Revenge of the Elf Lord (Kingdom of the Elf Lords #3)

Chapter 1

1

Alfheimr

The royal summons hit him as Cyran Daralei plunged his hands into the elf’s abdomen, bodily fluids and lacerated organs rising to meet him. Focusing on his magic, he searched his vast knowledge for anything to save this elf’s life. The situation might not have been so dire if he had gotten here a few minutes sooner. His frustration grew as he sensed the elf’s spirit slipping away.

Lamruil, I will be there as soon as I can. This boy’s injury is…bad.

The Elven co-regent’s royal presence slid through his mind. Come when you are able. We need to talk.

Cyran’s anxiety rose. He didn’t like not knowing what was happening around him, and because the new co-regents, twin brothers who just so happened to be his best friends, rarely asked for anything, it gave him pause. Since returning from helping the humans in their global war, he had felt increasingly anxious with each passing week.

With a strength of will he had used over and over during the Midgardian war, he focused everything he had on healing the holes and lacerations in the intestines, breathing through his mouth to keep the odor of raw meat from turning his stomach. After what seemed like hours—but, in reality, was only a few scant minutes—he resealed the fluids inside the twisting organ where they belonged.

Next, he used his healing magic like a suture and restitched tissue and muscle, using the bright red blood as the thread. The last stitch sealed the skin over the scar, the entire abdomen raw and angry as he tried to save the youth’s life. He leaned back on his heels, his knees digging into the soft earth.

Waiting to see if the sutures would hold, his thoughts returned to the twins. Why would the co-regents summon him? They never did that, so why now? A frisson of fear stuttered through him as a single thought hit him. Had the Elven kings discovered what he had done so many years ago? Had they come across the one thing he had kept to himself? What he had done to his father?

Closing his eyes, he erased all evidence of blood. He looked down at his young patient, still sleeping off the magical sedative, before glancing up at the boy’s parents. The father’s face was white, fear in his eyes as he held his wife, who sobbed against his shoulder.

Cyran stood. “Bastien will live, but he needs to rest for the rest of the day—let the magic continue to heal him.” He forced a crooked grin, which was almost impossible with the fear of what the summons meant beating at his insides. “The next time he sees a unicorn, tell him to leave it alone. They are notoriously ill-tempered and do not like giving rambunctious young elves rides.”

With a slight nod to the relieved parents, he apparated to the Elven realm of Alfheimr. His last sight was the mother pulling her son into her tight embrace, relieved tears coursing down her ravaged face.

The fountain in front of the Elven palace sent out calming waves with every pulse of color as the water splattered into the stone pool enclosure. His gaze lifted, and he stared at Alfeimer’s co-regents, Ailuin and Lamruil Vakas.

The elf brothers were his closest friends and confidants. Tall and lithe, they had fair skin and white-blond hair down to their waists with narrow braids at the temples. They were identical twins, yet their personalities were as different as night and day. Though he admired and served both, it was Ailuin he confided in and fought alongside during the Great Elven War, a conflict that nearly destroyed their kingdom.

Not even the wisdom and strength of the twin’s father, King Glanduil, had stopped the rising forces of the three Elven factions—Black, Light, and Dark—each vying for supremacy. Their struggle had nearly torn the realm apart, and now, its embers still smoldered, threatening to reignite.

During the past few months, Cyran had sensed a growing malevolence around their world, a silent and deadly presence. Whether others noticed or not, he couldn't tell. The clashing of events during their civil war reminded him of the global conflict on Midgard, where one man’s delusions of control led to years of hardship in which betrayal lurked even among the most loyal. Instinct whispered to him that understanding these parallels was vital to averting a similar fate in their world.

His gaze swept across the lush, vibrant countryside, the heady scent of flowers teasing his senses. Standing by the palace fountain, its soothing gurgle a constant backdrop, he took in the vision his friends had tirelessly worked toward.

Under Lamruil and Ailuin's reign, a hard-won peace seemed to have settled among the elves. Crops flourished, and the nearby village, once in ruins, now buzzed with life. Yet, beneath this tranquility, a shadow seemed to lurk, an intangible darkness he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“You both have done well,” he remarked, his voice betraying none of his inner unease as he maintained his aloof persona. Did they know? He longed to return to a time before the world's weight did not seem to rest on his shoulders. But he kept these thoughts hidden, especially from the twins. Their burdens with rebuilding Alfheimr were all too clear to him.

“That’s high praise coming from you.” Lamruil smirked. “Going from one adventure to another, I’m surprised you even noticed. You’re too busy having fun. We could have used your help.”

“Oh, stop badgering him,” Ailuin said. “At least one of us should have some fun now and then. We can’t always be buried in work and worries.” He turned to Cyran. “Have you seen the new shops in the village?”

Below them, the village sprawled, a mosaic of stone and painted wood, with several new structures rising from the long-forgotten foundations. Despite the shadows in his mind, hope flickered. Perhaps everything they fought for in the war had not been entirely lost.

“A new baker opened for business this morning,” Ailuin continued in a light tone. “Raisa bought out the entire store, sharing delicious sweetbreads, cakes, and tarts with everyone in the village. What was left over, she gave to the palace staff.”

Cyran shot a teasing glance at his friend. “So, I take it your wife didn’t let you sample anything?”

Ailuin scowled. “Not even a tiny bite, but what I saw looked delicious.” He shrugged, his usual grin returning as he nudged Cyran several times. “Oh, and before I forget, the baker also has a beautiful daughter.”

Cyran rolled his eyes. “Stop. While you may enjoy being married—and Raisa is an adorable wife for you —I agree with Lamruil. I’m not the marrying kind. I cherish my freedom and don’t have to answer to anyone—no obligations or constraints. Honestly, I would miss the thrill of having adventures.”

“Hear, hear,” Lamruil chimed in with a low chuckle. “Not to add to your misery, Cyran, but we all must grow up one day. Have you given any more thought to our offer? Your stepfather, no matter the part he played in the Elven war, was a gifted healer and believed your magic surpassed his. We need a royal physician.”

Ailuin laid a hand on Cyran’s shoulder. “I know you do not take this lightly, my friend. I know your feelings for your stepfather, but Lamruil has a point. You are a remarkable healer, a talent I witnessed many times in the war on Midgard. Don’t let your stepfather’s choices diminish this gift. Our people need you.”

Cyran inhaled, letting the soft scent of honeysuckle fill his lungs. Ailuin was right. This decision wasn’t easy, and everything in him screamed to run away. Leave the elves to their fates. But he couldn’t.

He sensed no animosity or anger from either brother, so his secret had not been discovered. Still, these two were his only family. While not blood, they were his brothers, nonetheless. Only he and his mother had known the truth of his parentage, and his mother had died, taking the secret of his birth father’s identity with her.

While he had loved and admired his stepfather as a child, that changed when he began training under him. He saw the changes in Haman firsthand and despised what he had become. Cyran couldn’t let the common elves suffer for his stepfather’s poor choices any more than he could turn down the twins’ offer. Healing was in his blood and as natural to him as breathing.

“I can’t lie. It has not been easy to decide. For a time, the anger I held against Haman clouded my judgment. Perhaps I've forgotten who I am meant to be, but, truthfully, I cannot accept the position yet.”

He held up his hand, effectively stopping the arguments he knew the twins were about to throw at him. “I said yet . I am not declining your offer, but I must take care of something before settling down as the royal healer.” He forced the mask of humor back onto his face and gave his friend a crooked grin, wiggling his eyebrows. It was easier to be the lighthearted playboy everyone knew, but something inside of him died each time he played the part.

Lamruil turned to face him, crossing his arms over his chest, his expression serious. “Take your time, but there is one more thing I need you to do—more important than whatever you’re doing, I’m afraid. I need your investigative skills. Other than Ailuin, I don’t trust anyone else with this. émilien recently had trouble in the Shadow Lands.”

Cyran frowned. “First, may I ask why you summoned me? All you had to do was reach out to me through our link like usual.”

Lamruil’s bright blue gaze speared his. “We did, but you didn’t answer. We’ve been trying to reach you for days.”

Cyran shrugged. “That makes no sense. I’ve been giving medical aid near the border between Alfheimr and Svartálfheimr. The doctors there are in short supply, so I agreed to help a few villages. You should have been able to reach me just fine.” He gave them a wry grin. “You know how I am, though, when I’m healing. I guess it is possible I tuned you out.”

Ailuin grimaced. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself when you say that. It’s insulting.”

Cyran chuckled. “Now, back to the investigation I’m supposed to do for you—émilien’s a badass. Who would dare go up against him?”

The older twin raised one blond brow. “I asked myself that same question. Whoever it was, though, was powerful. Not just anyone can close the borders of one of Hel’s regions. As the ruler of Helheimr and the daughter of Loki, Hel is another god who shouldn’t be messed with, yet we also believe this same entity managed to infiltrate the Norse death realm. They accomplished the same feat with the Egyptian, Celtic, and Greek death realms. We need to discover who is behind this and why. What are they after? There are beings in these realms that, once released, could end all worlds, so this is of utmost importance.”

“Lamruil, don’t forget about Shalendra,” Ailuin added. “émilien and Hel’s only daughter was attempting to help Freyja search for émilien’s brother and his wife, who disappeared several centuries ago—at the onset of Midgard’s Second World War. Freyja’s last contact with Shalendra was just before she and her best friend, Soliana, left a small village on the outskirts of the Dwarven lands of Svartálfheimr. She hasn’t been heard from since. Hel and émilien are frantic. They have tried to penetrate Svartálfheimr’s boundaries but have been unable even to put a toe on the other side.”

Cyran frowned. “All worlds have some kind of patrol or use protection spells on their borders, but to not be able to cross at all?” He stared down at the village, shaking his head. “Highly unusual, that. So, how can I help if no one can transverse the border?”

Ailuin smiled. “Healers are like the Red Cross on Midgard. They are untouchable and allowed on all lands, regardless of borders. We believe you are the only one who can get into Svartálfheimr and search for the two girls.”

“Technically, I’m not the royal healer. Last I knew, no one had been reappointed since Haman.”

“True,” Lamruil agreed. “But I have the authority to make you the interim healer—until you decide to accept our offer, which you will, so it’s a moot point.”

Cyran smirked. “Kind of presumptuous, aren’t you?”

Lamruil stared at him a moment. “No. I have never doubted you would become our healer. For now, though, I’m granting you the interim title of royal healer. That will give you the ability to cross into dwarf lands.”

Cyran gave them a quick salute and then bid the brothers farewell. He left the palace courtyard and headed toward his home, high in the mountains. The expansive house had been in his mother’s family for as long as the elves existed and was his only sanctuary. Thankfully, his stepfather loathed the place, preferring to live in the depths of the previous king’s palace to create his potions and treat patients.

Cyran needed the outdoors. Learning magic underground in Haman’s lab had been difficult. Cyran preferred to be in the high places, thick with trees and animals, studying living plants and observing the world in real time, not from pictures and words in ancient texts.

Stopping at the base of the long stone stairway winding up the mountain, his gaze followed the wall as it led upward. Sunlight filtered through the treetops and glistened along the rocky face, creating an illusion of golden sheets of ore instead of rock walls.

The stress he had harbored the past few months eased with each step up the mountain. Halfway up the trail, he heard the welcoming call of an eagle from overhead. Looking up, the bird glided through the blue expanse, its long, white-feathered wings outstretched as he headed to his pyre on the other side of the steep valley below.

He remembered the day he rescued the injured bird of prey on Midgard. He and Ailuin had been joking around, and Cyran carelessly threw a rock into the sky, unaware that the eaglet was about to drop from its nest on its first flight.

Unable to bear the thought of the beautiful bird dying from his careless action, Cyran healed the wing. Throughout the war, the young eagle appeared before an attack. His cry echoed through the glens as he soared up into the heavens. Then, a few minutes later, the German planes arrived.

The unique bird saved thousands of lives, and by the war’s end, he didn't want to leave him on Midgard and named him Hermaer, meaning warrior. Cyran gave Hermaer the option of returning to Asgard with him, thankful when the eagle agreed.

Cyran whistled, the sound piercing the air. In the distance, Hermaer answered. A minute later, he reappeared with a tiny eaglet by his side. Cyran smiled at the wondrous sight of his feathered friend flying through the sky with his son.

He blew out a couple of short whistles and then continued walking along the pebble-covered path where sparse patches of heather grew between the narrow cracks of the limestone ledge of the mountain. Stopping to smell the thick honeysuckle vines, he filled his lungs with the heavy scent before climbing the last few stairs.

Crossing the small yard, he strode into his home but stopped in the open living space. A familiar sensation crept over him, the tiny hairs on the nape of his neck and his arms rising. He frowned, getting the sense something wasn’t right. He turned, his gaze taking in everything in the room.

His mother’s collection of healing rocks, their colors dancing in the sunlight, filled what once had been her reading nook. Her library of books stood untouched in the three hundred years since her death. He could still smell her lavender perfume on the pages and didn’t want to ruin that last remaining link to his mother.

Inhaling, he smelled a malodor, almost like something was rotting. Hunting for the culprit, he searched the entire house but found nothing. He didn’t even have food in the kitchen, so where was the stench coming from?

He shook his head and headed upstairs, walking to the end of the long hall. Pushing a series of knots in the ceiling trim, the wall slid open, revealing a set of metal stairs spiraling upward to the far tower, his domain since childhood. The space had been a gift from his mother when he decided to become a healer. He treasured their time together, mixing potions and drying herbs in the upstairs room.

She understood his loathing of anything underground and created the perfect environment for him to flourish in his studies. She filled it with a cauldron and every tool necessary to develop medicines and spells. She also gave him her father’s medical library and supplemented any missing tome with a new copy.

While most people regarded money and power as treasures, these items were his. It had been his mother’s dream for him to forge his own path in life, and she never wanted him to follow in her husband's footsteps if that wasn’t his desire. Since her death, life had not been the same, and he missed her terribly.

Stepping inside the room, he immediately noticed the clean air, so whatever caused the stench downstairs had not permeated up there. With a deep inhalation, he breathed in the different herbal scents from the last poultice he made. It was a calming blend for a stressed pregnant mother with two twins. The sage, lavender, and hint of mint worked like a charm.

He enjoyed mixing simple treatments and more complex medicines. The peace this gave him sparked the idea of setting up a small store in the village. He wanted to provide elves with a place where someone like the pregnant mother could get immediate relief instead of waiting several days for him to create a new batch. Now, with the twins’ offer and help, he could do both.

Inhaling one more calming breath, he forced his legs to move. While he would love nothing better than to escape to the past or give his store idea more thought, he returned here for a more critical task. One he was reluctant to do.

He had dreaded this moment for decades, but with the recent developments throughout the Nine Worlds, he could no longer ignore his stepfather’s vast library. He would need more potent magic to determine where the girls were and who took them.

He grabbed his medicine bag from the nearby hook and stuffed it with the remaining magically preserved herbs, other medicinal plants, a few already mixed tonics, and other supplies. After slinging the satchel over one shoulder, he pictured the cave in his mind and allowed his magic to send him to the cave.

Closing his eyes, he felt the rush of wind as he sped through spacial time. When the cold breeze swirling around him stopped, he opened his eyes and stared at the heavy wooden door in front of him. Ornate iron decorated the door face, elegant in an old-world style with the filigreed design twirling from top to bottom. The door’s beauty belied the evil held within.

Before he changed his mind, he laid his palm against the wood, positioned so the tips of each finger touched metal, and mouthed the containment spell, not daring to make a sound.

Open the seal.

What’s hidden, revealed.

Hold safe and secure.

One whose purpose is pure.

He could not afford for anyone to learn the access spell to the cave. Too many lives depended on this remaining his dirty, little secret.

The heavy door silently swung open, and he stepped inside the spacious cavern. His gaze scanned the space, but everything seemed to be as he left it so long ago. Returning to his stepfather’s laboratory was the last thing he wanted to do, but now, with trouble brewing in several magical realms, he had no choice.

Ignoring the ornate bed where his Haman's body lay in a magical stasis, the most challenging sleep spell he had ever achieved, Cyran strode to the bookshelf at the cave's far end. He skimmed over the titles, knowing each book by heart as he looked for the ones he knew he would need on this journey, wherever it led. Finding three of the four books, he frowned. The last, and probably the most important, was an ancient spell journal. He scanned the shelves again, but the tome was not there.

With a frustrated sigh, he turned to stare at the bed. If Cyran had his way, it would be a permanent stasis. His youth and inexperience hindered him at the end of the Elven war—and a definite novice to have done what he did, but to save lives, he’d had no choice.

Staring at his stepfather’s sleeping face, he focused on the shadows beneath his closed eyelids. They looked sunken, as if in death, but he knew differently. On that fateful day long ago, Cyran somehow managed to trap Haman with one of his own incantations written in the now-missing book. Cyran was still surprised it had worked. Haman’s regular spells never worked—at least, not without a bit of magical tweaking. It was the darker spells his stepfather gravitated toward, and those always worked.

To everyone on the outside, this man was dead. Because of past events and Haman's proclivity to the black arts, Cyran would never recognize him as his stepfather.

He walked to the nearby cabinet and opened each door, continuing his search for the missing tome. “I know I put it back…” he muttered.

“Of course you did, but I don’t like you pilfering through my belongings. It’s rude,” a familiar male voice said behind him.

Fear spun him around, his gaze landing on the now-empty bed, then darting to the wraithlike figure standing a few feet from the open door. He forced all tenseness from his body and emotion from his mind, knowing Haman would use it against him, and casually crossed his arms over his chest. “How did you escape?”

Haman stepped closer, his shadowy form solidifying and showing him as the perfect elf Cyran remembered from childhood. His long brown hair flowed down his back, and his beard was trimmed with crystal beads woven in the short strands. Like most other elves, he looked as young as Cyran, even though he was centuries older.

“You forget who taught you. It was only a matter of time before I found the counterspell. Stasis only affects the body, not the mind. It took me almost two hundred years, but since awakening, I have perfected several of my experiments and even figured out where we went wrong in the war. I look forward to proving my theory,” Haman said in a condescending tone.

“You know nothing about today’s world, which is vastly different from the one you knew.” Cyran raised his chin in defiance of the man standing before him. “You know nothing about me or who I have become. I am no longer the little boy you trained. Your ideals have never been my own.”

His stepfather shrugged. “A pity that, but the moment you uttered the stasis spell and trapped me in this cave, you ceased to be my son.” Haman lifted his hand, his fingers splayed, and his palm faced Cyran. “I rescind the blood magic I gifted you upon your birth. You are now nothing more than a fatherless elf, destined to succeed at nothing.”

A dark red glow surrounded the older man’s finger, each tip snapping and popping like ten tiny fires, then faded away. “You failed, Cyran. As I predicted before the war—both the Elven war and the world war on Midgard, gentleness and joy have no place in any realm. Those with the most power will always win.”

Cyran smiled, letting his magic burn deep inside his chest as he stared at the husk of the man he used to call father. “You do not control me and will never have that ability. While I grew up saying you were my father, it was King Glanduil whom I loved. He had more compassion and kindness in his pinky finger than you have in your entire body.”

He raised his head, letting Haman see the disdain on his face. “He may not have been my father by blood, but he raised me into the man I am today. My magic and healing abilities come not through you but through my mother’s blood. You never once considered her powers to be of any worth, but she was an incredible healer. When your potions failed, she cured the patient and never said a word to you.”

“You lie.”

“No. I witnessed it every time it happened. Just before the war, she let me continue in her stead so I could learn and grow.”

“You’re an imbecile, Cyran. Blood is where the magic is. There is no way to get around that. No magical spell or potion will change what is. Renouncing you as my son…along with borrowed magic from a primary source, is the one way I can alter your destiny, which I have just accomplished.”

“Think again, father . You cannot renounce what was never yours in the first place. I am not your son—never have been. Mother told me with her last breath that my real father couldn’t claim me and never knew he had a son.”

Cyran clapped his hands together, his power expanding. His palms burned, and he turned them toward the older man, letting the beam of fiery magic hit him in the chest. With an ear-piercing shriek, his stepfather’s body seemed to pull apart. A second later, it imploded, leaving behind the stench of decay.

Rooted to the floor, he exhaled. The only sound in the silent room was his own breath. Reaching up, he wiped away the single tear trickling down his cheek, surprised he could still find even that speck of compassion for the hate-filled man. In his way, Haman Daralei had cared for him when he was a small child, but when he began to grow into a strong-minded youth, that care turned into something else. Something Cyran didn't recognize. Something evil.

While he had prolonged the inevitable confrontation by sending Haman to the netherworld, his stepfather’s dark magic was more powerful than his, and he knew Haman would return. Their fight wasn’t over.