The sleepless night passed without Zyren even noticing. He had become one with the darkness of the cave, his consciousness merging with the shadows as he pored over volume after volume of forgotten history. The phosphorescent algae dimmed and brightened in cycles, marking the passage of hours he no longer tracked. His fingers had grown numb from turning brittle pages, his eyes burning from the strain of reading in the low light, but he couldn't stop. Each revelation was a knife twisting deeper, each account more damning than the last. When his tears finally dried, leaving salt tracks on his obsidian skin, he had returned deeper into the cave. Iskareth waited for him, patient as the stone itself, a fresh stack of books already prepared.

  It took tremendous strength to recompose himself. Kaelith had found him in the early hours, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion, his face drawn with grief. She had placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, saying nothing, simply offering her presence as an anchor to the present while his mind drowned in the horrors of the past.

  "You need to rest," she had whispered eventually, her voice barely disturbing the sacred silence of the archive.

  "How can I?" he had replied, his voice cracked and raw. "Every word I read—it's like discovering my own murder."

  She had nodded, understanding in a way few could. "I know. But destroying yourself won't undo what was done."

  For the entire night, Zyren read. He absorbed the stories of an entire civilization systematically erased not just from the land but from history itself. And through it all, the same pattern emerged: manipulation, deception, and greed for the resources that had once belonged to his people.

  When Zyren finally stepped outside, the morning sunlight struck him like a physical blow. He staggered, throwing up an arm to shield eyes that had adjusted to the gentle glow of cave algae. The world seemed too bright, too sharp, too loud after the hushed reverence of the archive. His body felt hollow, drained of everything but a cold, crystallizing rage.

  Waiting for him at the mouth of the cave was Urdan. The orc captain stood with his back to the rising sun, his massive silhouette outlined in gold, his amber eyes studying Zyren with careful assessment.

  "How are you doing?" he asked, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder.

  Zyren squinted against the light, his exhaustion evident in the dark circles beneath his eyes and the slight tremor in his hands. "Iskareth refused to show me more," he replied, his voice hoarse from disuse. "Not that anything would change what I saw."

  Urdan nodded and fell into step beside Zyren as they began the descent down the winding path that led from the cave to the settlement below. The morning air was crisp with salt and the promise of another clear day—the kind of beauty that now seemed obscene to Zyren after what he had learned.

  "We have to leave," Urdan began, his gaze fixed on the harbour where the Kelpie waited. "As I said, getting into that cave was the last thing I made you—"

  "I'm in," Zyren interrupted, his voice suddenly firm, determination hardening his features. He knew exactly where Urdan was heading with this conversation.

  A smirk revealed itself on Urdan's weathered face, tusks catching the morning light. He stopped abruptly, one massive hand coming to rest on Zyren's shoulder, holding him in place. The weight was substantial, but not threatening—a reminder of the gravity of the moment.

  "Listen, kid," he said, his expression turning serious as he looked directly into Zyren's eyes. "This isn't something to decide hot-headed." The orc's face was a map of old battles and hard choices, each scar a lesson learned. "We're fighting to free everyone from the Empire, and we follow the plan. This isn't about vengeance."

  Zyren met his gaze unflinchingly, violet eyes locked with amber. "Different destinations can share similar paths," he answered, his voice quiet but unyielding. "As long as they do, I'm with you."

  Without waiting for a response, he resumed walking downhill, his steps deliberate. The path wound down through Thalpharos, past buildings that seemed to grow from the living rock. Pelagos went about their morning routines—mending nets, preparing boats, teaching children the ancient songs of the sea. Life continued here, preserved and protected from the Empire's reach. It was a stark contrast to what Zyren had read about his own people—no survivors to pass on traditions, no children to learn the old ways.

  Once they made it to the Kelpie, the crew was already in the midst of preparations for departure. The deck bustled with activity—sailors checking rigging, securing loose items, loading fresh supplies. Behind Urdan, Zyren walked trapped in thought, his mind still partially in the archive, sifting through the fragments of history he had absorbed. The pair hadn't exchanged a word since Zyren declared he would join the resistance. The silence, granted by Urdan, was a needed breather for Zyren to come to terms with his decision and not board the ship fuelled by anger alone. The orc captain understood that some choices needed to settle into one's bones before being truly made.

  While the crew finished repairs and loaded several crates of supplies, Zyren noticed a standing figure by the ship's rail, supervising the arrangements with a critical eye. Even from a distance, the figure commanded attention. The figure was tall and unnaturally still. Its skin was pale with a greyish cast, like smoke trapped under porcelain, creating a stark contrast with iron-black hair that hung straight as a blade to the middle of its back. The first thing Zyren noticed was how the narrow figure seemed to belong there, its posture naturally commanding, shoulders squared and chin slightly raised. Yet, at the same time, it looked fundamentally out of place among the weathered sailors and sun-darkened Pelagos. The stranger wore an oil-treated canvas coat in dark grey that appeared lightweight but dense, with a high storm collar turned up against the morning breeze. Cut short, ending just below the waist—more like a naval deck jacket than a trench coat—it gave the impression of practical elegance rather than ostentation.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  The crew moved about unfazed by the new presence onboard, leading Zyren to believe it belonged there in some capacity. Only when Urdan passed by him in a hastened pace, tension visible in the set of his massive shoulders, did Zyren wonder if something was wrong. Once they approached, and now visible from the Kelpie, the figure turned around and walked away with fluid, economical movements.

  "That's Tasya," said Yrrig with a casual nod while closing a crate of provisions. The satyr's hooves clicked against the dock as he secured the lid with practiced movements.

  "What is she doing here?" asked Zyren, still looking up to the place where the stranger had been standing, something about her presence lingering like a chill in the air.

  "The Morozari help us with supplies," replied Yrrig, gesturing at the crates and barrels surrounding them on the dock. His voice dropped slightly, taking on a more serious tone than his usual cheerful cadence. "The only way we can pay is by working with them when they ask."

  Thaln's words immediately echoed in Zyren's mind: "Sometimes you do what you got to do." The resignation in the Pelagor's voice made more sense now.

  "The humans are their enemies as well," continued Yrrig in what sounded distinctly like an excuse, his golden-brown eyes not quite meeting Zyren's. "So, even when we work with them, it's still in favor of our cause." He picked up a bag of what smelled like dried fish and left without further explanation, his backward-jointed legs carrying him swiftly up the gangplank.

  Zyren stood there watching the Kelpie, feeling the weight of his choice. The moment reminded him of the day he entered the Burned Forest—the fear and hesitation leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, the knowledge that once he stepped forward, there would be no turning back. But now he had a different resolve. On the day he left home, he had been moved by the naive curiosity of one who leaves the safety of the known to see the world. Now his drive was different. Now he had to ensure the story of his kind wasn't over—that the truth wouldn't remain buried in a hidden archive while the Empire's lies prevailed.

  Bruln passed by, carrying a heavy crate that would have required three humans to lift. The Cragling's scarred hide glistened with exertion in the morning light, but his movements were steady and purposeful. Nearby, Thaln and Hisoka were rolling a barrel up the ramp leading to the Kelpie, their disparate forms—one webbed and scaled, the other lithe and human-like with a fiery red hair—working in perfect coordination.

  “Hey!” shouted Parvani with a teasing smile. “Make yourself useful.” She said while picking up a small crate with what looked like vegetables. “Otherwise I won′t feed you!”

  He stepped forward and grabbed a bag of supplies, joining the effort. A few days ago, he had been deceived into coming aboard this ship, something he hadn't forgiven Kaelith for, but now it became clearer than ever that it was the right path for him. Perhaps the only path.

  On board the Kelpie, the crew was finishing the storage of supplies, securing everything for the journey ahead. Urdan was nowhere to be seen, likely discussing final arrangements with Tasya and reviewing charts for their voyage.

  "Wanna grab a drink before we set sail?" asked Kaelith, approaching Zyren with a friendly smile. Her hair was tied back in a practical knot, and her usual weapons were absent—a rare moment of relative relaxation.

  Zyren nodded, wiping sweat from his brow with his forearm and returning a shy smile. If he was to stay with them, he had to make amends with her and stop nurturing resentment. If fate had brought him here, it had done so through her actions, deceptive though they might have been.

  "Looks like you are joining us," she remarked as they walked down the gangplank and toward a small tavern near the harbour. The building was partially carved into the cliff face, its windows offering a panoramic view of the bay. "Does it mean we are okay?"

  "Still don't like that you deceived me," he replied, his tone friendlier than it had been since their confrontation. The anger hadn't vanished, but it had found a new target. "But now I understand what this is all about."

  Kaelith smiled, visibly relieved that the tension between them was easing. "How can such a dark place make everyone see more clearly?" she joked, referring to the archive. Her expression grew more serious. "I'll never forget my first time there." She paused, voice softening. "Always thought I was a nobody, until Iskareth showed my name in those books."

  They paused their conversation while entering the tavern, a cozy space where the stone walls were lined with shelves of bottles containing liquids in colors Zyren had never seen before. The air was warm and carried the scent of unfamiliar spices and fermented fruits. They ordered a couple of cold ales from a Pelagor bartender whose webbed hands moved with surprising dexterity among the glasses.

  "My mom and I lived like nomads," Kaelith continued once they were seated at a table far from the tavern's ambient noise. She traced a pattern in the condensation on her mug, her eyes focused on the past. "Surviving on what we could, from bounty hunters to thieves—we did it all and were happier than I knew at the time." She hesitated, then added, "Turns out she was spying on the humans. Didn't end well for us." Her voice faded, and she took a long sip of ale.

  They sat in silence for a while, the ambient sounds of the tavern—quiet conversations, the clink of glasses, the distant call of seabirds through the open windows—filling the space between them. Zyren could feel her pain, a kind of loss he had never experienced directly.

  "I never knew my family," he finally said. "Can't imagine what it feels like to lose someone you've known all your life." He stared into his ale, watching the light play across its amber surface. "My parents—my adoptive parents—were nothing but kind to me, even against their own people. The other elves never accepted me." He paused, considering his next words. "Still, knowing that they were dragged into an unwanted war makes me feel sorry for all of them. Even on the outside, I saw the effects of the war in them. Thousands died, families were broken—"

  The grief in his voice quickly transformed into rage. "My kind wiped from the map." He punctuated the last words by slamming his fist on the table, causing nearby patrons to glance over. Kaelith saw the same Zyren who had emerged from the cave the previous night—raw with pain, burning with newfound purpose. Her pain was old, weathered by time. Zyren's was fresh, bleeding. She placed her hand on top of his, grounding him.

  "It's okay," she said softly, her eyes meeting his. "We don't have to talk about it."

  But Zyren didn't seem to hear her. The words poured out of him now, unstoppable. "The humans orchestrated the raids in the forest, they spread rumors about the dark elves' intention to attack. They attacked our caves, then blamed us and the elves for the aggression." His voice was low but intense, each word precise. "They planted the seeds for the war and made sure it happened."

  Kaelith shifted in her chair. She already knew what the humans were capable of; she had seen it firsthand. The act of igniting a war between two races didn't surprise her. Still, knowing that lives were lost for a false cause, that entire cultures were decimated for imperial gain, was deeply unsettling.

  "All becau—" Zyren broke off mid-sentence as he spotted Thaln approaching their table. The Pelagor's usually calm demeanour was disturbed, his webbed hands clenched at his sides, his gills fluttering rapidly.

  "Time to go," Thaln announced, his tone tense—an emotion Zyren had never heard from him before.

  Wondering what had happened, Zyren stood and followed Thaln and Kaelith out of the tavern, leaving his half-finished ale behind. The bright sunlight outside was jarring after the tavern's dimness, but not as jarring as the tension now evident in both his companions' postures. Something had changed.

  Something was wrong.