Malick Dra’ak was a dark elf of the formidable enclave of Shadow Weavers, a sect of dark elves distinguished by their notorious hostility and cruel ambition to conquer any lands unfortunate enough to cross their path. At just twenty-nine, he was considered remarkably young for his kind—who could live up to three centuries. On this particular night, Malick had just secured the carcasses of two impressively large dire wolves and was effortlessly hauling them back to his village of Nightshade.

During his trek home, a peculiar sight caught his attention. In the distance, Malick saw a radiant blue light shining through the treetops. He paused for a moment, lost in silent contemplation, before moving forward again, the weight of the dire wolves still dragging behind him as the strange light’s intensity grew stronger. The luminous anomaly grew ever brighter as Malick approached the village, and he could feel an unnatural heat radiating from it—intensifying, rising to a level that could scald his thick lilac-hued skin, even from such a distance.

Both concerned and intrigued, the dark elf quickened his pace, tentatively watching as the light of the spectacle continued to intensify. As he emerged from the forest, he was met with the startling sight of Nightshade engulfed in the blinding brilliance of a mysterious blue orb. The orb’s heat was now unbearable against his flesh. Malick halted, squinting against the blinding light, his hand raised in a futile attempt to shield his face. In stunned disbelief, he watched as his village—and the blue orb—seemingly vanished into thin air, as if erased from existence.

In profound shock, he stood frozen, scanning his surroundings in search of a clansman who might explain what he’d just witnessed. Surely, there had to be a logical explanation. Yet, as the dark elf moved toward what had once been the entrance of his village, he found himself alone—utterly alone. The only thing that greeted Malick was the scorched earth—an empty expanse where a thriving village had once stood literally moments before.

A creeping sense of fear began to settle in Malick as he processed the gravity of the situation he now found himself in.

As a Shadow Weaver, he would be shunned if he sought help from any of the nearby villages or towns—the Shadow Weavers’ legacy as tyrants and conquerors had seen to that. His connections had been confined to the insular circle of his tribe, and now that they were gone, Malick found himself in a dire predicament, uncertain of where—or to whom—he could turn for help.

Casting a desperate glance around, Malick searched for anything that might offer even a glimmer of hope, but the landscape was truly and utterly barren. Not a single remnant of his village remained. He was on his own, for the first time in his life, and although he refused to admit it, he was terrified.

Malick took a long, deep breath, reminding himself that he was a seasoned warrior of the Shadow Weavers. It was crucial that he remain level-headed so he could navigate this new challenge with the ease and grace expected of any of his fellow tribesmen. To show weakness would bring disgrace upon his clan, and he would not allow that.

He was aware of a city of scholars in the northernmost reaches of Aetheria. Savantra was its name. The city was considered sacred ground, largely due to the presence of the Scriptum Sanctum—an ancient library housing an extensive repository of knowledge. For those seeking insight and enlightenment, the Scriptum Sanctum was the ultimate destination. Perhaps it could provide the answers he needed, offering a way to uncover the origins of the strange blue orb and the questions he had surrounding his village’s sudden disappearance.

Driven by a determined resolve, Malick decided that journeying to Savantra was his only viable option. A sense of unease settled within him at the thought of venturing away from the security of his enclave. He had never traveled a lone before, and the thought of it brought a tightness to his chest that was hard to shake. Yet he knew he had to move forward—he had no other choice.

Reluctantly, Malick left the carcasses of the dire wolves behind—their weight would only slow him down. With nothing but a few coincs and his trusty blade strapped to his back, he set off toward the neighboring village. If he moved quickly, he could reach it by nightfall.

*****

Malick made a short trek through a vast expanse of dense woods, keeping watch as the sun slowly sank below the horizon. When the stars began to twinkle overhead, he finally arrived at his destination—the village of Duskwood.

Despite the late hour, many villagers were still out and about, and Malick couldn’t shake the chill that crept over him from their cold glares. His lilac-hued skin turned heads, as onlookers silently debated whether he was just another dark elf or a Weaver who warranted their scorn. He became acutely aware of the tribe’s distinctive mark branded on the back of his right hand and unconsciously clenched his fist tighter to his side.

As he walked through the streets, the dark elf couldn’t help but reflect on the day, at just five years old, when he had received the branded S&W mark. He had been terrified when he saw the scorching hot iron being pressed into his skin, his young body trembling with the urge to cry as two village elders held him still. Yet, he never shed a tear. The Shadow Weavers frowned upon such weaknesses—sadness, fear, joy, and love—all sentiments to be suppressed. The clan’s ethos demanded that dark elves be strong hunters, warriors, and conquerors. They were taught to bury their emotions, to strike down their victims without hesitation or remorse. Crying and screaming were signs of weakness, and Malick could not afford to be weak—doing so would mean a brutal lashing from the elders.

Malick shook off the haunting memory and, in defiance of the frosty glares directed at him, held his gaze with unyielding steel, his head raised high in pride. He was a Shadow Weaver, after all, and these villagers were weak, insignificant creatures unworthy of his time or energy.

A small tavern, snugly nestled between a general store and an inn, beckoned to Malick. Through its windows, he could make out the silhouettes of the patrons inside. Taverns, beyond serving alcohol, were often valuable hubs for gathering information. He decided to enter, hoping to gather more details about Savantra or the mysterious blue orb.

Inside, the tavern exuded a dim ambiance, its atmosphere softened by the warm glow of oil lamps and flickering wax candles. The rich scent of mulberry wine mingled with the smoky air as Malick settled onto a stool at the bar.

“What can I get ya?” asked the stout barkeep.

“One Fireball on ice,” Malick replied, his eyes sweeping over the diverse array of patrons scattered throughout the tavern.

Without realizing it, Malick placed his left hand over his right, subconsciously hiding his mark again. There were many other clans of dark elves far less notorious than the Shadow Weavers, and though his skin alone made onlookers uneasy, he feared their reaction if they recognized him for what he truly was.

Malick glanced to his left and watched a petite female gnome swiftly down a pint of alcohol nearly as big as herself. To his surprise, she immediately smashed the glass over the skull of a now-irate one-eyed man seated beside her. Tension soared as the man glared at the gnome, veins throbbing at his temples. Just as a brawl seemed imminent, a tavern worker stepped in and swiftly escorted the drunken gnome out the door.

Across from the recently vacated seat of the gnome, a young man leaned casually against the bar, a mischievous grin playing on his lips. Short, rust-colored curls framed his head, and his piercing green eyes scanned the room with sharp interest. His slender frame was accentuated by a snug black ensemble.

Despite being a mere human, Malick found the man somewhat attractive and couldn’t help but glance at him discreetly. As a Shadow Weaver, relations outside of the clan were frowned upon. Sex was seen primarily as a means of preserving the tribe rather than an expression of personal desire.

With his well-toned, athletic build, the dark elf was undoubtedly an alluring and highly sought-after mating partner within his tribe. Physically, Malick possessed strong masculine features: a broad brow, straight nose, and square jaw. His dark violet hair was meticulously styled—shaved on the sides and back, with the longer length on top neatly tied into a ponytail.

Though aware of the eager attention from many clanswomen wishing to mate with him, Malick found himself somewhat inexperienced in matters of intimacy. None of the females had ever truly captured his interest. When he was fifteen, he spent a lot of time with another boy in the village, developing feelings he didn’t quite understand. He kept these feelings to himself, as same-sex unions were uncommon—such relationships didn’t result in offspring, which were vital for the tribe's growth.

Yet now, as he observed the handsome human across the tavern, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to experience a union with someone of a different race and sex— something  outside the norms of his own tribe.

A tightness gripped Malick’s chest as a sudden thought struck him—what if his tribe was lost forever? Would he spend the rest of his life alone? He knew that other Weavers had spread across the continents, claiming and settling in the territories they had conquered. Most had divided into private enclaves, many hostile to outsiders—even other Shadow Weavers. The prospect of easily finding a place among them seemed unlikely, leaving him with a growing sense of isolation.

This realization marked a rare moment of fear and uncertainty for Malick, who had always been shielded by the security of his tribe. The thought of being discovered as a Weaver, especially while traveling alone, unsettled him deeply. If anyone found out, his life could be in serious danger.

Shaking off those thoughts, Malick turned his attention to the bar, where his drink awaited. He hastily took several swigs, then set the glass down with an audible clink and signaled for another. The barkeep nodded and promptly took the glass to mix a fresh drink. As the barkeep gently placed it back on the counter, Malick leaned in and quietly inquired about Savantra.

“Savantra? It’s up north from here. Not an easy place to get into, though. If you somehow manage to get through the Cursed Hollows unscathed, you still need an official invite from the chancellor to get in,” the barkeep explained while mixing another patron's drink.

“And how does one get an invite?” Malick asked.

“Unless you know ‘im, you don’t,” the barkeep replied, giving Malick a begrudging once-over. “The Hollows would probably get ya first.”

The barkeep glanced away for a moment to nod farewell to some departing patrons, then turned his attention back to the dark elf. “A Weaver would never get invited into the city o’ scholars anyway,” he muttered, his tone laced with disdain.

As Malick met the barkeep’s gaze, a cold, hostile stare sent a shiver down his spine. For the third time since entering Duskwood, he shifted his posture, instinctively hiding his branded hand beneath the bar. Returning a steady gaze, he silently reinforced his resolve, determined not to show any weakness to the lowly human.

Eventually, the barkeep’s eyes drifted downward, and he absently wiped away some imaginary dirt with a cloth. The silence between them lingered, thick with an unspoken clash of wills in the dimly lit tavern.

Sensing the mounting tension, Malick decided that staying any longer might invite trouble. He rose from his chair, dropping a few coins onto the bar. His gaze briefly lingered on the branded mark of his tribe—a symbol he had once worn with pride, but now it felt more like a target, a reminder of his vulnerability without his tribe's protection. Quickly, he shoved his hand into his pocket and left the tavern, the door swinging shut behind him.

Glancing over at the quaint village inn, Malick considered the cost of a night’s stay. He knew he had only a few coins left in his pocket. Tomorrow, he would need to venture out to hunt and gather resources for future bartering.