Page 11

When Everything Slips Away

“ Y ou and your troops are surrounded. The enemy is closing in from all sides. Their numbers are double yours. What’s your decision?”

“But there are only thirty-two elves in the defense, right? That hardly counts as multiple troops.”

“It’s a hypothetical scenario, Saethiel,” Talendir replies, his tone calm but edged with weariness.

We sit facing each other on two fallen branches, snapped off during the storm two mooncrescents ago.

The verdant, lily-white forest stretches beside us, ending where the glade begins.

We’re so far from Moon Glade’s heart that, even if the other participants were visible, they’d be no larger than a fingertip if we could see them.

The sunlight has faded, and the snowfall has ceased. In their wake, a dense fog has settled over the glade, veiling it in a ghostly white shroud. It clings to my skin, pricking at my arms and sticking to my legs, reducing my vision to no more than two elf-lengths ahead.

The fog must clear before the next trial begins. Already, my strength is waning, and my breaths are growing labored.

It’s my turn to think tactically. Last of all. “I’d order my… troops to attack.”

“Even if it means riding to your deaths?” Talendir arches a brow, his nose wrinkling slightly as his tired eyes study me with quiet scrutiny.

“We’re surrounded, aren’t we?”

“Correct.”

“If we don’t strike back, we’ll die anyway.” I fold my arms, shifting uncomfortably on the rough branch beneath me. No matter how I move, it digs into my hips.

“So, in your view, there are no other choices?”

“Exactly.” Is that the wrong answer? I don’t know.

Talendir scribbles notes on a dirt-streaked sheet of paper, his gnarled hand moving swiftly with purpose. His face is unreadable, as rigid as carved stone, giving no hint of approval or discontent.

“Your commander orders a retreat in the middle of battle. You’re instructed to fall back and return to base. But you disagree with the decree. You believe victory is within reach and want to stay and fight with your battalion.”

I nod. Again, and again. As if the repetition might convince both Talendir and myself that I understood his convoluted words. Decree? What does that even mean?

“How do you respond?” he asks again, his gaze sharp and deliberate.

“That I don’t agree with… the decision?”

“We’ve established that already. I’m asking how you react.”

The fog presses closer, inching forward like a creeping tide, dragging and slithering across the earth. Like slow, glistening leeches. Reaching for me, inch by inch.

Go away! If this fog keeps advancing?—

“Saethiel?”

I force myself to refocus on Talendir, watching his hand hover above the paper, poised to scribble down my fate.

The truth is, I’d probably disobey the commander’s orders and act on my own judgment, an unforgivable flaw in a soldier.

But he doesn’t know what I’m thinking. He doesn’t know if I’m telling the truth or lying.

“I’d follow orders, of course. I’d surrender.”

His brow and nose wrinkle simultaneously, drawing his skin taut like weathered bark on an ancient tree. “Do you truly believe that?”

“Of course.” I meet his gaze, unwavering until he finally lowers it back to the paper.

“Even if you’re convinced your commander is wrong or acting deceitfully?” His lips move so rapidly that dry skin flakes peel away, falling like ash onto the snow.

“Absolutely.”

“And if your commander has consumed spirits and isn’t of sound mind?”

What kind of questions are these? What’s this even about?

I want to say no. But that would be the wrong answer.

Obedience lies at the heart of the organization, following even the most minor command from your leader.

Without it, everything collapses. If the leader has done something wrong, you’re expected to report it afterward.

That way, the high council can examine the matter in peace, ideally over a plate of hare meat and water.

I nod, keeping my arms crossed as my fingers press harder into the coarse fabric of my tunic. “Even if the commander has consumed spirits.”

Talendir studies me, his sharp gray-violet eyes unblinking, the faint creases at the corners of his mouth deepening. Behind him, the fog grows thicker, damp and ghostlike as it coils around the edges of the glade.

“Thank you,” he says at last. “Now imagine it’s you who holds the command.”

This, I can work with.

“You’ve ridden for two mooncrescents and are only a day from the war front. Then the unthinkable happens. A third of your troops succumb to a wasting sickness. Their survival is doubtful.”

I narrow my eyes. “A what? A wasting sickness?”

“A disease,” he says, exhaling heavily, his gaze heavy with condescension. “What do you do? There are many options to consider.”

I shift uncomfortably, spreading my legs as far as I can over the branch. The snow creaks beneath me, and the air clings to my cheeks, thick and clammy. “I send the healthy troops to attack, of course.”

“And the sick?”

“They stay behind to rest.”

“Wouldn’t it be wiser to send them home and delay the assault?”

“They’re on the brink of death, aren’t they? A fourteen-day ride would hardly improve their chances, would it?”

Talendir nods, a flake of dry skin peeling from his lips as he moves. His posture is impeccable, one leg crossed over the other, his back as straight as the thorns of a bramble. “Aren’t you concerned that the sick might infect the healthy? The assault could take an entire mooncrescent, after all.”

“They can sleep in a different tree.”

He nods again, this time glancing up from the paper. “Thank you, Saethiel. That concludes this trial.”

“Did I pass?”

“The results will be announced once all the trials are complete,” he says evenly. “There are rarely flawless answers. Sometimes, it’s your reactions that I truly assess.”

“You could give me a hint, couldn’t you?”

“You’ll have to wait, just like everyone else.”

We make our way back to the center of the glade, and I take my place between Keelan and a man with root-brown hair. From here, I can see everyone in the group, but the audience remains hidden behind the fog. It clings to the world like a veil, thick and otherworldly. Dangerous.

Keelan glances at me, offering a quick, warm smile. How would he react if he knew the truth? Would he be shocked? Surprised? Happy? No, not happy. But maybe?—

The sharp clap of Talendir’s hands cuts through the air, silencing every hushed conversation.

“Thank you all for participating in the first trial,” he says, his voice measured and authoritative. “Some of you have delivered exceptional results, while others have provided responses that conflict with the principles of the defense. As such, a few of you’ll be eliminated at this stage.”

A ripple of gasps spreads through the group.

“Already?” someone blurts out, their voice thick with disbelief.

My eyes widen as I watch Talendir unfold the sheet of paper. My gaze stays fixed on him, tense and unblinking, as he clears his throat and begins to speak.

Please, don’t let me be eliminated in the first trial. I still have so much left to give. Tactical planning isn’t my strength, but I can do better. Not me. Please, not me.

“Cálidor, Delsaran, Feoril, and?—”

Not me. Not me. Not me.

“Isanlar.”

A rush of air escapes me, relief washing over my trembling chest.

“You may remove yourselves.”

For a moment, no one moves. The elves whose names were called seem frozen, stunned by the announcement. I understand their shock. If anyone knows what it’s like to have their Silver Day shattered, it’s me.

“Move along,” Talendir urges, his tone firm but kind.

“Shouldn’t we be allowed to finish all the trials first?” the elf with wild, golden hair and a long, narrow face asks. His eyes are slitted, his expression tight, one hand resting on his hip while the other grips the hilt of his sword.

“No, Delsaran,” Talendir replies, his tone clipped and firm. “That’s not required. You’ve just proven what I feared. That you can’t follow orders. The longer you linger, the more confident I am that this decision is the correct one.”

Delsaran’s lips press together, his back stiffening as he finally turns to leave. The other three follow, their gazes locked on Talendir with an intensity that burns like the sun itself. Eyes flashing, smoldering with raw defiance, animalistic in their barely restrained fury.

Talendir appears unconcerned, continuing where he left off with a casual indifference.

He paces slowly in the center of our circle.

“By all accounts, only eight of you remain. You’ll duel in pairs, and I’ve assigned you as follows: Leorilon and Eroan, Ririon and Jaeowil, Ananther and Nidealtar, Saethiel and Kelandil. ”

Keelan and me?

We steal a glance at each other. He smiles, nodding slowly as if issuing a challenge, one both familiar and unmistakable.

When we were younger, we sneaked off to the edge of Eytherthlarn, the mystical forest. Right to the border where no one else dared to tread.

It was our secret sanctuary, a place where we sparred undisturbed.

Our weapons were sticks. Keelan’s was Ures, brown , simply named after its color.

Mine was Víss, bird , because I dreamed of flying.

But that was a long time ago. We stopped when he received his first real sword, Eva, white, and started sparring with his friends. By then, he was too old to play with sticks. Too old to play with me. Even though it was never just a game for me.

“Participants, step forward so I can blunt your swords,” Talendir commands.

“Blunt?” a man to my right blurts out. “How long will that last?”

“Only for the day,” Talendir answers calmly. “Now, hand over your weapons.”

The air resonates with the coarse rasp of blades sliding free from their leather sheaths, a sound that stirs memories and awakens longing deep within me. I follow suit, drawing Voenriel into the open. Slowly, deliberately, I release her from her confinement, letting the world see what lies beneath.

Her base gleams a stormy blue, dark and brooding, framed by raised edges of jade green.

Elegant silver spirals dance along her length, mingling with intricate symbols: seaweed, waves, the seashell of Elounes, goddess of the sea, and curling patterns that could only be ancient sea-script.

At her base, a brilliant emerald rests, vibrant and alive, as though it holds the heart of the ocean itself.

But Voenriel is more than just a blade. She drips, slick with moisture from her origin, forged by the sea elves.

And she sings, softly, hauntingly. The melody is a siren’s call, a distant hum that whispers of nymphs hunting in the depths, luring the unwary to their doom in Nimonandi.

The notes are so faint, so ethereal, I can only hear them when I shut out all other sounds around me.

She’s enchanting.

Several of the others cast glances her way, their curiosity barely hidden. But Keelan’s reaction is impossible to miss. He gives a start, his breath catching, before nodding with quiet reverence. His eyes linger on the blade, filled with admiration and envy.

Talendir sinks to his knees with a soft crunch, sweeping his palms across the snow with quiet reverence. He leans forward, lips parted, and gathers a scoop of snow. Lifting it gently, he lets it fall, watching as it drifts back to the ground, weightless in its descent.

Rising slightly, he stretches his hands toward the outstretched swords, his fingers gliding just beneath them.

The gesture is tender, almost sacred, as though he can feel the presence of the spirits of nature.

It’s as if he’s caressing unseen faces, stroking invisible strands of hair, murmuring secrets to the wind. “Suernín esee ne’waia án dovel a.”

It doesn’t take long before the competition begins. I watch as the others clash.

Leorilon takes down Eroan with eight effortless strikes. Eroan collapses to the ground, gasping for air as if he’s been underwater for an entire tale. Leorilon thrusts a fist into the air and unleashes a war cry, his pearly teeth flashing as his pointed tongue curls over his lips.

You haven’t been chosen yet. Save the war cries for later.

Jaeowil defeats Ririon in a fight so quickly it’s over in the blink of an eye. Ananther battles Nidealtar in a match that stretches on, dragging nearly the length of an entire history.

I’m on the verge of dozing off when Talendir’s horn blast snaps me back to attention, summoning Keelan and me to the center.

“Good luck,” Keelan says, punching my shoulder hard. Ow! “Let’s see how far your self-taught skills have taken you, friend.”

“Good luck to you. You’re going to need it,” I reply, eyeing him. “Let’s see if you can live up to all that confidence, especially with that green hair of yours.”

He chuckles, a rough, grumbling sound. “I’ll warn you. I’ve been practicing. Don’t cry when you lose.”

“The same goes for you, Keelan. The same goes for you.”

He looks up suddenly, two deep furrows forming in his brow. “Keelan?”