The wind paused, just for a moment, like the world holding its breath. For a moment, everything was silent.
Kor’Korai.
One of the fabled flying cities, a marvel of elven magic. Along with its twin Arien, the two cities chased each other through the skies above the southern peninsula of Tanaraq. This was long before the lands below were called the Great Kingdoms. Kor’Korai with its gleaming golden spires, and streets of crystal was said to be so beautiful, even the dwarves wept at first sight.
And now, I stand in its grave.
I don’t believe most mortals can understand what it means for an elf to die. Perhaps only the dwarves can. understand. Certainly, the mighty dragons do. Even the thought of it breaks my heart, and I am standing the precipice of a mass grave.
Elves are the longest lived of the mortal races. They can live well over seven centuries. Some extend their lives even longer, with benevolent or malevolent means. In human terms, that is ten lifetimes, from cradle to the grave. Imagine the sights, the joys, the tears, the very memories gathered in that span.
When a human dies, they are, if fortunate, surrounded by loved ones who remember them. They leave behind a few stories. Multiply that by ten, and consider how many lives one elf may have touched.
When an elf dies, time itself mourns.
And so, I stand before the gates of a city thought lost. Even from here, I can see that the Corruption did not spare it. Perhaps it suffered most of all. The ground is twisted, as if the world itself had tried—and failed—to purge what fell from the heavens.
Nature, being nature, has done what she always does: tried to reclaim what remains. But even she seems hesitant here. No not hesitant. Fearful. For the Corruption is evident even in the leaves in a horrible mockery of life. Twisted ivy clutching at stone, roots dug into ash and bone instead of soil.
I said a prayer before continuing. It seemed fitting.
Eager though I was to explore, I would never dare defile this place—not out of ignorance. Elven magic is second only to dragon magic. Both wield power beyond comprehension… and both remember longer than we care to imagine.
The wind picked up again, as my hoof crushed dried leaves. It seemed sad, as if grudgingly allowing me to bear witness. I may have been the first living thing to enter the city in a long time.
It felt like mourning.
I passed through what was likely a market, judging by the ruined stalls of gold and silver. Signs of looting were everywhere: broken locks, shattered crates, and tracks long since fossilized in dust. I found more than evidence of looters. I may be the only living thing in Kor’Korai, but I am not alone.
The dead rise at my approach.
A zombie lurched from one of the stalls, its pack spilling gold coins and crystal goblets across the ground. The noise was worse than the sight. I met it with a sharp kick, my hoof crushing its skull like brittle clay. It dropped, twitching.
A whisper of movement made me spin. Shadows shifted. I spoke a word of power and vanished, reappearing a dozen paces away atop a pile of broken marble. From there I watched the market churn. A dozen more corpses shambled into view, searching the space I had just occupied.
I ducked behind a half-collapsed barrel. The stench of fermented peaches hit me so hard it made my eyes water. I waited, still as stone, while the undead shuffled and groaned among the ruins. When they finally turned away, I exhaled and moved.
The building behind me was in better shape than the market square. I slipped through the cracked door and pressed myself into the shadows, eyes closed, breathing slow. The dust tried to make me sneeze, but I forced it down. I drew in a long breath through my nose. I could make out dust, mildew, oil, but found no trace of death.
Only then did I open my eyes. Symphony glowed faintly in my hand, its silver-blue edge soft as moonlight.
It took a moment before I recognized where I stood: a barracks of some sort. Faded banners hung in tatters, portraits lay torn, and empty racks lined the walls where weapons once gleamed. But one sword still hung there—a blade of deepest blue metal. Elven runes were etched along the edges, and in the dim light, I can see them pulse with arcane energy.
A moonblade.
Symphony vibrated lightly when I looked at it. The thought of my beloved sword growing jealous amused me. Nevertheless, I turned away. Moonblades are potent things, and I am not an elf. More importantly, I am not trying to die today.
I once met a former bladesinger named Tuval. He had been a champion of the valley elves, bearer of a moonblade called Talon more than two centuries ago. For the unfamiliar, moonblades are heirlooms of great elven houses, minor artifacts by any measure. The secrets of crafting them are lost, removed by the goddess of magic herself.
Tuval had earned his glory in the Eternal Forest—slaying orcs, the occasional troll, even a troublesome earth wyrmling. His fame earned him a rival, a sea-going bladesinger named In’gyo, known as much for his duels as for his piracy.
One night, while Tuval drank in a tavern, an elf burst through the door. It was one of In’gyo’s crew. He was wounded, desperate, claiming their band had been ambushed by orcs and the others taken in chains. Tuval shrugged, raised his cup, and kept drinking. Rival down meant renown gained.
That was when Talon began to hum.
When Tuval reached for it, the sword’s magic flared, and his hand simply… ceased to exist. He blamed the wine. I believe the wine shared some fault—but the real issue was Tuval himself. Moonblades are bound to purpose, and theirs is to protect elves. Tuval had betrayed that purpose, and Talon took his hand in payment.
He tried to appease the blade afterward, but it locked itself in its scabbard, refusing every plea. Attempts to force it free only made it pulse with the same wrathful energy that maimed him. Thus ended the career of bladesinger Tuval.
Last time I saw him was after one of my shows. He was face-down in a human tavern, drunk on inferior wine and cursing ungrateful weapons. Talon was long gone by then; stolen by dark elves, if rumor is true.
I explored the building, confident now it was more a school than a mere barracks. Fear gave way to wonder. I stood within a font of elven martial knowledge.
Looting had clearly happened here, and as typical with looters, the squirrels only went after the shiny nuts. Ruined armor lay scattered across the floors. Broken weapons too—but even those would fetch coin from the right buyer. I, of course, am above such looting.
Then I found the manuals.
A small bookshelf stood opposite what used to be an armory. Its contents were strewn across the floor in a glittering sprawl of parchment and decay. Manuals of elven swordplay, treatises on grips to maximize elven grace, and scrolls detailing the sword techniques of the masters—all penned in the finest inks and dusted with powdered gems.
These manuals were worth more than the blades that once lined the racks.
Knowledge should not be lost. The scholars at Lorr would likely be grateful for such a donation. I tucked a few manuals into my bag. The one on elven archery would make for fine bedtime reading; a passing glance at one of the diagrams and realized exactly what I’d been doing wrong.
I also slipped in a volume on bladesong—Spire Elf bladesong, specifically. I had no idea each elven lineage had its own variation of the art. Fascinating.
Of course, I won’t keep it. Elves are bloodthirsty about very few things, but a non-elf in possession of their bladesong techniques is one of them. Still, I owe Xan’dyr something for the spellbooks he doesn’t yet know I borrowed.
This should appease him.
Or at least make him less inclined to kill me.
I slipped out to the balcony on the top floor. The scent of death returned, and my heart grew heavy once more as I surveyed the city.
Gone are the spires—rebuilt after the city crashed to the ground, victims of Kor’Tunni’s banishment of magic. It was said that when the wind blew through them, the spires once sang, their notes revealing both time and weather. Now their voices were silenced.
Below, I found what remained of the gryphon aeries—home to Kor’Korai’s famed riders. Once, the air here would have been alive with the thunder of wings and the cries of proud beasts. Now, only dust stirred. The nests lay hollow, the stone perches crumbled. The place was as lifeless as the rest of the city.
Gone is the aroma of feywine and silverthistle, of herbs and spices from the kitchens. Gone is the forge’s heat, the sharp hiss of quenched steel, the hum of enchantment from the magic shops. All that remains is the stench of death—thick, unrelenting.
It’s stronger here. Many elves died here. Many elves rose here. I could smell them still, lying beneath the grass, buried under rubble.
Gone is the life. The spire elves—with their elegant faces, their proud finery that once outshone human royalty. Now only mockeries of them shuffle through the streets. Clearly, my presence had not gone unnoticed.
A group of skeletons clattered into view below me, their movements jerky and uncertain. They paused at the entrance beneath the balcony.
“Stench of the Pit,” I muttered.
The bones shifted, heads tilting as though they’d heard.
“Pit take them,” I hissed softly. “Shambling bags of bones.”
They milled about, searching, then slowly vanished into the shadows of the archway. I exhaled, my pulse steadying. I was considering the best way to deal with my uninvited guests when I saw it—
The temple.
Even from here, its grandeur was unmistakable. The structure wasn’t built; it was grown from a massive, ancient tree. Its living wood shimmered faintly beneath the light. The air around it smelled of leaves and rain—pure, untouched. Even from this distance.
The double doors were covered in carvings I couldn’t quite make out from my vantage point. A garden spread before it, lush and defiantly green amid the decay. Here and there, patches of gray-purple grass marred the soil—tainted yet resisted.
Beyond the temple, I could just make out the crypts.
Then came the sound—a dry rattling from the far end of the hall leading to the balcony. I sighed, tightening my grip on Symphony.
“First,” I muttered, “I deal with my guests.”
My eyes drifted back toward the temple’s glow.
“Then,” I smiled faintly, “I pay my respects.”
Always take time to enjoy the music”
– Chord, the Ivory Bard
A Darkness Rising 