the scroll's edges.
When he finished reading, he set the scroll down very carefully on the throne's armrest.
"Leave us," he said quietly. "Everyone. Out."
"Your Majesty—" one advisor began.
"OUT!"
The roar echoed through the vast chamber. Advisors fled. Guards retreated. The messenger scrambled backward, still on his knees, then gained his feet and ran. Within thirty seconds, King Ashtherion'vaur sat alone in the throne room, surrounded by white marble and terrible silence.
He picked up the scroll again. Re-read it. As if the words might change upon second viewing.
FORMAL DECLARATION OF THE HIGH COUNCIL OF XYI'VANA'MIR
To Ashtherion'vaur, styling himself King of Ul'varh'mir:
Let it be known across all nations, all peoples, all lands beneath the twelve celestial bodies:
The High Elf Kingdom of Xyi'vana'mir hereby declares formal and absolute WAR against the human kingdom of Ul'varh'mir, its territories, its armies, and its tyrannical sovereign.
We declare this war for the following grievous crimes:
FIRST: The systematic genocide of mana-capable populations across your territories. The murder of one hundred twenty-seven thousand, nine hundred ninety souls in East City. The ongoing purge operations targeting peaceful villages and settlements.
SECOND: The corruption of natural magical balance through chakra supremacist ideology. The false doctrine that mana users are "hell-born corruption" when in truth they are as natural as the rain, as ancient as the mountains, as fundamental to this world's existence as the very air we breathe.
THIRD: The persecution of those who cannot defend themselves. The murder of children. The burning of families. The erasure of entire bloodlines for the crime of being born different.
These acts violate every principle of civilization. Every covenant of peaceful coexistence. Every moral law that separates sapient beings from mindless beasts.
Therefore, effective immediately, the High Elf Kingdom commits its full military strength to your destruction. Our armies will march. Our mages will strike. Our wrath will be absolute and unrelenting until either your kingdom falls or you withdraw every soldier, rescind every purge order, and publicly execute those responsible for these atrocities.
You have declared war on mana itself. Now mana declares war on you.
We give you thirty days to comply with our demands. After that, there will be no negotiation. No mercy. No quarter.
The High Council has spoken. The mountain kingdoms witness our oath. Let history record that when tyranny rose, Xyi'vana'mir stood against it.
Signed with blood and binding oath:
High Queen Lyse'andra Vel'synthara
Archmage Council (All Seven Seats)
The Eternal Assembly (Unanimous Vote)
King Ashtherion'vaur crumpled the scroll in his fist, then thought better of it and smoothed it out again. This was evidence. Documentation of an act that would reshape the political landscape of the entire continent.
Xyi'vana'mir hadn't declared war on anyone in two thousand years. Two thousand years of neutrality, of isolation, of carefully maintained borders and minimal diplomatic engagement. They were the strongest military power on the planet—everyone knew it, even if no one spoke it aloud—but they never used that strength. Never interfered. Never threatened.
Until now.
"How?" the king whispered to the empty throne room. "How did they know?"
The purge was classified at the highest levels. Only his inner circle knew the full scope. Communications were conducted through secured channels, encoded messages, verbal-only briefings in shielded rooms. Every precaution had been taken to prevent information from reaching foreign powers before the purge was complete.
Yet the High Elves knew everything. Down to specific casualty numbers. Down to the East City operation's exact death toll. Down to details that even some of his own generals hadn't been briefed on.
Someone had talked. Someone with high-level access. Someone who'd betrayed the kingdom to its greatest potential enemy.
Or—and this thought was somehow more disturbing—the High Elves had ways of knowing that didn't require spies or betrayals. Ways that operated on principles his human advisors couldn't comprehend.
The king stood, began pacing. His mind raced through strategic calculations.
Xyi'vana'mir's military strength was legendary. Their mages could level cities. Their warriors were trained from childhood in combat arts that made human soldiers look like children playing with sticks. And they didn't use chakra—not because they couldn't, but because they didn't need to.
High Elves had perfect attunement to ambient mana. The magical energy that permeated Vulcan itself flowed through them like water through a river. They didn't need spoken spells, didn't need ritual casting, didn't need preparation time. They simply willed effects into existence, and reality bent to accommodate them.
A human mage might spend five minutes preparing a fireball spell. A High Elf could create the same effect with a thought. While simultaneously creating three other effects. While carrying on a conversation. While barely paying attention.
And their population—though smaller than humanity's—was entirely combat-capable. Every High Elf trained. Every High Elf could fight. There were no civilians in Xyi'vana'mir, only varying degrees of warrior-mage.
"Thirty days," the king muttered. "Thirty days to what? Abandon the purge? Execute my own generals? Admit that mana users aren't corruption?"
It was impossible. Politically impossible. He'd built his entire reign on chakra supremacy. Convinced the nobility that mana users were threats. Mobilized four hundred thousand soldiers on the premise that they were cleansing evil from the kingdom.
To reverse course now would be admitting he'd orchestrated genocide for nothing. Would turn him from righteous purifier to mass murderer in the eyes of his own people. Would likely trigger civil war as various factions turned on each other.
But to continue meant war with Xyi'vana'mir. Meant facing an enemy that hadn't lost a conflict in recorded history. Meant watching his armies—his beautiful, disciplined, four-hundred-thousand-strong military machine—get systematically annihilated by mages who could reshape battlefields with casual thoughts.
The king sat back on his throne, rested his head in his hands, and for the first time in his seventy-year life, felt the weight of a decision that might destroy everything he'd built.
One hundred fifty-three kilometers north of Velkyn's white halls, Misaki gritted his teeth and took another step upward.
The terrain had shifted from lowland forest to foothills over the past day. The ground sloped constantly upward now, elevation gain measured in hundreds of meters rather than the gentle rises of the plains. And with altitude came cold, thin air, and exhaustion that hit the refugees like a physical weight.
The elderly were suffering worst. Men and women who'd managed yesterday's flat terrain now struggled with every step, their breath coming in labored gasps, their legs trembling with fatigue.
"We need to rest," someone called from the back of the column. "Please, just fifteen minutes—"
"No stops until we reach the next waypoint!" Misaki shouted back, then immediately felt guilty for his harshness. But they couldn't afford delays. The pursuit teams were behind them, getting closer every hour. Rest meant death.
The infant Kyn wailed in Misaki's arms, the altitude change affecting his ears, making him miserable. Misaki had fashioned a crude sling from cloth to carry the baby against his chest, leaving his hands free for climbing and balance, but the extra weight made the upward march brutal.
"Shh," he murmured, adjusting Kyn's position. "I know, little one. I know it hurts. Just a bit farther."
Nearby, Riyeak carried Sera with surprising gentleness for such a massive man. The malnourished girl had collapsed completely an hour ago, her weakened body unable to handle the combination of march pace and altitude. Riyeak had simply picked her up without breaking stride, cradling her against his broad chest like she weighed nothing.
"How much farther?" Sera asked weakly, her voice barely audible over the sounds of eight hundred people struggling upward.
"Another ten kilometers today," Riyeak replied. "Maybe twelve if we're unlucky. But then we rest properly. I promise."
"You promised that yesterday."
"Yesterday I was lying to make you feel better. Today I'm telling the truth."
Despite everything, Sera giggled. The sound was so unexpected—a child's laughter in the middle of this nightmare—that several nearby refugees turned to look, their expressions softening briefly before hardening again into exhausted determination.
Misaki checked his rough map, trying to match terrain features to Shy'yao's descriptions. According to the old chief, there was a legendary settlement somewhere in these foothills. A hidden village of mana users who'd fled persecution generations ago and built sanctuary in places so remote that even the kingdom's mapmakers didn't know they existed.
"The people of M'yara'kesh spoke of it," Shy'yao had said during last night's planning session. "A place called Kel'shara. Not the dungeon ruins—a village that shares the name. Protected by natural barriers and magical concealment. If we can find it, they might shelter us. At least temporarily."
If it existed. If the legends were true. If they could locate it before the pursuit caught up.
Too many ifs.
"Misaki!" Vellin appeared from the treeline ahead, moving with the tireless energy of someone whose small size made her more efficient at altitude. "We have a problem. The direct route continues climbing for another fifteen kilometers. Altitude will hit three thousand meters. The elderly and children won't make it."
"Alternate route?"
"There's a longer path that curves west, follows a valley. Adds twenty kilometers but stays at lower elevation." Vellin's expression was troubled. "But it also takes us further from Seleun'mhir's border. Delays our arrival by at least a full day."
Misaki did the math quickly. One day delay meant one more day for pursuit teams to catch up. But if the direct route killed refugees from altitude sickness, that defeated the entire purpose.
"We take the valley route," he decided. "Survival first. Speed second. Signal the column to bear west at the next junction."
Vellin nodded and disappeared back into the forest to relay the orders.
Thirty-seven kilometers behind the refugees, Captain Dreshen led his two-hundred-man pursuit column through terrain that showed clear signs of recent passage. Broken branches. Disturbed undergrowth. The occasional discarded item dropped by refugees too exhausted to carry it further.
"They're slowing down," his lieutenant observed. "We're gaining."
"Good. Maintain current pace. No need to rush and exhaust our own men." Dreshen studied the trail ahead with professional assessment. "They'll hit the foothills soon. Altitude will hit them hard. That's when we'll close the gap."
The column moved with practiced efficiency. Professional soldiers covering ground at a sustainable pace, rotating point positions to prevent fatigue, maintaining formation even through difficult terrain.
Then the first trap triggered.
A soldier stepped on what looked like solid ground. The false surface gave way instantly, and he plunged into a pit three meters deep. His scream cut off abruptly as he hit bottom—not deadly deep, but deep enough to break his ankle and take him out of action.
"HALT!" Dreshen commanded. "Scouts forward! Check for more traps!"
Three scouts advanced carefully, probing the ground with long poles, testing each step. They found two more pitfall traps within fifty meters—both clearly visible once you knew what to look for, deliberately obvious.
"Fake traps," one scout reported. "Designed to slow us down, waste time clearing them."
"Clever," Dreshen admitted grudgingly. "Bypass them. Mark locations and continue—"
The spike trap triggered without warning.
A section of trail that had seemed completely clear suddenly erupted with sharpened wooden stakes swinging down from concealed positions in the trees above. The stakes—each two meters long and wickedly pointed—swept through the column's middle ranks like a scythe through wheat.
Eight soldiers went down. Three killed instantly, stakes punching through chest armor and finding hearts. Five wounded badly enough to require immediate evacuation. Blood sprayed. Men screamed. The tight formation dissolved into chaos.
"DEFENSIVE POSITIONS!" Dreshen roared, diving behind a tree. "SHIELDS UP! MEDICS FORWARD!"
But there were no follow-up attacks. No ambush. Just the brutal mechanical efficiency of a trap triggered and left to do its work.
As his men scrambled to treat the wounded and recover the dead, Dreshen stood slowly and surveyed the damage. Eight casualties. Ten if you counted the two soldiers too traumatized to continue fighting effectively.
His two-hundred-man column was now down to one hundred ninety effectives. And somewhere ahead, the refugees who'd set this trap were moving farther away with every passing minute.
"Sir," his lieutenant said quietly. "Do we continue?"
Dreshen looked at the blood-soaked stakes still swinging slightly in the wind. Looked at his wounded men being bandaged. Looked at the corpses being wrapped for transport.
General Vex wanted prisoners. Wanted to study the rebels' tactics. Wanted to understand how they thought.
Well, now Dreshen understood one thing clearly: whoever was commanding the refugee column knew exactly how to make pursuit prohibitively expensive.
"Send a runner back to General Vex," Dreshen said, his voice tight with controlled anger. "Report casualties and current status. Request orders on whether to continue pursuit with reduced strength or wait for reinforcements."
As the runner departed, Dreshen looked north toward mountains he couldn't yet see but knew waited ahead. Somewhere up there, refugees were climbing toward safety. And every trap they set, every delay they created, every casualty they inflicted moved them one step closer to escaping entirely.
Run, little rabbits, he thought grimly. But this hunt isn't over. Not by a long shot.
In M'lod's ruins, General Vex received the casualty report with a thoughtful expression.
"One column down to ninety-percent effectiveness from a single trap," he murmured, studying the message. "Wounded requiring evacuation, dead requiring transport, morale impact requiring time to recover."
"Should we reinforce them, sir?" an aide asked.
"No." Vex set the message aside. "Let them continue at reduced strength. I want to see how the rebels respond to pursuit that's wounded but still dangerous. Whether they press the advantage or consolidate their lead."
"That's... somewhat cold, sir."
"War is cold, Lieutenant." Vex smiled thinly. "Besides, our quarry just taught me something valuable: they're willing to kill to escape, not just willing to run. That changes the engagement parameters significantly."
He walked to his command map, tracing possible refugee routes with one finger.
"They're heading for Seleun'mhir. That much is obvious. But the question is what path they'll take. Direct route through high altitude? Longer route through valleys? Do they know about Kel'shara?"
His aide looked confused. "Kel'shara, sir? The old legends?"
"Not so legendary. Intelligence reports suggest it's real. A hidden settlement of mana users in the foothills. If the refugees know about it, that changes everything." Vex's eyes gleamed. "Because if they reach Kel'shara and find allies there, we're not hunting eight hundred refugees anymore. We're potentially facing an armed resistance force with local knowledge and prepared positions."
He turned to his aide with a predatory smile.
"Send word to all pursuit columns. I want them to push harder. Accept higher casualties if necessary. Because if those refugees reach Kel'shara before we catch them, this easy hunt becomes a very difficult war."