Chapter Six

Scars of the Past

When Valora finally regained consciousness, she felt a rough yet gentle hand brushing through her hair. The hard surface of the table had been replaced with the softness of silk sheets. Forcing her eyes open, she found Cenric leaning over her, his face a mix of worry and anger. His gaze was fixed on her head, and he didn’t notice her stirring.

“Hey… you!” she whispered faintly, her voice weak and strained, her head throbbing with the worst pain she had ever experienced. Cenric’s eyes snapped to hers, and his anger melted into relief, a rare smile breaking across his face.

“You had me worried there. Never been so scared in my life,” he said, his voice rough yet tender. His dried, bloodied hand continued stroking her hair, while his other gripped her arm as though anchoring her to the world. Valora, never one for physical closeness, found the touch oddly comforting. It made her realise just how deeply fear had gripped her before she lost consciousness.

Her eyes scanned the room, landing on three kentu bodies lying crumpled and beaten beyond recognition. Their eyes were blistered, their skin melted away from their skulls in a grotesque display. The sight sent a shiver through her.

“What did I miss?” she croaked, her throat dry and voice fragile, sounding unlike herself.

“Norton and his Pendula held the line,” Cenric said darkly. “The fighting was brutal, but they kept them back. Those three were the ones who threw the rocks that caused this,” he growled, his tone leaving much unsaid.

Valora swallowed hard. Cenric’s devotion to her was unsettling at times. It was rare, but when his love for her was pushed to extremes, it led to acts of terrifying brutality. Her gaze lingered on the tortured whimpering husks, and she shivered again, her stomach twisting at how much rage her injury had unleashed in him. Deciding not to dwell on the thought, she raised a hand to her head, flinching as her fingers touched her scalp.

“Never been hurt like this before,” she murmured with a strained grin. “Will I live?” Slowly, she twisted free from the silk sheets and swung her legs over the side of the table.

“Careful,” Cenric warned, his hand immediately moving to steady her. “You’re lucky to be alive. The rock hit so hard it cracked your skull. The healer wasn’t sure you’d wake up. Injuries like that are hard to recover from, even for us. Your skull’s mostly reformed, but there’s a chance your brain might’ve been damaged. If it has… it’ll be permanent.” His voice was steady, clinical, as though reciting a grim report, but Valora knew him well enough to sense the hesitation behind his words. He was holding something back.

“You’re not telling me everything,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Either spit it out, or I’m going to assume I’ve been turned into a simpleton.” She forced a teasing grin, trying to lighten his obvious guilt.

Cenric didn’t return the smile. Instead, he lowered his head in shame.

“I should’ve made you wear a helmet,” he muttered. “I know you think it looks weak, that it’s uninspiring, but it left you exposed. You were vulnerable, and now you’re paying the price for my failure.” His voice cracked with self-recrimination. “It’s my duty to protect you, and I failed. I’m sorry.” He bowed his head, as if awaiting punishment.

Valora sighed. “Cenric, you’re my right hand. You’re not responsible for my choices, especially after you’ve warned me enough times. If I’d shown up wearing a helmet, I’d have been seen as weak—unworthy of respect. You’ve told me that again and again, and I ignored you. This is on me. I’m the one who refused the helmet. I’m the one who chose a flashy horse over a dependable one. And I’m the one who didn’t see this coming.”

“Still—” he began, but she cut him off sharply.

“Dovanga Cenric. My family’s words are clear: ‘This is what we do.’ So stop blaming yourself and tell me what I need to know,” she commanded, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Reluctantly, Cenric nodded, lifting his gaze to hers. “Your body was too damaged. Healing such a critical injury, along with the rest, drained all your energy. It couldn’t finish the job before your strength ran out,” he said carefully, his voice heavy with regret.

Valora frowned, the pieces falling into place. “You mean…”

Cenric closed his eyes, as though delivering a sentence he dreaded. “Yes,” he whispered. “You have a scar.”

Valora rested her forehead against her hand, the persistent headache pounding behind her eyes made worse by the light filtering into the room. When Cenric finally relented and handed her a mirror, the throbbing in her skull intensified. Staring back at her was a thin white scar that traced from the top of her right eye, arching upward into her hairline before disappearing atop her head.

Her stomach churned as the reality settled in—an imperfection of this magnitude just before entering court. She may as well enter naked and drunk; both would bring the same level of shame. The thought of the whispers and judgement that awaited her made her legs jitter uncontrollably against the table, an action her mother would no doubt have disapproved of.

Among the warrior races, most had some innate healing ability, capable of mending minor injuries in minutes. But elves went beyond that. She had witnessed them regenerate entire limbs and even survive punctured lungs. However, with severe or numerous injuries, the body’s ability to heal perfectly faltered, leaving behind scars—marks of imperfection.

Valora had read that among human males, scars were celebrated, seen as badges of honour. They elevated warriors, even helping them find more desirable partners. But among elves, even a tiny scar was a source of deep shame. It signified a failure to embody the perfection their kind was meant to represent. While she could seek a magic user to remove it, that would take time, and secrecy would be paramount. Her growing reputation at court was built on her beauty being entirely natural—unlike so many who reshaped their appearances with magic.

The thought of altering her body filled Valora with frustration. She found the practice vain and insulting to the Gods. She had known people who had altered themselves so drastically that their faces were unrecognisable from their birth forms. Did the Gods see this as a slight? Did they look upon their creations and feel anger when mortals deemed their handiwork insufficient? The more Valora thought about it, the sharper her headache grew. And waiting for her at the Lilium estate was no doubt her mother, ready to rage like a harpy at the sight of her scar.

Her gaze drifted to Cenric. She had never seen him so heartbroken and full of shame. Was it simply guilt over her injury? Or was it deeper—shame over the loss of her beauty? Would he, or anyone else, now see her as some hideous creature instead of the goddess her soldiers once called her?

The healer arrived, the same Pendula who had tended to her earlier, now returning from helping others injured in the riots. The young healer, named Petal, examined the scar and confirmed what Cenric had already told her. Placing a hand on Valora’s shoulder in a gesture meant to comfort, the healer quickly withdrew it under Valora’s icy glare. Valora wasn’t a child in need of coddling, and there was no time to wallow in despair.

“Cenric, let’s head to the estate. I want the safety of my family’s walls, and then I want to speak with those three about repaying whoever did this,” Valora said, her gaze cold as it landed on the tortured husks. Images of inflicting more pain on them flashed in her mind. Though she found violence distasteful, it was sometimes necessary.

“I already know who’s responsible,” Cenric growled, his voice low and menacing. “But if you simply want to torture them anyway, I’d be more than happy to oblige.” One of the prisoners whimpered in terror, drawing a dark smirk from Cenric. Petal’s eyes widened, and she scurried out of the room, clearly not wanting to be caught in the storm brewing.

Before leaving, Valora spotted Norton speaking to one of his fellow Pendula in the kitchen. She approached him purposefully.

“Norton, I want to thank you for keeping me and Cenric alive. I’m also sorry for the soldiers you lost.” Valora bowed low, an act that would be seen as improper by many Autem, especially toward a Pendula. Yet, she owed him her life and wanted him to understand that, regardless of his station. “I owe you a debt. If ever you need my aid, I will give it, if it is within my power.”

Norton blinked in surprise, his mouth opening and closing as though searching for words. A favour from someone of Valora’s status as the head of House Lilium was invaluable. Finally, he bowed deeply in return, a faint smile breaking through his shock.

“I was only doing my duty. I’d do it again without hesitation,” Norton said, his voice carrying an earnestness that softened his typically grim expression. “But thank you, my lady. This is a gift beyond measure.”

As Valora turned to leave, a thought struck her. She paused and looked back at Norton.

“I have a small request. Please gather the families of the Silver Guard who fell and bring them to my estate tomorrow at midnight. I wish to thank them personally for their sacrifice. I intend to bury their fallen in my family’s crypts alongside our servants. It won’t replace their loss, but it will bring them honour—and it will let me sleep at night.”

No matter how guilty Cenric felt, Valora knew the responsibility rested on her shoulders. It had been her horse that crushed those guards, her decision to prioritize vanity over safety while playing the game, and ultimately, it had been her the rioters were after.

“I’ll see it done, my lady,” Norton replied, his voice heavy with emotion.

Leaving the house, Valora’s guilt grew heavier. As she began the march back to her childhood home, her eyes fell on the body of a large stallion, its legs shredded and punctured. Dunelle. Her chest tightened as she glanced at Cenric, who avoided looking at the body, though the pain in his eyes betrayed him. She wanted to offer him comfort, to say something kind, but not here. Not with so many eyes watching.

Valora had been fortunate. When she arrived at the estate, it was mid-day, ensuring her family—who followed a nocturnal schedule—were all asleep. A large force of Silver Guards escorted her directly to the estate’s grand entrance, where the house guard took over and led her towards her chambers. As she approached the northern wing of the beautiful manor—her family’s private living quarters—she encountered the hounds she had sent to smuggle Reine and Cosette into the city. Their alarmed expressions at seeing their bloodied princess spoke volumes.

“Lady Silver Dance, who has done this to you?” Poe Troll Biter demanded, his voice tinged with panic.

Poe was a hound—a large and unruly one, at that. His black fur made him almost invisible, even with the soft glow of nearby candles. The hounds always put Valora at ease; while their imposing forms and feral outbursts might suggest savagery, she knew better. Once their respect was earned, they were fiercely loyal, as unyielding as she was. They didn’t play with words, hide their emotions, or engage in deceit. They were honest—always themselves, from the day they were born until the day they died.

“Someone who will suffer, I assure you,” Valora replied coldly, forcing herself to stand straighter despite her still-aching leg. She wouldn’t show weakness—not even here. “We will discuss this tonight. Rest while you can. I will be keeping midnight hours during our time in the city, and I expect all of you to do the same.”

“Of course, Lady Silver Dance. Your word is law,” Poe replied solemnly, striking his chest with a heavy paw. The motion produced a metallic clang that echoed through the corridor.

Of all her titles, Lady Silver Dance was her favourite. It had been bestowed upon her many years ago by the hounds themselves, before she had risen to become a General of the Midnight Kingdom. For the hounds to give someone a title was rare—a mark of their respect, a sign that they saw her as one of their own.

Poe and the others departed, heading towards the western section of the manor, where the servants resided. Cenric lingered, however, his worried gaze following her. Now that they were out of sight, cracks began to form in his carefully maintained composure, and his grief started to seep through. As a Pendula, Cenric was expected to stay in the servants’ quarters, but he had always been an exception.

The official reason was their fathers’ close friendship, but there were whispers that Cenric might be her father’s bastard, born of a dalliance with a maid. Valora didn’t know the truth, but her father had always insisted on them being close. Even in childhood, Cenric—who was already full grown—had been pushed to follow her everywhere, acting as her guardian whenever her father was otherwise occupied. Before his death, her father had named Cenric as her personal bodyguard, even arranging for him to sleep just five rooms away from hers. Now that he was her right hand, he no longer served as her bodyguard, but he continued to act the part in public. After all, a Pendula serving as the right hand of an Autem was unthinkable in the eyes of most.

“I will be fine. Get some rest—that’s an order,” Valora said firmly, hoping to ease his guilt. “Tomorrow, we will begin our vengeance—for the Silver Guards, for Dunelle, and for the insult they dared show us.” She added Dunelle’s name, though she had no love for the beast herself. She knew Cenric cared deeply for the horse, and its loss would weigh heavily on him.

Cenric didn’t reply, but after a brief moment, a faint smile crossed his lips. He lifted his right hand and gently rested it against her cheek, his thumb brushing just beneath her eye. The gesture—known among the elves as the Phantom Mourning—was a way of sharing grief. The lingering sensation it left was meant to remind the recipient that they were not alone.

Valora raised her hand and mirrored the gesture, her fingers brushing against his smooth skin. She had to reach higher, as Cenric stood a foot and a half taller than her. His skin held a faint sheen, hinting at a trace of Autem blood in his veins, though not enough for him to claim the title.

As they broke apart and headed their separate ways, Valora found herself smiling faintly. The lingering touch of the Phantom Mourning stayed with her, a small reminder that even in her darkest moments, she was not entirely alone.

Valora stepped into her chambers and was greeted by the bittersweet memories of her childhood. The room was pristine, perfectly preserved, without a single speck of dust out of place. A large bookcase dominated one wall—a gift from her father, who had known how much she loved to read. Yet, since his death, her mother had ensured only books that would help her navigate the game remained on its shelves. Gone were the tales of adventure and great loves that had once captivated her during long nights spent curled up on her father’s lap. In their place were dry, calculating volumes: personal accounts of great rulers, treatises on political manoeuvring, and the tedious details of scheming and subterfuge. The magic of romance and adventure had been replaced by lessons in how to be a snake.

In front of the bookcase stood a large desk adorned with a small painting of her and her father standing side by side, soft smiles lighting their faces. Valora walked over and picked up the frame, a flood of memories overtaking her. She recalled the day they had posed for the painting. It had taken almost six hours, with the two of them struggling to remain still. They had spent most of that time stifling giggles, each trying to make the other laugh, much to the painter’s growing frustration.

She studied her younger self in the painting. At nine years old, her hair had been so long it nearly touched the floor. Her father had teased her endlessly about it, pretending to trip over her hair and stumble dramatically. Her heart ached as she looked at him. The proud, noble Autem who had been loved and hated in equal measure by the court seemed to gaze back at her through the paint. Rhys Lilium had been a shrewd and brilliant politician, one of the most powerful elves in the Kingdom, and a trusted right hand to the same king Valora now served. Though tales of his ruthless political manoeuvres abounded, she could hardly reconcile them with the man she had known—a kind, loving father who had never shown her even a hint of the cold tactician others described.

His features were distinct among the elves. His short blonde hair grew unusually far down his jaw, almost forming the beginnings of a beard—an uncommon trait among their kind. His crystal blue eyes mirrored her own, making it hard for Valora to meet her reflection without seeing him in it. Where most elves had soft, delicate features, his were sharp and chiselled, his strong jawline looking capable of crushing stone. Even his ears, flattened and curving back, were unlike the grand, pointed ears typical of their race.

That was Rhys Lilium, an elf so adept at playing the game that he never needed to alter his features to gain respect. Instead of following the rules, he made them. Valora couldn’t help but wonder if he would be ashamed of her now for adhering so closely to the game he had refused to bow to.

Valora brushed her hand over his painted cheek, her voice barely above a whisper. “Prim rylo,” she murmured, a phrase from the True Tongue that meant “rest my blood.”

A soft knock at her door pulled her from her reverie. She turned to find Reine and Cosette standing meekly in the hallway. Reine, the smaller of the two, carried a bucket of steaming water, while Cosette held a bundle of towels. Valora brought them inside and allowed them to help her remove her battered armour.

The upper sections came off easily enough, but the greaves proved a challenge. The light travel armour, designed more for appearances than protection, had been badly dented during the trampling. The bent metal pressed painfully against her legs, and it took all three of them twisting and pulling to finally remove it.

The damage beneath was as expected. Though her bones had healed and the worst cuts had closed, several large bruises marred her skin, and a jagged slice ran along her leg where the armour had scraped her while she walked. While the scar that would likely form on her leg could easily be hidden, it was the one on her face that filled her with disgust.

Reine and Cosette worked quickly and delicately to clean her injuries, careful not to worsen the bruises. When they had done all they could, Valora dismissed them without requesting her nightwear, craving solitude.

Exhaustion pressed down on her like a weight. She crossed the room and climbed into the silk-woven cocoon that hung suspended above the ground, both ends secured to the ceiling. The soft silk against her bare skin was a small comfort as she succumbed to the pull of sleep.

At first, her dreams were plagued by shame. She saw herself standing before the court, their laughter cutting through her like a blade. The men no longer looked at her with lust and devotion but with scorn, calling her hideous. The women whispered behind their hands, spreading cruel rumours that she was past her prime, a fallen beauty. The scar on her face grew in her dreams, splitting her features in two, melting her flesh as she begged them not to abandon her. Her soldiers no longer called her their goddess. Even Cenric changed. No longer averting his eyes from her undressing out of respect—or longing—he simply didn’t look at all.

She was alone.

But then, the dreams shifted. The court dissolved, and she found herself dreaming of her father.

She relived her visit to the Iron City, the capital of the Phoenix Empire and the supposed birthplace of humanity. She had been twenty-three at the time, still a child by elven standards, and it had been her first glimpse of Eden. The city had horrified her. Buried deep within the mountains, it was made entirely of stone. There was no greenery save for patches of moss, the man-made light doing little to nurture life. It stretched for over thirty miles, a cold, lifeless maze of buildings filled with humans and the few other races they permitted in their lands. To Valora, it had felt like a dead city.

Yet, its people had intrigued her. Growing up, she had been told humans despised elves and sought only to enslave them, as they had with the Tillian elves who had stayed behind on Eden. Instead, many of the humans she encountered looked at her with fascination, even attempting to speak to her despite the language barrier. Her father, fluent in the imperial tongue, had charmed them with ease, making them laugh and hang on his every word.

She dreamed of her meeting with the emperor, a man who radiated an unbreakable will. His presence had terrified her; she hadn’t even been able to meet his gaze. Yet her father had spoken to him as an equal, their words turning sour only when a cloaked figure, his body disfigured as if by fire, entered the room. Her father had cursed the man in imperial, his jovial demeanour vanishing.

Valora remembered little of what was said, but she recalled being whisked away by three green-eyed boys. Two had begun speaking to her in Imperial, while a third stood quietly, watching. Valora stared at them in confusion until, realising their mistake, they switched to the true tongue, speaking it with a fluency that made it seem their own. At the time, Valora didn’t understand the game they were playing. Even now, she couldn’t fully comprehend why humans indulged in such frivolity.

The boys explained that because the taller one—his shy smile betraying his nervousness—had touched her, it was now her objective to chase them down and touch one of them in return. The game seemed juvenile, and at first, she could see no fun in it. Yet, the boys’ infectious grins and boisterous energy won her over, leaving her no room to refuse. She quickly discovered the game was far more enjoyable than she had expected, especially because, as an elf, she was faster than them. However, the boys proved clever, setting traps and leading her into narrow passages where escape seemed impossible.

The boy who had approached her was handsome—for a human, at least. He exuded an air of natural leadership that had the others watching him constantly, waiting for his direction. The tall one, on the other hand, was awkward and quiet, his plain features a stark contrast to his companion's charm. He didn’t speak the true tongue and seemed more comfortable with the other boys than with her. Still, she occasionally caught him stealing glances at her out of the corner of his eye, his wary gaze making her think he distrusted elves. The last boy was the most fluent and chattered incessantly, though he rarely said anything of substance. Most of his words were questions or idle comments, accompanied by odd, lingering looks. At the time, Valora had been too young to understand, but now she recognised his behaviour for what it was—flirting.

The four of them played for hours, laughing and teasing one another as they dashed through the corridors. The boys called her as slow as Yulma, a figure of humour she didn’t yet understand, while she retaliated with elven barbs that left them grinning. For those fleeting moments, she forgot about the cold and lifeless place she had found herself in.

Valora would have played all night, but her father’s amused presence in the distance brought her back to reality. She reluctantly bid her new friends goodbye, their grins faltering as they waved her off. Later, her father explained that the boy who had first approached her wasn’t just any child—he was the heir to the throne, the Emperor’s only son. At the time, the revelation meant nothing to Valora; to her, they were just three boys who had made her laugh in a city that otherwise felt dead.

That boy, however, grew into a man, and the next time she saw him, they were on opposite sides of a war that had claimed millions. Even now, she thought back to those carefree moments in the corridors, wondering if the Gods had been trying to tell her something she still failed to understand.

As Valora and her father made their way out of the capital, Rhys became distracted. In that moment, she noticed a figure approaching her, the man from the throne room. Before she could react, he was at her side, leaning in close to whisper in her ear. His voice was smooth and unsettling, carrying words she didn’t understand but instinctively felt were dangerous.

Before he could finish, her father appeared in a blur of motion, his palm striking the man’s chest with such force that the stranger was sent flying across the room. Valora froze in shock; she had never seen her father so enraged. He drew his sword with a hiss of steel, his voice echoing through the hall with unrestrained fury.

“I won’t let you manipulate my child with your games, Harbinger!” Rhys roared, standing between Valora and the man like a feral beast shielding its cub. His posture radiated both authority and rage, his every muscle taut and ready to strike. Valora trembled behind him, her young body overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment.

The burned man, unfazed by the attack, stood and dusted himself off with a deliberate calmness that only made him more unnerving. His melted face twisted into what might have been a smirk as he spoke in perfect true tongue, his words laced with mockery. “I was simply wishing the child a safe journey. You’re far too suspicious, Arno.”

That final word confused Valora. Arno wasn’t her father’s name—it was Rhys. Yet her father’s reaction to the name was unmistakable. His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing with a hatred she had never seen before. The burned man winked at her, a small, casual gesture that sent a chill down her spine, before turning and walking away. He moved like a shadow, his presence vanishing as though he had never been there. No one else in the bustling hall seemed to notice him—only Valora and her father.

Rhys turned back to her, kneeling to meet her gaze. His crystal-blue eyes, usually so calm and reassuring, were filled with fear. “What did he say to you, child?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly.

The weight of his question terrified her. Even at that young age, she understood it was important. But she didn’t know what the words meant, and the thought of disappointing her father or getting into trouble made her hesitate. His steady, expectant stare only made her feel worse, as though she had somehow done something wrong.

“Please, Valora,” he urged, his voice softening but no less urgent. “This is very important. I need to know exactly what he said.”

She bit her lip, swaying nervously as she struggled to remember the words. Finally, trusting in her father’s seriousness, she repeated them as best she could. “He said, ‘The bell has been rung, the right words spoken. Blades now come from the dark, both here and beyond. Watch the pillars, see the signs yourself. Immortality is coming for us all.’”

The colour drained from Rhys’s face. For the rest of the journey home, he spoke little, his usual warmth replaced by a sombre silence. He stared at the horizon as though searching for something—or someone—in the distance.

One year later, Valora found him dead at his desk, his wrist cut open and an eye painted in his blood on the wall behind him. Even now, she couldn’t forget the man’s words or the expression on her father’s face that day. The memory haunted her, a puzzle she couldn’t solve, yet one she knew was far from meaningless.

Valora awoke hours later, her body heavy with exhaustion, to the sounds of the bustling city filtering through her window. Though the market was three streets over, its clatter seemed to fill her room. Elves called out in greeting, their voices sharper than usual to her strained ears. Every noise felt amplified, each sound a dagger piercing her skull. She pressed her palms to her temples, groaning softly as the remnants of her headache gnawed at her mind.

With a measured breath, she pushed herself to move. Sliding out of her cocoon, she swung her legs over the side and dropped lightly onto the polished floor. The glow of the World Tree filtered through the open window, bathing the room in its radiant light. The walls, intricately adorned with patterns woven through song, shimmered faintly in the ethereal glow. Each design told a story—stories she had loved as a child, ones her father used to recount in a voice as steady as the Tree’s eternal hum.

Valora placed her hand gently against the wall, tracing one of the patterns as she had done countless times before. A faint smile touched her lips, fleeting but genuine. “Thank you,” she murmured softly, her daily ritual of gratitude to the World Tree flowing naturally despite the tumult of her thoughts.

But the moment of peace was short-lived. The sharp ache in her skull returned as she tried to recall the events of the previous day. Fragments came back to her: the riot, the wound, the scar. And Cenric. His phantom mourning. His grief-stricken expression. A deep breath did little to ease the tightness in her chest.

Then she heard it—the sound of footsteps echoing in the corridor outside her door. Her body stiffened instantly, instinct taking hold. Without thinking, Valora moved to the centre of the room, her spine straightening and chin lifting with the grace and authority drilled into her from childhood. Naked and vulnerable, she held herself with a pride that belied her unease.

She knew those footsteps. They were distinct, deliberate, a melody she had long since memorised. As her heartbeat thundered in her ears, her mind churned with panic. Memories from her childhood clawed at her thoughts, and a desperate, fleeting idea took root. Cenric’s offer. Could she still take it? Could she still flee?

The footsteps stopped just outside her door, and her breath caught. It was too late now.