When I closed my eyes, it was a blessing. The experiments carried out by the doctors—following, of course, the precise instructions sent by that damned mage on the continent—I thought they would not try to invoke water if the god said it was bad. But I was the one who bore all the pain—the implants and the magic. They only observed and reported to my father. It was the only thing that stopped me from tearing them apart like that trash of a human who wandered the isle.
I was sure my father's plans were going smoothly. I was sure because my father was the king of the elves. There was no wiser creature before, and there was none now. I did not even remotely think of succeeding him. Yet the curse that left us almost powerless occurred. We lost many of our possessions in the week of defeat. Exile weakened the morale of many, but we endured because we—I more—were sure my beloved father would reverse the situation... Then what no one expected happened. He came to ask for my help.
I was the most frightened. No one considered me a princess. I was not particularly powerful, not athletic, nothing! And my father asked me to restore the greatness of the elves! I would not fail him.
It was quite difficult in the following weeks. They started with pills, then powders in water, some runes. The first time a tattoo was placed on my pale skin, I cried for weeks. I had never accepted any mark on my smooth dermis—I was the envy and center of attention wherever I went. Yet the king asked it of me, so a huge tattoo settled on my back. It was a control rune. Many more followed. Then the implants began—small soul stones grafted into my mana control points. These began to generate magic again. Finally, after two years of intense pain, I managed to feel the old sensation of constant magic. My first spell was a fireball. Father was happy.
I remembered that day. I went out to celebrate. That filthy isle was very small compared to the territories we had conquered over the years. Yet I had to get out. The laboratory's aroma, the substances I drank, made me nauseous. But I would not let anyone see that. First, from fear of disappointing my father, but more than anything, because I could finally wield magic again. I tried the rest of the spells, of various natures. All came, but in a very reduced version. I hoped these charlatans would increase the amount of magic produced. I wanted to play with other magics.
Molten Fire was a shaping magic. It could be used as an attack but was too slow. The rune was beautiful, mixing the words "fire," "crush," "melt." I mastered it perfectly. On the coast, I experimented, trying to use it. Calmly, I invoked it. But the expenditure was enormous for the small amount of magma produced. Still, I extended its lines one by one with calm. The control runes worked, so in a short time, a crystal figure—the image of a flower that no longer existed—spread across thirty centimeters of sand. The effort exhausted me. I could do work that covered a castle wall, yet at that moment, I felt magic—a lot, and despicable. When I turned, a groan of frustration escaped my throat. A brat of early age—they grew faster, like cockroaches, so I did not know how old he was—had bandages on his throat and, over a surface of more than four meters, had used the same enchantment to trace a vulgar sword. The heat was incomparable, but his concentration seemed unaffected. The sword was vulgar. He was vulgar. And on top of that, he dared wave his hand in my direction as if it were some kind of game... That was when I hated him.
In the following years, I hated him with renewed effort. Each operation, each tattooed rune left me weakened, but he seemed renewed. No matter the blows he received, I attended those events where he was trained and massacred by various soldiers or mages. It seemed everyone took out their fury, their frustration on that brat. I enjoyed those days, except I could not mock him. Father had forbidden it. I could only smile while waiting for some lucky attack to shatter his spine. Yet it did not happen. He began to fight better and better, to face the mythical beasts we brought for our protection. The most humiliating thing was when, tired of watching him fight one of the dwarf warriors, I approached to distract him so he would get hurt. But the dwarf had summoned an earth dragon. Had it not been for the one I mocked, I would have died—and with me, my father's plans... That was when my hatred knew no bounds.
From then on, I urged all the doctors to speed up the operations. There was no pain I would not endure to be better than him. Power was what my people sought, and it was something I would give them no matter what. On nights when the wounds stung, when the implants hurt as if my bones were outside, only one thought saved me: I would be superior to him. We were in the final preparations. It was almost time. I was my father's pride. Then I would no longer need that "man," and I would have the privilege of eliminating him.
The years continued their course. But when the day of the final procedure came, I had changed greatly. My skin had paled more—almost transparent. My ashen-blonde hair, which the nereids envied, had turned blue-black. Two black pits were my eyes. That was the price paid for my magic to be at the level of old. The humiliation was great. I no longer left my room except to go to the laboratory. My only consolation was that everything would end that night. I only needed to recite a prayer. It would put me to sleep, and I would wake in my father's friend's laboratory. There, we would finish the enchantment. My beauty would be restored. And as a reward, the boy who would serve as escort would be there at the moment we regained our powers. There, I could unleash my vengeance.
The words caused me pain—a lot. But my father looked at me with feverish hope in his eyes. I could not disappoint him. I continued reading. An unpleasant cold rose from my feet. I did not dare look. Now I cried—tears of desperation for what I had done, for the bad, for the good. Was this the sign that I would die... Father was wrong. This was not good!
"It is time to wake up, dear..."
The word floated in my mind. I opened my eyes to know I was alive, trapped in some kind of coffin, but alive. And I felt magic—much more magic than I had ever felt before. But I could not escape. Every time I tried to use a rune, my mouth refused to move. Everything indicated there were powerful protections preventing my escape.
"Bravo, genius. The one who imprisoned you here is that human you hate so much. But I can help you escape. Your father's friend awaits your arrival. Together, we will destroy the humans... What do you say?"
"Let me kill that traitor, and we have a deal."