"In the elder ages when the world was young, Elves and Dwarfs lived in peace and prosperity. Dwarfs are great craftsmen, lords of the under deeps, artificers beyond compare. Elves are peerless mages, masters of the Dragons, creatures of the sky and air. During the time of High King Snorri Whitebeard and Prince Malekith, these two great races were at the pinnacle of their strength. But such power and dominion could not last. Fell forces now gather against Elves and Dwarfs. Malekith, embittered by his maiming in the Flame Of Asuryan, seeks to destroy them both but still darker powers are also at work. Already strained, disharmony sours relations between them until only enmity remains. Treachery is inevitable, a terrible act that can only result in one outcome... War."

  —Extract from the book The War of Vengeance, also known as The Great Betrayal.

  The following days, weeks, and months Calethor threw himself into training like someone possessed. Mostly in fear, but also in excitement. When he was just the memories of Calethor it was easy to grow bored of training, or not realize its true importance. No longer did he view things how he had. He saw things with new eyes.

  In hindsight he realized he had been lazy, or maybe lax would be more appropriate to say. Any person with the knowledge he now had would feel they had underprepared for it. Like doing something without knowing it was graded, it would of course feel half-assed. He had to become exceptional, nothing less would do.

  Maerthas had always ensured there was no laziness, but Calethor didn’t really need to be reminded to focus now. He rose early on his own and met him in the yard with a vigor and enthusiasm Maerthas had been shocked to see. He ran until his lungs burned, and then ran again without being told. After that came weapons, and Calethor threw himself into them with the same intensity, taking corrections without sulking and asking to repeat things until Maerthas was satisfied.

  What bothered Calethor was how fast it all started to click. He was progressing faster than he should based on what he remembered of himself.

  A strange jump in skill that didn’t fit the time he had put in. Little adjustments that came naturally, things he would do that he couldn’t explain but just made sense to do. Calethor found himself thinking about it often, trying to understand what was going on. Which Maerthas had also noticed.

  Maerthas finally brought it up one morning after sparring. He stood there with his practice blade lowered, eyeing Calethor curiously.

  “My Prince,” Maerthas said, “have you been training in secret?”

  Calethor blinked at him. “In secret?”

  Maerthas’s expression didn’t change. “Your timing is cleaner. Your footwork is better. You correct yourself before I can. I know you have regained your memories but you were not this good before.”

  Calethor let out a short breath that was almost a laugh. “No. I haven’t been sneaking off at night to practice if that’s what you mean.”

  Maerthas studied him for a moment longer, then nodded once, as if filing the answer away. “Then explain it.”

  “Things are just starting to click I think, or It just feels like the right way to do it,” Calethor admitted, and he shrugged. “Maybe I’m just talented?”

  Maerthas’s gaze held him a moment longer, then he turned and gestured back toward the racks. “Mayhaps,” he said simply. “I had thought I had a good understanding of your skill and talent but I feel that I must re-evaluate it.”

  Calethor trained in what he’d been trained in before: bows, axes, swords, spear, and shield. Bow work first more often than not. Chrace was damn near all mountains and forests.

  Every elf would eventually do some kind of service. Garrisons, patrols, ranger work, spear or archer regiments—every kingdom had its own needs. Chrace leaned hard into hunters and soldiers. The Lothern Sea Guard belonged to Eataine, but Calethor still learned about them anyway, Every one of the ten kingdoms had a specialty or its own micro culture. Which reflected in their people and troops. It was something he enjoyed learning about even more now, after gaining his love of this world from David’s memories. All things about it now tickled something in the back of his brain.

  Then there was magic.

  He had yet to really dive deep into those studies. Most elves had some talent for it. Even without great skill, one could still learn simple incantations for basic tasks and chores. But before the merging of his memories with David’s, Calethor had had negative interest in it—no interest in magic at all. Cale shook his head at his old view. Eventually he would need to find a teacher.

  But the most immediate thing—the thing that sat at the front of his mind no matter what else he tried to plan—was the lion pelt. Calethor’s memories needed him to do it, while David’s was more relaxed about it.

  In Chrace it was almost required if one was of noble blood. No Elven prince of this kingdom could remain without it if he wanted to not be laughed out of court. To earn it, one had to prove himself a hunter-warrior, traditionally by slaying a white lion alone or taming one.

  Five years.

  In five years’ time, Calethor would undertake the challenge. It was a self-imposed condition to make sure he didn't drag his feet, but the sooner he did it the better off he would be. He would accomplish something at an extremely young age for an elf, which would help his reputation.

  Time flowed differently for Elves, he soon realized. He remembered how long each individual year had felt when he was David, but now, with his focus locked on improving himself and mastering skills, the months began to slip by in the blink of an eye. It was something he would never have noticed without the memories of his past life, and it truly showed the difference between human and elf.

  The first year became about shoring up his foundation. Maerthas was a godsend, and he realized how great a gift he was, he was an Elf of countless years personally instructing him. Calethor rose early, and trained early. Elves are naturally a thin and lithe race but still were deceptively strong. It did mean however they built muscle differently, they would always be more compact than showy. Archery was focused on heavily, because Chrace put heavy emphasis on it. Spear and shield because their levy system allowed every citizen of Ulthaun to be called on in times of war. Sword because he was noble and expected to be competent with them. Axe because of Chracian tradition. If Calethor leaned too hard into what felt comfortable to him, Maerthas took it away for a week.

  The second year was when Maerthas began taking him out of the city and into Chrace proper. It was a small milestone for Cale because while had been around quite a bit of Ulthaun, his “new” memories made everything fresh again. One set of memories told him that this was normal, while the other screamed at him he was extremely fortunate to see these fantastical things. He would find himself climbing slick stone in the cold wind, learning how to move quietly through ancient forests, and learning how to track beasts. How to read prints in mud that had been ruined by time and weather. How to pick a route that didn’t leave him silhouetted on a ridge.

  The third year shifted again, focusing more on the technical and theoretical of fighting. It was easy to run until he vomited. It was harder to understand why one guard mattered more than another, why a certain angle of the wrist saved the elbow. Maerthas became less of a drillmaster and more of a college professor during that year. He’d stop Calethor mid-motion and ask why he chose that response then break it down to the basics. Cale found it fascinating to learn.

  Sparring became regular, training not just with Maerthas but the other warriors and guards as well. Calethor learned quickly that pride had become a problem he now had to actively manage. It wasn’t just stubbornness. It was something deeper, dangerously subtle and almost instinctive—an arrogance that slid in unnoticed, that he was only now realizing he had.

  With David’s memories added on top of Calethor’s, he could see it more clearly. High Elves weren’t just “confident.” Their pride was built into them. Into their culture, their upbringing, even the way they carried themselves. And now that he was truly living as one, he could feel it in his own reactions. The quiet assumption that he should be better, was better. The urge to dismiss a loss as a fluke instead of a lesson. It was ugly when he caught it, because it felt natural.

  So he used both lives to keep himself in check. David’s side gave him humility—years of being ordinary, normal, and forced to accept mistakes. Calethor’s side gave him discipline and standards. Together, they let him handle loss the way it should be treated: not humiliating, but informative.

  And it helped understand something else too: every elf had to fight against it to a degree. He began to realize why High Elf culture was the way it was. Hundreds of rules and protocol in court to keep it in check.

  Between sessions, Calethor disappeared into libraries. Tor Achare had written records for almost everything. While he was sure it did not compare to the libraries of Sapherey or The White Tower it is what he had available. He read histories of Chrace, lineages, old treaties, records of feuds. He read everything he could get his hands on. Not only because he needed to understand this world better but because he realized he enjoyed it. He had loved this world greatly when it was but mere words on a page, David’s memories insisted he take note of everything.

  And that was where his two lives gave him a powerful advantage over many. Almost all.

  David’s knowledge gave him a rough map of the world—big events and names. The general direction things were going to be headed. Calethor’s memories gave reality. The life of someone who had lived in this world, why it mattered to save it.

  He cross-checked without even trying. He’d read something and immediately notice a difference. Then he’d find another account and realize that biased accounting was of course a thing here. The “lore” he knew made everything look clean and simpler. The real history had gaps, contradictions, people lying, and nobles rewriting events to make themselves look better.

  The biggest difference was seeing daily life. David had always pictured Warhammer as constant war. It wasn’t. Markets opened. People argued over stupid things. Lovers met. Rivalries formed. A servant could be worried about a wine stain. What he had forgotten with this universe always focused on the highlights of history. While the in-between are relatively calm and allow the inhabitants of Mallus to progress and breath before the next inevitable battle.

  That gave him both hope and dread. If things were different it meant both positive and negative things for his plans.

  By the fourth year, Calethor’s days had become aggressively productive. Training in the mornings. Reading midday. Drills or sparring in the afternoon. Evenings with his family when he could manage it, because that mattered too. He loved them, they were his family and he would not push them off to the side. One could argue that he should focus all of his time on saving the world. But this was something that was important to him.

  They'd noticed the changes, of course—how intense he had become in his desire to improve and learn. Obviously he'd regained his memories, but he'd still changed in their eyes since the injury. His father was overall happy with it. Happy to see him take a more serious stance on his duties. While his mother was a bit more concerned, but still tried to stay positive.

  He had begun people-watching. Accidentally becoming one of his hobbies. Cale watched how his people lived, how they spoke and how they interacted. It felt like he was watching a TV show, something he definitely missed from his old life. He would of course get weird looks as he would be a part of a conversation and forget to speak up.

  By the close of the fifth year, he felt as comfortable as before gaining his new knowledge. It was hard to believe how quickly time had passed. It was terrifying in a way, and deep down he knew that if he let himself get distracted or get too focused on something, months could slip by and feel like only hours. It was an alien thing.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  Currently Cale walked down the streets of the city, having left his family’s villa early in the morning. He wanted a day to let himself actually explore Tor Achare. In the last five years he had been out and about constantly, but he hadn’t explored it to the degree he should have. His time as David begging for him to explore it in the flesh and see it anew.

  He was dressed in tasteful robes—nothing flashy, but clearly well made. Pale fabric layered neatly, fitted at the shoulders and cuffs. Practical enough to move in, and fine enough that one could recognize his status. His hair was braided neatly, pulled back and kept out of his face. He was getting used to the fashion.

  He found himself on the outskirts of one of the larger marketplaces, drawn in by the noise and movement. Stalls and awnings formed uneven rows, and the air carried the mix of baked goods, fruit, spice, and clean mountain wind. He wanted to see what goods and foods he would stumble upon.

  Cale smiled brightly at passing people. Some returned it. Others gave polite nods, their eyes lingering for a moment longer than they would on anyone else.

  As he looked around at the architecture of the plaza the market sat in, he could see why elves prided themselves as one of the greatest races. It was all masterfully done. Smooth white stone, clean lines, carved detail that never felt excessive, and it all fit together like it had been planned centuries in advance. Even after five years, the amazement hadn’t faded. He hoped it never would.

  David’s memories were a gift in that sense—they let him see it with fresh eyes every time. Calethor’s memories kept him from standing there like an idiot staring at walls. Truly, it was a perfect balance.

  He browsed the stalls of the nearby vendors, stopping here and there as different goods caught his eye. Jewelry was the most common—rings, ear-cuffs, fine chains, and polished stones set so cleanly you could barely see the metal holding them. Some pieces were clearly local, styled the way Asur preferred. Others were more exotic.

  One merchant had bolts of cloth and dyes that didn’t look like they belonged anywhere in Ulthuan. Rich desert colors, bright patterns, and spices laid out in small sealed jars. Araby, if Calethor had to guess. The smell alone gave it away—sweet, and sharp. Nearby, another stall had goods that appeared made from human hands: stamped metal buckles, heavy leather goods, a few small tools, and even printed pamphlets and cheap little books. The Empire, most likely.

  Set off to the side, almost like the vendor didn’t want too much attention, were a few items that were unmistakably Dwarfen make. A clasp that looked like it was to hold a cloak, a small metal tool with tight, precise joints, a cup with a weight that felt wrong in the hand because it was probably built to be used as a weapon as well. There weren’t many of them—just a few pieces mixed into the rest—but Calethor still found himself pausing, surprised that anything crafted by the Dawi had made its way into an Elven market at all.

  David’s memories twirled within his head as he pondered it, and Calethor’s weren’t much use. Originally, Cale’s memories only held an ingrained dislike for the dwarfs—something he’d been grinding away at as much as possible. Now it felt more like a grudging respect. David, on the other hand, was a fanboy through and through.

  He smiled to himself, then looked back at the merchant peddling the goods.

  “How did you get these?” he asked, gesturing to the Dwarfen pieces.

  The elf merchant blinked, surprised for a moment, then smiled like he’d just found someone worth talking to. “Good eye, sir. Most don’t notice.”

  “I’m surprised they’re here at all,” Cale said.

  The merchant replied easily. “They came in through Lothern with a mixed shipment. From human traders in the empire mostly. You’d be amazed what ends up in their cargo when it’s passed through enough hands.”

  “So you bought it off humans.”

  “No,” the merchant corrected. “I bought it off fellow Elves. Who they got it from I do not know. A ship comes in with curiosities, I take what I think will sell. Most Asur walk right past these. A few recognize them and decide they’ve never seen them.”

  Cale gave a small nod. “And the Dwarfs?”

  The merchant shrugged. “Could be from trade in the Old World. Could be payment. Could be spoils. Humans don’t always know, and they don’t always care.”

  Cale set the clasp down carefully. “So why bother carrying it?”

  “Because of it’s uniqueness,” the merchant said, smiling, still in salesman mode. “And because every now and then someone like you shows interest in them.”

  Cale looked at the items again. “How much for the clasp?”

  The merchant’s smile widened slightly. “For you, sir? It depends, are you looking to barter or pay in sovereigns?”

  Cale thought internally. The High Elves had their own internal currency but really did not use it as other races did. It was more common to barter, and trade favors. Using their coinage more commonly with foreign races like the humans. But Elven nobles, merchant families, and traders would still accept it as they had use for it.

  While in David's memories of the world it was never explicitly stated to his knowledge, Calethors were more than enough to know. As an Elven Prince he should have some sort of servant to handle the purchases but Cale had not wanted to deal with the hassle. Personally preferring not to have a small posse of servants and staff following him around.

  Cale set the clasp back down and looked at the merchant.

  “I’d prefer to purchase it in coin,” he said.

  The trader’s smile didn’t change, but it warmed a little, like he’d just heard the correct answer. “Of course, sir. Coin is simplest.”

  “How much?”

  The merchant glanced at the Dwarfen pieces like he was deciding how bold to be. “It’s rare here, and it’s quality work. Seven silver.”

  Cale didn’t react. “Six.”

  “Six is what I paid,” the merchant replied smoothly, still polite. “Seven is fair.”

  Cale lifted the clasp again, turned it once, then set it down exactly where it had been. “It is a clasp, and only really valuable because I know what it is. Six.”

  The merchant hesitated just long enough to make it look like he was doing Cale a favor. “Six and you don’t mention where you saw it.”

  Cale nodded once. “Done.”

  He reached into his robes and produced the coins while counting out cleanly into the merchant’s palm. The trader tucked them away quickly and wrapped the clasp in a simple piece of cloth, folding it tight and neat.

  “There you are, sir,” he said, offering it with both hands. “If you ever want more… I can keep an eye out.”

  Cale hummed in thought as he took the bundle and slid it into his sleeve. “If you find anything else of Dwarfen make, I would be interested.”

  The merchant gave a small, knowing nod. “Always, sir.” He hesitated, then added, still smiling in that careful, practiced way. “And if you don’t mind—my name is Eldarion. I like to know who I’m doing business with, especially when they have good taste.”

  Cale looked at him for a moment, then decided there was no real harm in it. “Calethor Stormvaine.”

  The change was immediate. Eldarion’s smile tightened for half a second. His posture straightened, and he dipped his head a touch deeper than before.

  “Stormvaine,” he repeated, quieter now, respectful. “My Lord… I hadn’t realized.”

  Cale didn’t correct him. But internally sighed.

  “It is of no consequence. If I had wanted to be addressed from the beginning, I would have made it known.” Calethor’s tone matter-of-fact. “It was a pleasure, Eldarion. Blessing of Isha be upon you.”

  Eldarion dipped his head again. “And upon you, my Prince.”

  Cale didn’t linger. moving on from the stall, intent to continue exploring the city at his leisure.

  He wondered if he would be able to find anything of actual value to the Dwarfs to use as trade or to gain their favor. The hatred on both sides went deep. He wanted to mend relations as much as possible between his people and theirs. It was one of his goals. The chances were slim but still it wouldn’t hurt to keep his eyes peeled.

  Spotting a duo of guards patrolling, Cale paused to watch them go by. Each wore a fine hauberk of scale armour over a long, pale tunic, with a coloured border that marked where they were from. Their helms were tall. Both carried long spears held upright with an easy, practiced grip. Their shields depicted the heraldry of Chrace.

  He watched them turn a corner and leave his view before he continued his walk.

  His thoughts went to his upcoming challenges. In a few months he would attempt to kill a white lion and, hopefully, earn his pelt.

  But before that, the twins had been born about three years ago, and he had yet to visit them. He planned to do so in the coming days.

  He had tonics and potions prepared by his family’s mages that young Teclis would need to survive and enjoy life. He remembered that Teclis only received improved treatments for his sickness when he was sixteen. There was no need to wait that long if he could fix it now.

  Fortunately, while David’s memories didn’t know their precise location, he knew enough to find them. Since their father Arathion was a Prince of Cothique, he was able to use his family's resources to locate him. Soon, he would head off to meet them and set some long-term plans in motion.

  While Arathion was never a great father to the young twins, he had at least attempted to be there for them. It wasn't entirely his fault, His thoughts were hyper-focused on repairing the suit of dragon armour. Elves would occasionally fall victim to obsession if they did not properly moderate themselves.

  Calethor hoped to use his position and power to help the family, if it was within his ability.

  And the reason he wanted to do this now was in case of his death attempting to kill a lion. It wasn’t a simple solution of not doing it. There had never been a prince of Chrace who had not attempted it.

  For Calethor to be the first would be counter to anything he would want to do to fight the ending of the world. No elf would follow him. No noble would listen.

  He could not push it off because he feared he would never attempt it. Calethor’s memories balked at even thinking of avoiding it, while David’s couldn’t fathom doing it.

  But even still, he understood that if he couldn’t do this, he may as well give up now.

  He sighed loudly, something he had been doing with increasing frequency.

  Another recent recurring thought was N’Kari. The Arch-Tempter of Slannesh was still trapped within the Vortex, but would not be there much longer. If he could eliminate it, it would be a massive step towards changing the world's fate.

  N’Kari was a Greater Daemon, a manifestation of the Chaos Gods, and finger puppet of their will. They came from the Realm of Chaos, the Warp, whatever name you preferred. Magic is what lets them stay in the mortal world, and they were nigh unkillable. At best, you could force one back where it came from, banishing it. Only in rare circumstances could you permanently remove these creatures.

  The daemon in question was currently in one of those rare situations, trapped within the Great Vortex at the center of Ulthuan. N’Kari was completely removed from the Warp and thus could not save itself. However his time was ticking. N’Kari would soon break itself out and begin its personal crusade against every Elf on Ulthaun. Especially those of Aenarion the Defender bloodline, the first Phoenix King. Who’s blood was sadly flowing in Calethor's veins, an unfortunate fact he had come to know.

  Cale had not been idle in his search for a solution and through painstaking research through libraries, scrolls, and every piece of parchment that mentioned the Vortex and N’kari. He had depressingly come to the conclusion that there was no clear cut answer. Only the apparent great dangers of the location and how it might not even be possible.

  Damned if he did, and damned if he didn't.

  Coming out of his thoughts he heard what had to be a musical performance of some sort. Cale had come to greatly appreciate the Elves' love for the arts, and their skill in almost everything they did.

  Heading toward the sounds of instruments and singing, he found himself in a plaza.

  It was a wide open square of white stone, with a sizable crowd gathered. Planters and small trees set in carved beds. A shallow fountain ran through the center. The tall arches and slender pillars that Elven architecture seemed to love framed the edges.

  At the center stood a female Elf in simple white, a thin sash of soft blue at her waist.

  A harpist sat off to her side, fingers moving steadily. A second musician kept a soft rhythm with a small hand-drum.

  Her voice carried far and crisply.

  Cale found himself a comfortable position to listen in, things like this interested David’s side of memories quite heavily. It felt like a peak behind the curtain to how another realm functioned and lived.

  She lifted her chin slightly, eyes half-lidded, and the next verse settled into the square.

  “Asuryan’s flame, be steady and bright,

  Hold back the dark, give shape to the night.

  Isha’s mercy, soft as the rain,

  Keep our hearts whole, ease our pain.

  Kurnous guide the hunter’s tread,

  Through pine and stone where lions bed.

  Let no oath break, let no blade fail,

  Guard our homes where banners pale.”

  The musicians wonderfully accompanied the singer without feeling like they were competing.

  Cale realized he had relaxed from his previous thoughts. He had forgotten how nice it was to listen to music and felt a soft pang of sadness for this world’s level of technology. There would be no playlists for old Calethor.

  He shook his head and decided he had done enough exploring for one day. He wanted to spend the rest of the day with his family. He spent too little time with them already. As the singer began another song, he left feeling a tad better than before.