The elven clans of the south were always at war with each other, declaring the bloodiest of battles over the slightest of insults and sending threats over trivial matters that any other civilised people would resolve without resorting to such drastic measures. But the elves were stubborn and arrogant, and so their battles through the ages continued, never ceasing, never allowing a time of peace, and never relenting.

General Draeos belonged to the Elves of Niva, one of the largest clans known to the land. Their realm was rich in fine silks and jewels, but their warriors were some of the most fearsome. Trained from birth to react quickly and fight, these elves were lethal, killing without mercy and the more victorious of the clans.

He stood on the cliff that hung over the battlefield, watching the enemy as they congregated on the other side of the plains, ranks and scores of them preparing for the battle ahead.

“Do you think they know they’re about to get slaughtered?” Verath asked, stood beside the elven general as they surveyed the area that would soon become host to a slaughter.

“Probably not,” Draeos replied. “Their generals are more than likely giving them a big speech about how they’re to be brave and strong, and how they will be victorious.” The elf let out a small laugh, shaking his head in amusement and holding his head high. “It’ll be over before they know it.”

Verath chuckled with his leader, crossing his arms over the chest and nodding in agreement. “Well, if they do insist on insulting us then they will have to learn the hard way that the Niva are not to be crossed.”

“They’ll never learn,” Draeos told him matter-of-factly, “at least not until all of them are dead and their clan but a name in the history books.”

The general’s right-hand man sighed, watching the array of enemy soldiers begin to arrange themselves, the vanguard lining up close to the cavalry. “Shouldn’t we get going?” he asked. “We don’t want them breaching the river.”

Draeos shook his head, completely calm in the face of the impending battle. “We’re quite safe here,” he assured him, counting down the minutes as the enemy clan began to advance on them.

Their cavalry was swift, the vanguard advancing just as quickly. They thought that they were going to be able to take Draeos’s camp unawares, convinced that the darkness would hide them until it was too late for the Niva to react, but Draeos was not a complacent elf; he planned, and he planned meticulously, right down to the last detail. The scouting party had brought back the news that the enemy clan was nearing the river, and since then the elven general had been plotting their demise, spending days contemplating maps and arranging his soldiers.

All of a sudden a loud bang shot through the entrance of the valley, a spray of water and dirt flying into the air as his schemes began to play out. Countless other explosions sounded, one after the other, running down the length of the river and destroying a large part of the enemy army.

“Now we move,” Draeos said, grabbing the reins of his horse and hoisting himself into the saddle, Verath following close behind on his own steed.

They sped through the empty camp and stopped as they reached the Niva army, slowing down their horses and making their way to the front of the troops.

“They call us murderers,” Draeos shouted as he advanced through the ranks of soldiers. “They threaten us, take our children, and revile our way of life. It’s time to reduce their name to dust, to exterminate their clan and ensure that nobody ever threatens the Niva again.”

The army erupted into a chorus of cheers and applause, battle cries escaping their lips as they beat their shields and lifted their swords.

Draeos and Verath halted at the front of the congregation, the general raising his sword into the air, and once the time was upon them he gave the command to advance, leading his faithful soldiers into battle.

The general and his captain split as they surrounded the enemy, closing in once one rank was dead and getting to work in slaughtering the next.

The attacking soldiers didn’t have a chance, the Niva far too skilled in battle for them to have claimed victory, and towards the end of the battle more and more began to flee, taking off into the nearby forest in hope of staying alive for another night. It wouldn’t help them; nothing could save them now, not even hope.

Draeos smiled in his victory, halting his horse and breathing in the crisp, clean air, his eyes cast on the treeline. As he looked ahead he noticed something in the sky, his eyes flying to the tiny silver light. There were no cities nearby, no clan buildings that reached that high and no device or craft able to reach such a height, and as he focused on the strange apparition he realised that there was nothing holding it aloft. People spoke of lights in the sky, of nights filled with millions of tiny illuminations, but he didn’t believe any of them, at least not until that moment. Was that really what they claimed to be a star, or was it something else, a reflection or a trick?

He didn’t have time to contemplate it as his captain approached, mud all over his armour and blood covering his face. He looked rather dishevelled and unkempt, but Draeos would rather have a bedraggled captain than a dead one.

“They’re retreating,” Verath panted, slowing his horse as he neared the general. “Do we follow them?”

Draeos gave a singular nod and Verath kicked the stirrups of his saddle, yelling for the surviving Niva troops to pursue the fleeing soldiers and bring them to their knees.

The general followed after them, hoping to catch up with his captain as he led the troops into the forest, but before he could leave the plains his horse suddenly reared, throwing the unsuspecting elf off his back and bolting through the trees in fright.

Draeos cursed the beast under his breath and struck the ground with his gauntleted fist, pushing himself back to his feet and setting off after the spooked creature.

Before he could breach the line of trees a figure stopped him in his tracks, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. He tried to focus on it, to determine who it was, but their dark form swayed and flickered as if they weren’t really there at all.

“Who are you?” the elven general demanded, his voice commanding and authoritative. “What do you want?”

The figure didn’t reply, floating towards him with its arms outstretched, and Draeos instantly raised his sword, swinging out at the strange creature when it got too close for comfort. The general jumped out of the way as it regained itself and turned towards him, seemingly moving on a set path.

“Stay away,” Draeos warned. “I will kill you.”

“Not if I kill you first.”

The voice was so sudden and so cold that it knocked Draeos off his guard, the elf stepping back, but too late. The figure lunged and stuck its hand through his chest, the general screaming and his sword falling from his grasp, clattering onto the ground.

The last thing he saw as the shadow removed its hand and disappeared was the singular silver light still hanging in the blackened sky, the pure gleam and glow fading as he slipped into the dark abyss.