A man was waiting for her. A man who once had been straight, tall, and unblemished. Now he was scarred and hunched. Lorsan, the once-swordmaster of the court and former tutor of the king’s children himself, hobbled towards her on a cane, ostensibly to give her support. He, who had once been a living legend, had been reduced to this.

  “Lady Arimea,” he offered in greeting, giving her a small deferential nod of his head. A weak escort, but an escort nonetheless. She would take any support she could get in this den of vipers.

  “Lorsan,” she returned curtly, for her attention was arrested by the sight before her. It was as spectacur now as it was when she first had the honor to be presented here.

  Moving deeper into the court, Arimea could hear the Witchwood’s song. It was a steady symphony born from the trees, more felt than truly heard, as the trees gathered the melody of sunlight, turning it into life and energy. But how exactly the trees drew sustenance from the light was a process that, to this day, confounded the wisest of Elven sages.

  A shaft of sunlight shone on a raised dais, focusing Arimea’s attention to a grand structure that overlooked all before it. The eternal seat of power of the elves, the Peacock Throne.

  It looked to be carved from the Witchwood, but no metal bdes had been allowed to touch the sacred wood. Instead, it had been coaxed into being, shaped by the ancient songs of elven craftsmen who once wielded the arcane words of creation. Formed into the shape of a peacock's splendid fan, its myriad eyes seemed ever vigint, eternally on the watch for the faintest whisper of treachery.

  And upon that throne sat their king, a being that commanded no small modicum of respect. All feared the king and his vitriol. He was quick to anger and slow to forget, for the years upon the throne had lent him great power. Through his long reign, his list of achievements almost rivaled the list of his former, now broken, enemies.

  He was a being filled with an almost raw masculine energy, yet surprisingly slight and supple of form. His hair and eyes were the iron gray of storm clouds, a sign of his great and venerable age. A proud and unlined face, taught with a tapestry of long-buried emotions and memories, looked coldly down at all before him. Watching for signs only he knew to look for.

  Like all the elves, Arimea feared their king.

  A herald announced her presence, listing off the meaningless titles that she had acquired over the years, ripping her away from her observations. The elf’s monotone voice somehow seemed to make all of her achievements seem so small and mundane.

  With Lorsan at her side, she made her way to pay her obeisance before the Peacock throne. With each step, the air grew heavier with an ominous, almost palpable pressure. It felt like a funeral procession, or the final steps to the headsman’s gallows. Finally, she reached the foot of the throne and, together with Lorsan, pnted her head on the floor.

  “Lady Arimea, Lorsan, you may rise,” boomed the voice from the throne. If she was not mistaken, there was a hint of something odd in his tone.

  Slowly, she looked up to gaze upon her king. Yes, it was not just imagination, his voice tinged with something other than expected anger. There was a note of… amusement and his ancient ageless face had hints of a boyish smile. It was disturbing.

  “You have failed us,” came the immediate judgment from the ancient elf. There was sound as the whole court drew an intake of breath. She would have ughed had the matter not been so serious.

  “Yes, my king,” she answered honestly, doing her best to keep her voice steady. Excuses and other social machinations would not work before him. The eyes of the throne knew all.

  “Yet, in a completely different matter, you have succeeded beyond expectations. To sy the Hwanda Heveni, the sum of all men, is no small achievement. Humans and their ridiculous titles. The wiles of fate and destiny are as capricious as they are cruel, are they not Lorsan? To think that the greatest sword master of our generation crossed bdes with the Dragon Syer, and prevailed no less.”

  The king turned the full force of his gaze upon Arimea.

  “Surely, you would think that Lorsan would look a bit happier, despite being somewhat diminished,” the leader of the elven nation commented wryly in a clear voice that both expected and demanded agreement.

  Nervously Arimea looked to Lorsan, meeting his eyes and giving him a small nod.

  “It is as you say, my king,” the elven swordmaster responded neutrally in Arimea’s stead, his eyes firmly fixed on the living carpet of green before the throne.

  “So, it would seem that I must both reward and punish you? And Lorsan too, by association. That is what they would have done in times of old, no?” the ancient king stated, the mirth coloring his voice piner for her ears to see.

  Still, the feeling of dread did not leave her. The pressure both within and without grew. This was a crossroads, an intersection of a pnned fate. She could feel it in the song of Mana.

  “My king? What is it that you wish of us?” croaked Arimea, failing finally to keep an even keel.

  “Still, not even a hint of an apology? You will not beg forgiveness from us? You are proud Arimea, like your mother, and her mother’s mother. Too proud by far. Shame Lorsan could not impart upon you a fraction of his humility,” the ancient one rejoined without answering her question.

  “We have begun the rite of the Summoning. We will call forth our own Hero from the Distant World. We will have an Elven Champion of our own. Like in the times of yore,” announced the King with great aplomb.

  Like a wave rippling across a tranquil ke, a great gasp took the assembly. A gasp that soon turned into panicked natterings. As the gathered nobles reached a crescendo of worry, the king raised a single hand and the court fell once again into silence.

  “Our seers will call forth one that they have seen in their visions. He will come from the Kingdom of the Lonely Star and his soul shines as one of the mightiest of warriors and generals of his world,” the old one announced to the gathered elves.

  “And I have chosen the pair of you to be his guide. You will show him our ways. You will instruct him to fight, using only our ways. You will be the bond that glues him to the First Children. Especially you, Arimea. Fwed as your beauty might be, you will serve him in both body and soul. Your remaining charm will have to serve to bind him to us,” the ancient King stated with an almost lecherous smile.

  “But I am promised to another! I will be no…” Arimea protested. She looked around for her promised one. She caught his eyes for a moment, but in that moment he looked down, guiltily. Of course, with her reputation in tatters, she was damaged goods now.

  The king looked down at her as if she was just a cross child. “You will serve your people and you will thank us for the honor of it,” he decred simply, silencing her.

  "But your Majesty," Lorsan asked, clearly puzzled, "teaching someone our ways takes centuries. Just as trees cannot be forced to grow, can a worthy warrior truly be made in such a short time?”

  A ugh resounded from up on the throne. “Lorsan, I have been told that a Champion, when summoned to our world, will learn very quickly. It is simply about preparing the correct… conditions for growth.” The King’s words were like a river, washing away all chance and challenge of a response.

  “By your will,” they both acquiesced with nothing to add, pressing their heads to soft green. Any further comment in such a public arena would only serve as a direct insult to the throne’s authority. Stoic as she had thought she had become, Arimea could not help but to allow a single hidden tear to track its way down her face. Soon it was lost into countless green bdes beneath her.

  “And when he is ready, we will sail once more across the seas with our armies. We will call our satrapies to war and cim what belongs to us,” stated the King, as cheers took the court like a rapturous fire.