Kingdoms in Chaos by Michael James Ploof Page B

saw the destruction that had been wrought. Cerushia was a disaster. Much of the city had been destroyed, and what remained held none of its former glory. The elves had been through a lot, indeed. He noted how not all of them celebrated his arrival. Some stood motionless among the energetic crowds, staring at him. He had heard of these elves, the ones who did not believe Kellallea to be a goddess, but rather despised her and Whill alike for the taking of power. He understood how they felt; in his own way, he hated her too—and himself for what he had done. It gnawed at him night and day. The Watcher and many of the elders were dying, and it was all because of his choices. Good or bad, there was nobody to blame but him.
    “Never mind them,” said Zerafin, seemingly reading his mind like the old days. “They have no one to be angry with but themselves. What Kellallea did was the right thing to do, I think. Though it pains us to live without it, magic might have killed us all.”
    Whill had so much to say, but held his tongue until they were finally alone in Zerafin’s chambers in the salvaged palace. He didn’t see Avriel anywhere but was reluctant to ask for her. On one hand he wanted nothing more than to see her again. On the other, he was afraid that she would look at him like a stranger.
    When finally the doors closed shut, he turned to Zerafin. “Kellallea has appeared before me.”
    The elf’s smile disappeared and he motioned to the balcony. “Right to the point, I see. Would you like a drink?”
    “I have missed the elven red,” said Whill. He took a seat at the table on the balcony and Zerafin joined him shortly, handing him a glass.
    “What did she say…if I might ask?”
    Whill wondered if he should tell him everything. He smelled the sweet wine and swirled it for a moment, watching the glass. He raised it to the sunlight, noticing a few tannins floating in the ruby liquid. The wine tasted more bitter than sweet, and confirmed his suspicions that it was not aged long but had likely been made with what fruit was left unharmed from the year before.
    “She said that she can grant me the power that I once possessed.”
    “If…” said Zerafin, knowingly.
    “Exactly. If I swear fealty to her.”
    Zerafin pondered this while he sipped his wine.
    “What I don’t understand,” said Whill, “is why she would ask me such a thing. Without my help, she would have never ascended to the heavens.”
    “I have prayed for her guidance in the temple,” said Zerafin. “She has not answered.”
    “You wonder why she has forsaken you, and yet speaks to me?”
    Zerafin turned to his friend and smiled reassuringly.
    “I hold no animosity toward you for this.”
    “What would you do?”
    A long sigh escaped Zerafin, and he finished his glass in one drink.
    “I have used Orna Catorna my whole life. It has been hard to adjust to life without it after so many centuries. When the humans attack, I see fear in the eyes of my people. When once I could have turned away the pathetic army single-handedly, I must now hide behind my banner men and watch as centuries-old elves die. I think that if it was offered me, I would take it.” He met Whill’s eyes, searching. “You told her no?”
    “I have not yet made up my mind.”
    “What’s stopping you?”
    “I’m not sure. I don’t trust her, for one.”
    “You never have,” Zerafin reminded him. “Yet she was telling you the truth all along.”
    “About the prophecy, yes. But there are things about her that don’t add up.”
    “Like what?”
    “Like why she allowed Eadon’s rise. Surely there was a time when she could have stopped him. She is ancient—much older than he. I think that she allowed his rise to power because she knew what it would lead to.”
    “You think she planned it all?” Zerafin asked.
    Whill couldn’t tell if he was angry or bewildered.
    “It is possible.”
    The elf king raised a brow to that and tipped back his glass. He said