The elf, sitting at the edge of a cliff, gazed out toward the distant horizon. The sky was clear, revealing the “Fireflies of Mistilanya” scattered across the firmament, with a smiling moon overhead. She was carving the figure of an archer into a piece of wood. Her purple—almost pink—hair danced in the early morning breeze, occasionally crossing her tanned face, which bore blue tattoos.

  Behind her, the vast forest of Amralas stretched on for miles and miles, by far the largest in the region of Núvodas. It had enjoyed a long period of peace, lasting at least several years. She relished not having to take part in the hunts or battles in the realm of men.

  Despite being a half-breed—half wood elf and half sea elf, which had earned her some distrust among her people, she felt at home. She looked at the freshly carved image of the archer and smiled, pleased to see that her skillful hands remained as steady as ever. That kind of craft was second nature to all elves, but she knew when to make good use of it.

  Suddenly, a strange pressure gripped her chest. She looked again toward the sea and saw, far off in the distance, storm clouds forming in the direction of Dorlan. Of course, she couldn’t see them clearly from so far away, but she could feel the flickering flashes of lightning and the rumble of thunder, carried inland by the sea like war drums.

  It was a strange storm—unnatural even—barreling with full force toward the eastern region.

  A presence behind her made her turn.

  “Begryn, the priests are calling us,” said an elf dressed in dark colors, just like her, with short white hair and blue spiral-shaped tattoos across his face.

  "Thank you, Inkarthiel. I’ll be there in a few minutes."

  "It’s urgent, itha."

  She nodded silently, saying nothing more.

  Moments later, the two elves were darting across the tree branches, moving through the shadows with the grace and ease of wildcats.

  The council was gathered around the sacred stones, which formed an almost perfect circle in a clearing of the forest, on the outskirts of the elven city of Sereniac. The stones bore a series of inscriptions and arabesques that, from time to time, emitted a bluish glow. In the center stood an altar, upon which rested a small red tree. Surrounding it, four elves dressed in violet robes with golden trims were speaking in low voices, murmuring in an ancient dialect.

  Behind the stones, completing the circle, stood Begryn, Inkarthiel, and several other elves with similar clothing and tattoos. They all belonged to the Order of the Sharpshooters: the militant arm of the cult of Mistilanya, goddess of the moon, stars, and death.

  "The signs are clear," said one of the priestesses. She was identical to Begryn, save for the absence of tattoos on her face. It was clearly her twin sister. "The omens herald the birth of the last Dragon Knight. Nurbanduur has just been born."

  Murmurs rose among those present.

  "We must find him," she continued, "before the Brotherhood of the Black Flame… or anyone else does."

  "And what are we to do?" asked Inkarthiel.

  "Hide him and protect him, as we always have. He will be a powerful ally once he grows. The Brotherhood wants to sacrifice him to harness his power and open the portal to the Abyss. That could mean another Demonic War against our world." She paused. "But we no longer have Sabba Mankarthiel to protect us, and the demons have been preparing for this moment for millennia. If the Thirteen were to cross over again, we would be helpless against the end of all things."

  "Tell us what to do, Zamora," said Begryn, stepping forward and standing beside her twin sister, who smiled upon seeing her.

  "Take your Sharpshooters and go to Dorlan as soon as possible," Zamora's voice now soft, almost a confidential whisper. "Everything points to the child having just been born in that region, and by all signs, not far from the coast. I’m sorry I can’t give you more clues."

  "There aren’t many settlements on Dorlan’s coast, and most are in the north," said Begryn.

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  Zamora nodded. "It won’t be difficult to find him, itha."

  “Itha” was the word elves used to refer to someone dear. Though it lacked a literal translation, it could mean comrade, superior, or even parent.

  "For the sake of this reality, I hope you’re right. I trust you… We all do, sister. When you find the child, vanish from the face of this world with him. The only way to protect him is to hide him until he’s old enough for the Awakening."

  Begryn nodded and vanished into the shadows. Behind her, the entire company of Sharpshooters followed. The times of peace were over.

  The Sharpshooter entered the cave where she lived. Her home was not up in the trees like the other elves’. She had chosen to live on the ground, in a large circular chamber nestled beneath an enormous tree. She loved that forest and being among her kind, but the only problem was—she wasn’t entirely their kind.

  She had long grown used to the furtive glances and crude comments about her origin, being a true half-breed. She glanced to the side of her room and saw all her healer’s gear, which consisted of a dark green satchel filled with vials and salves. She had learned the art of healing with herbs several years ago and enjoyed healing others almost as much as she enjoyed killing the servants of evil.

  An assassin who was also a healer. Her hybrid nature went beyond race—she was also a hybrid in trade.

  She was preparing her bow and black arrows when she sensed someone entering.

  “Finishing up preparations?” It was Inkarthiel.

  “That’s right. I hope we won’t need that,” she said, gesturing to the satchel of herbs, “but it doesn’t hurt to be cautious.”

  “You’ve spent more time than any of us in human lands—except perhaps the elves of Faema. I suppose, now that you’re finally home, it must be hard to leave again… to head back to Dorlan.”

  “I do what I must, Inkarthiel. Why are you here?”

  “After all the years you were gone, I thought that when you returned, we’d pick up where we left off… before you left… before you were…”

  “Before I was what? ‘Tainted’ by humans, like I’ve heard whispered?”

  “I was going to say captivated… by one in particular. I thought your heart was with me.”

  “My heart is with you, Inkarthiel,” the elf said, setting her bow down and stepping closer, gently touching his cheek and looking him in the eye. “And also with my sister, with my Sharpshooters, and of course—with my homeland.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “But that’s my answer.”

  “Then it’s true. You left your heart in Dorlan, with that human…” he said, spitting out the last word. “You must be thrilled to return.”

  Begryn clenched her jaw, closed her eyes to contain her patience, and continued preparing her gear.

  “We leave at dawn, Inkarthiel. Make sure the other Sharpshooters are ready.”

  “As you command, itha,” he said, forcing a bow before promptly leaving.

  Alone once more in the darkness, Begryn sighed and felt deep sorrow for the elf, despite the hurtful things he had said. In the end, many people acted like fools when love was involved.

  The elven ship, crafted from the finest materials and adorned with a carved nymph at the prow, sailed with its white triangular sails fully unfurled, using the wind as its main engine. They had already spent several weeks at sea, crossing the Aldragar Strait and successfully crossing the Murky Waters to the south of Bloodmere, the orcish region, before entering the vast Ederia Sea.

  The first days of the journey had been calm and largely uneventful. The members of the Sharpshooter company under Begryn's command typically spent most of their time on deck, especially during nighttime hours. Every now and then, they would glimpse the iridescence of a strange sea creature trailing the ship for a few kilometers before vanishing into the depths.

  On board were about fifteen Sharpshooters, plus the crew, which consisted of two elf women with very similar features.

  Finally, after long and arduous weeks at sea, they spotted, far in the distance, the vast region of Dorlan. Begryn exhaled deeply. She had been there on many occasions, particularly to assist refugees from the countless wars and conflicts that, by human nature, seemed to be unending. Her talents were not limited to hunting and killing creatures of evil with precision.

  “What is that?” she heard one of her Sharpshooters say.

  “Is that fire?”

  The elf sharpened her gaze further and saw that, several kilometers inland, the unmistakable glow of fire lit up the night—flames rising into the sky.

  A blaze that large, visible from that distance, could only mean one thing... a village or town was burning.

  “Please, Mistilanya... let it not be too late,” she prayed silently.

  She knew it was very likely that the Brotherhood of the Black Flame had beaten them there.

  She had not lost hope, but she knew she and her Sharpshooters needed to act quickly.

  There was no time to waste.