When I lost my place on the council, I felt no rage. I had not been placed there by my own will but due to my magical ability. Then I was banished—the order for this did not even come from the leader's pen. His secretary signed everything. Thus I ended up in a minor village. Even though my magic field could extend several kilometers, I was destined for a place of no more than thirty houses and their shops. A town between the cities of Bloody Coin and Stormhammer. As I said, I did not complain. I had plenty of time to study, to understand magic and history, to be a little cunning—in short, to recover my old adventurous life.
When the crisis hit, only we Whitecaps understood the nature of the attackers. They were sensitive to fire magic. Light magic did nothing to them. Elemental magic damage worked but on a low scale. Although there was the so-called sacred magic of the priests, it was a combination of light and fire, so its effects were less than what the leaders assumed. Yet keeping them away from our populations was easy—the field we used sufficed. That was where my town gained notoriety. From being a place rarely visited except by those with families in the great cities, it suddenly became an oasis among all these enemies of the living. My field, expanded to its limit, allowed me to increase the population, serve as a refuge for wildlife, and even launch a few offensives against distant cemeteries, which had to be cleared to shelter countless soldiers who perished during the first waves.
Fortunately, a priest cleverer than those who served Phaladine or those living in my hometown managed to place some inscriptions I did not recognize on the bodies of the dead, so they no longer rose. For now, only his group of priests knew how to do it, but he had given classes to the weak mages who came to my town for their social service to carve these marks. When I told my superior, he did not believe me. Even now, when the call of duty came in the hands of one of the powerful Whitecaps, they did not ask or request details about this revolutionary way of keeping the dead at rest. They only indicated they had come to replace me. Inside the envelope came the details—I had to accept and attend an event the next day. Escorts, horses, and food waited outside.
I asked for an hour to pack my things. While everything was being arranged—thrown into a bag haphazardly, except for my books, which I always carried in my backpack and a wineskin over my shoulder—I read the note. The supreme leader of the Whitecaps wanted me to infiltrate a meeting of some supposed "High Elves," where all the people of my city would go, as there would be food and protection for everyone. So I did what they asked—but in my own way. Just as I was leaving the village, the two envoys realized I was no longer there. I hated ceremonies.
The road was easy if you knew how to move. My experience as a traveler allowed me to find the most evasive routes, combined with my little-known ability to reduce my field until it practically disappeared. Thus I traveled as an old man, a storyteller among travelers, someone to whom they told how things were going in the village, their lives, their dreams and fears. Someone who would have some very serious words with the leader when I saw him and spoke of how stupidly mismanaged everything was.
I arrived with time to spare. In the forest, large magical lamps illuminated a path. Along its sides, mercenary troops of the Tundra Wolves, armed with equipment evidently given to them—their postures showed they did not know how to use it fully—stood guard. Arriving at the coast, I could admire the elves' vessels. Despite the rumors that they had come riding mystical creatures, I only saw several large ships from which some humans and dwarves emerged. From here, they seemed fine, but that was still hard to tell, especially at this early hour.
The dinner was opulent. Everyone ate well—except, curiously, our hosts, who stayed away from the food. A chill ran through my body. Fearing to find poison, I tried to purify myself very discreetly. While doing so, I held as best I could a minuscule soul stone. That was the utensil they had given me to spy. The stone stored even residual magic. It had small characters carved on it—the instructions for what it was cut for. It would project what I saw directly into the Whitecap leader's crystal. Curiously, it contained no poison—only a substance which I poured into a small flask. Just as the wine began to flow abundantly and people had forgotten the reason they came, the "king" began to speak.
I was on my way to the master's tower. I would have to evade all the mercenaries, but as I did so, I could not forget what happened there. Not the miserable elf speaking on the podium—he only gave a demagogic speech, assuring the evil of a human who had betrayed the elves' attempts to reclaim their past, even accusing him of all the evils of the current world. The people looked at him with convinced expressions—that was not normal. We citizens of Stormhammer were not people who let ourselves be guided by speeches—simple, but always looking after our own interest. The concept of universal good did not apply here. That was why they chose the city inhabited by a Whitecap—all comforts, zero restrictions, except for civil ones, but the police chiefs were corrupt, so not much was restricted.
I had just dodged another patrol in the darkness. I would definitely have to speak with those who designed this. The speech was barely ending, in which he asked that those who wanted to know how strong they were to fight should get a tattoo on their necks, which would change color depending on the bearer's level. At that point, I observed all the mercenaries present. All wore that filth that looked more like a slave collar. Then he said that those whose tattoos turned red would be paid to fight the traitor Dark Lord—they must do it for the salvation of the races.
I had just knocked out one of the scouts. I must not be more than five kilometers from the city. Yet this seemed an impossible distance due to the enormous number of enemies around me. Just as the speech ended, I saw a famished animal enter—a wounded, battered hippogriff, with raw skin and a fractured beak. Yet the whole audience reacted as if a magnificent, utterly mad beast had appeared. Instantly, several mercenaries lunged and struck the air, then threw themselves to the ground. The hippogriff was frightened, not angry. It stirred, beating its almost featherless wings, and made small cries. Suspicious but still wanting to confirm, I took a small sip of what was included in the food. Then I saw it. No animal of that species would grow so large. They did not have red eyes or sharp teeth—they used a beak. How did people think they would have teeth? But a lightning bolt split it at that very thought. When I turned back, I saw the speaker again—only this time he was magnificent. Every fiber of my being was pleased to listen to him. When he said the elves would defend us and help the families of the city, I almost shouted with the others. Fortunately, I had consumed very little of the potion. Just as everyone, amid shouts of support, ran to line up to have their necks marked as faithful followers of that detestable, manipulative race, the jewel I carried began to glow. It glowed so much it was a flash of light in the middle of the night. Instantly, alarm cries sounded. It was evident that no one with magical knowledge should be there. I immediately left and disappeared into the night.
The stone still glowed. It was proof they were using some kind of revelation magic. Not wanting to waste more time, I took it out and, contemplating its carvings, transmitted a summary to whoever was on the other side. Then I told him my plans. I would go to see the Dark Lord. If he was so hated by the elves, I must discover everything possible... I did not know—perhaps he might be a potential ally.