Chaos erupted as the crowd mocked the boy,

“We caught the monster, we stopped the rebellion; we have peace, you insolent child!” called a pot-bellied man from closer to the front, dressed in a deep purple vesture, his head ordained in an over-the-top headdress.

His response was met with cheers of agreement from the crowd. The boy stood motionless, quietly watching the crowd, waiting patiently as the men and woman spit noxious vitriol from the stands.

Eventually, the noise died, and the boy spoke, “we are not at peace, Elder Taras. We are not at peace for the same reason we went to war – the mortals are afraid of us.”

When the crowd remained silent, the boy continued, “The mortals are afraid because we have given them reasons to be afraid. We are short-tempered and cruel. The monsters they so desperately stay off were put there for our amusement. We may be powerful, but we cannot continue like this for much longer.”

“But it’s just so bloody funny!” called a tall elvish man from beside Syril, causing him to just about jump out of his seat in shock. The man’s dressage was a white version of Elder Taras’s, and his face was painted with long straight lines that accented his bone structure. Rather than a headdress, the man wore a small golden crown ordained with various otherworldly and colourful jewels.

Some laughed at the comment; Syril couldn’t find the joke.

“There is no humour in this.” The boy called from the stage, “It is for these exact reasons that many of our loved ones are now sailing the ethereal lake.”

Silence again befell the crowd.

“If we continue treating mortals as disposable playthings, we will face this problem again. We are in a unique situation right now to fix this before it gets worse; before it escalates to a point we can’t control.”

“You thin we can’t handle some we’mortals”, an unseen man shouted from the stands.

“We barely handled them this time!” the boy shouted back, obviously losing his patience, “we discovered that they can kill us; they are capable of that. Granted, it was with help and great difficulty, but they can do it. What’s to say they don’t perfect the technique in a hundred years?”

“Then let’s wipe them out!” Elder Taras shouted, red in the face and giving the distinct impression of an overheating pig, “before they can turn on us again!”

More cheers from the crowd. Syril felt sickened.

“The mortals surrendered Taras; do you really want to be the monsters they see us to be”

“It needn’t matter if they’re all dead!” Syril could see spittle fly from Taras’s mouth as he shouted at the stage, “You’re weak just like your father!”

The previously explosive mob was now silent. Syril sensed that the Elder had strayed into territory he would struggle to navigate out of.

“Taras. I will say this to you only once; I may not be my father, but I am now the Potentate of these lands, and you will remember your place in my court.”

Taras opened his mouth to respond, but the boy interjected, holding up his hand, “Elder Taras, my father was a patient man. But I am afraid it is a quality I lack.” The boy closed his fist, and an audible crack echoed through the stands; the hairs on the back of Syril’s neck stood on end, “So if you open your mouth again, it had better be for a good reason. If not, I will kill you where you stand. Am I understood?”

Taras mumbled inaudibly.

“What was that, Elder Taras?”

“I said it was understood, Potentate,” Taras grunted, constipating each word as if they caused actual harm. Syril could see the beads of sweat pooling on his forehead.

“Very good.” The boy cleared his throat, “As I was saying, the mortals grow stronger daily. We cannot fight any longer; we must instead make peace with them directly.”

The boy waited, expecting uproar from the attending members; however, it appeared the seriousness of his previous threat had not been lost.

“Can the chosen members from the clans of Bryoth, Esther, Runina and Almael step forward.”

Four figures rose in their chairs from the front pews and uniformly marched to the stage. Each member dressed in a black tunic that hugged their various features; the lining was trimmed in a deep red, each bearing a different sigil. What skin was visible was painted in intricate linings that Syril likened to veins. They bowed to the boy as they approached the stage before turning to face the audience.

“These four clans have elected emissaries to live amongst the mortals…” loud whispers of confusion and fear echoed through the stands; the boy, however, did not stop speaking, “they will live amongst the mortals, training them, teaching them our power…”

“So they may use it against us!?” shrieked a woman from the audience, “So they may slaughter us!?”

The boy looked at the woman, unflinching, “So they may defend themselves, Serila. Call it an assurance of mutual destruction; neither the mortals nor we will attack when we are equal in strength.”

“You are giving our greatest weapon to the enemy!” Elder Taras shouted from his seat, once again hurling spittle across the stadium as he furiously barked at the boy. His angry expression quickly dissolved into sheepish fear as the boy turned toward him; Taras fell back into his seat and did his best to hide his oversized body.

“I am giving them a weapon to fight back with.” the boy gestured wildly to the four figures standing before him, “they are our best bet of staying future wars, of assuring the safety and longevity of Ethirius.”

Syril blinked; were they talking about magic?