Vol.7 Ch.407 A Meeting with the Artisan-Prime

The upper levels of the Sylvaris Palace were a stark contrast to the dark, earthy confines of the Apothecary. Here, the air was cool and crisp, scented with the delicate fragrance of moon-blossoms and the faint, metallic tang of magic.

The grand stairway they climbed was carved from a single piece of moon-white marble, its steps polished to a mirror-like sheen that reflected the ethereal light streaming in from the towering, arched windows. The walls were adorned with intricate tapestries that depicted the history of the High Elves, their threads woven with a magic that made the scenes seem to come alive, their figures moving in a silent, eternal dance. The ceiling was a masterpiece of illusion, a dome of swirling stars and nebulae that shifted and changed with every passing moment, a testament to the High Elves’ mastery of the arcane arts.

As they ascended, they passed other high elves, their movements graceful and fluid, their faces serene and impassive. They were dressed in robes of shimmering silk, their colors a subtle blend of silver, gold, and white, their hair looked flawless and flowing like liquid starlight. They moved with an air of effortless superiority, their eyes briefly flicking over Tawny and her superiors, a flicker of disdain in their gaze, before they continued on their way, their whispers like the rustling of leaves in a gentle breeze. The witches were a necessary tool, but they were not equals in the beginning. However, they were one of the races that were hunted down in the Demon continent of Faeo. The witches fall from the Demon Clans was simple. Before the days of the great falling stars that brought mana onto the world of Tertius. Magic was far more rarer and only a extremely small group of mortals could accomplish such feats in the old days by getting Divinity from a God, collecting materials for a special ritual, or through sacrificing one’s own life force to achieve this. The witches were the first to find a way to utilizing all three methods without sacrificing their own life force. It usually resulted in using children as the catalyst. But the were the envy of the Demon clans. That was until the day when large asteroids came down from the deepest darkest part of space and landed all over the world.

At first, some of the witches felt their power grow as the next few generations of witches began developing these mysterious mana viens, which allowed them to skip out on two of the three ways of casting dark magic. Namely they wouldn’t need to sacrifice a child or get a gods blessing. The asteroids were loaded with pure ether, that was the precursor to mana. At this time they could draw from the asteroids themselves and not have to worry about the cost that came with it.

However, they weren’t the only ones to start growing Mana Veins. Ever animal and sentient species was beginning to adapt to the new world with its endless supply of magic. The witches soon lost their edge, as the other clans started wielding magics that they have never witnessed before. They wished to be the ones in control and that’s when they created the blood contracts and tried to fool the other clans into signing them to put a stranglehold on the dark arts of Demonkind. The usual method of cursing someone no longer worked due to the interdiction on Mana Veins and the creation of blood contracts was the only option they had to weaken, control, and secretly siphon one’s Mana Vein. The only problem was they needed to trick a person to write their names on the contract. It was slow going at first, but one Demon Queen found out about their treachery and told the other clans. It wasn’t long before they were getting hunted down and would have been wiped off the face of Tertius if it wasn’t for the High Elves. They saw the potential in their dark magic and offered them sanctuary, in exchange for their services. And for millennia, the witches served the High Elves, their power a dark, hidden underbelly to the High Elves’ gleaming, luminous perfection.

The deal gave them a place to live on Lumen Fae, but they were nothing more than indentured servants. They had to give all their magic to the High Elves. And over the millennia, the older witches passed away and the slowly replaced them with young High Elven females. Once the last of the Faeoian witches passed on, and replaced by High Elves their indentured servitude status relaxed over the decades and after hundreds of years later they were now considered to be high class merchants that could produce all sorts of potions and trinkets. But the stigma from the Archons and the Artisan-Prime of the old days still lingered.

Sylva and Elara were from the generation that had to prove themselves to the Archons. And to this day they still carry that chip on their shoulder when dealing with the nobility.

The higher the witches climbed, the more opulent the palace became. The floors were inlaid with lapis lazuli and mother-of-pearl, the furniture carved from the rare and precious heartwood of the Whisperwillow tree, the light fixtures glowing with a soft, inner luminescence that was both beautiful and unnerving. The air grew cooler, scented with the faint, sweet fragrance of moon-blossoms and the sharp, clean scent of ozone, a byproduct of the powerful enchantments that permeated the very fabric of the palace.

They reached the top of the grand stairway and stepped out onto a wide, sweeping balcony that overlooked the city of Tulnadet. The view was breathtaking, a panoramic vista of shimmering towers and cascading waterfalls, of lush, verdant gardens and crystal-clear rivers. The city was a marvel of engineering and magic, a testament to the High Elves’ ingenuity, and it was spread out below them like a glittering jewel, a vision of ethereal beauty that seemed to defy the laws of nature.

The entrance to the Artisan-Prime’s chambers was a pair of massive, intricately carved doors, their surfaces inlaid with gold and silver, their hinges forged from a rare and precious metal that hummed with a low, resonant energy.

Elara glanced at Sylva who was looking straight ahead and acted like her old rival didn’t exist. But Elara knew that she was just as nervous as she was. The Artisan-Prime, Lyra Veythar, was a woman of immense power and influence, a member of the High Synod, and she was not known for her patience or her compassion. She was a stern, authoritarian figure, a woman who demanded absolute loyalty and unwavering obedience, and she was not to be trifled with as she was the second most powerful Light Mage of all Elven kind. Only the new Chosen One who was born 20 years ago had the ability to surpass her.

“I-I don’t think need me Epistarchess. I would only make things—”

“You were a orphan and were deemed qualified to join the Coven, Tawny. So you will not cower,” Sylva snapped, her voice a low, dangerous growl. She then looked at Elara and gave her a warning glare to not contradict her. But Elara wasn’t intimidated by her.

“Be nice, Sylva. She’s never been in the presence of a noble as high as the Artisan-Prime. And we’re about to give her some news that might make her… a little… upset,” Elara said, her voice a low, teasing purr.

“B-But they’re in a middle of a meeting… Don’t they hate to be disturbed?” Tawny stammered, her voice a little shaky as she looked at the two guards standing at attention at either side of the massive, intricately carved doors.

The guards were members of the Luminari, the elite warriors of the High Elves. They were dressed in gleaming silver armor, their faces hidden behind helms shaped like the heads of eagles, their eyes glowing with a faint, inner light.

“They hate it more if we don’t tell them about a new possible threat to their dominion,” Sylva said, her voice a low, serious murmur.

The two witches walked up to the guards, their heads held high, their expressions a mask of calm, stoic determination.

“We need to see the Artisan-Prime. It’s urgent,” Sylva said, her voice a low, authoritative growl.

One of the Luminaries looked at the three witches, his eyes glowing with a faint, inner light. “How urgent, Epistarchess?”

“There’s a high likelihood of a new healer walking the Agon Continent. One of the abominations’ bloodlines most likely has been freed,” Sylva said, her voice a low, serious murmur.

The guards looked at each other, a silent communication passing between them. They had been trained to recognize the signs of trouble, and the mention of a healer on the Agon Continent was enough to set their teeth on edge. They were alive during the last age of the Wasser Healer. They saw how she could reattach a severed limp and make their best warriors back to new after a few hours. The tales of their ancestors were passed down through the generations, a cautionary tale of those who find a healer. And during those times, it was always a lesser species that was gifted with such a power. They always feared the day when another healer would be born into their world, and it was nearly 5,000 years since a known healer was born. And for another one to be born and in the Agon Continent, a continent of lesser species that has had a history of breeding with powerful demons from the far past. This would be devastating.

The other Luminari nodded and stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Wait here,” he said, his voice a low, commanding. He then turned and walked through the massive, intricately carved doors, his movements a fluid, silent dance.

Tawny’s heart was pounding in her chest. She didn’t like how serious everyone was. The more she learned, the more she felt like she was in way over her head. She looked at Sylva, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and confusion, but the Epistarchess’s face was a mask of stoic determination, her eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, her mind already calculating the best way to present the news to the Artisan-Prime.

***

Inside the great chamber of the Artisan-Prime, the air was thick with the scent of old parchment and the faint, sweet fragrance of moon-blossoms. The room was a vast, circular space, its walls lined with towering bookshelves that groaned under the weight of ancient tomes, their spines cracked and faded with age. The ceiling was a dome of swirling stars and nebulae, a masterpiece of illusion that shifted and changed with every passing moment.

In the north part of the chamber was the amphitheater style seating that allowed for twelve High Elves to sit comfortably. The seats were arranged in a semi-circle, each one carved from a different type of precious wood, their surfaces inlaid with intricate patterns of gold and silver. And at the center was the Artisan-Prime, Lyra Veythar’s throne, which faced the rest of the council.

The meeting was in a heated debate between the Artisan-Prime and another woman of striking beauty.

Lyra was a vision of ethereal beauty, her long, silver hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of liquid starlight, her eyes the color of a summer sky. She looked like a statue as all her ambassadors were arguing with the Archons, which were equivalent to Dukes of the lesser species’ Kingdoms. They were discussing how best to use their Chosen One for the times ahead.

“The Elurim saw fit to give us this gift of a new Chosen One! And you want hide him away like some kind of prized pet!?” A beautiful high elf stated firmly, her voice a melodic lilt that was laced with a fiery passion.

Her name was Ambassador Sarya. She was a fiery, outspoken woman with a mane of violet hair that cascaded down her back like a waterfall of silk, her eyes the color of a twilight sky. She was a diplomat, a woman who was used to getting her way, and she was not about to let the Artisan-Prime tell her otherwise. She believed that this young man was a gift from the gods and it was their duty to use him to crush their enemies. But Lyra had other plans.

“Sarya, you speak of him like a tool. But a Chosen One is more than that. They are a symbol of our power, a beacon of our dominance. And to use him as a pawn like all the others would be a mistake. This one is special, I can feel it. He will be the one to finally bring the humans of Agon and Wasser to heel,” Lyra’s voice was a low, melodic purr, a stark contrast to the fiery passion of the ambassador’s. “And as long as I am the Artisan-Prime, I will not have him squandered on a fool’s errand.”

“And yet, we have been sitting on the sidelines. Pulling are spies from most of the other continents. I see that as a mistake. And for what? So we can wait for this boy to come of age? He’s already cleared out five labyrinth worth of monsters! And his gift of Light Magic now surpasses your own. I think it’s time he is known to the world, and to show them that the high elves are the true masters of this world,” Sarya said, her voice a low, dangerous growl.

All the nobles elves had a mixture of responses. Some agreed with Sarya, others agreed with Lyra, but there was one that was sitting in his seat just enjoying the show. He had his long brown hair tied back in a ponytail, and his eyes were a piercing blue that seemed to see right through you. He was the Archon Yevgeni Valenwood, and he was the leader of the Valenwood House, a powerful and influential family that had a long and storied history of producing some of the finest warriors and mages in the High Elven kingdom. He was a man who was at the forefront of manipulating other species to their own ends. The only reason why he wasn’t the Artisan-Prime was that he was too reckless, and his methods were… unorthodox. He was a man who was not afraid to get his hands dirty, a man who was not afraid to take risks, and a man who was not afraid to make enemies. But he was also a man who knew when to hold his cards close to his chest.

“If I may interject, Artisan-Prime. I alike the rest of the Archons believe that remaining discreet has worked out for the last two hundred thousand years. But I am also with the Ambassador. The time to hide behind the scenes and use the other races as puppets might no longer be the way. With the Elurim, Lynnic’s chosen one confirmed, his gifts are growing stronger with each passing day. It’s time we use him, but how, is the question we must answer. Not to have him running into the lesser species kingdoms and start killing all who oppose us. That would only create the lesser to group together and that will create more abominations in the long run. No… We need to use him to break their spirit. To make them see that we are the only true rulers of this world. To see that raising arms against us is a fool’s errand. And the best way to do that is to have him slay all the other lesser… Chosen Ones from all over the world. Not even a Demi-gods would be able to stop him,” Yevgeni said, his voice a low, authoritative murmur.

A few of the Archons nodded in agreement, while others looked at him with a mixture of shock and disgust. But Sarya was the first to speak.

“You want Velorae to slay all the other chosen ones!? Why even play that game when we don’t know who the Chaos Gods have as their champions. And trying to convince the Angels and humans of Neso to throw their Chosen Ones in this… this death tournament won’t turn out in our favor. It’s a high risk and—”

“But the reward is worth the risk, Ambassador. Imagine a world where the lesser species know their place. A world where they look up to us with fear and reverence. A world where they are too scared to even think of defying us. That is the world I want to live in. That is the world the Elurim want us to build. And that is the world we will build with the help of our new Chosen One,” Yevgeni said, his voice a low, authoritative murmur.

Lyra tapped her long, perfectly manicured nails on the arm of her throne, a soft, rhythmic sound that seemed to command the attention of everyone in the room. The debate had raged for hours, a familiar dance of ideology and ambition that had become a hallmark of the High Synod’s meetings. She was tired of it. Tired of the endless posturing, the veiled threats, the constant struggle for power.

“An interesting idea. But a short-sided one at that, Yevgeni,” Lyra said, her voice a low, melodic purr that cut through the room like a razor. “You think that by sending our Chosen Ones to slaughter the others, we will instill fear in their hearts. But you are wrong. It will only unite them. It will only make them stronger. It will only create a new wave of abominations, a new wave of resistance that will threaten our very existence. And for what? For a fleeting moment of dominance? For a short-lived victory that will only bring about our downfall? No. We stay the course until we can slowly wipe out the other races from the face of Tertius.”

“I never said we bring in the Elurim, Alicia’s Chosen One, Artisan-Prime. We only show them, Velorae. Just in case this—”

“Enough…” Lyra commanded, her voice a low, dangerous growl that sent a shiver down everyone’s spine. Her eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, her gaze sweeping over the assembled Archons and ambassadors, a silent warning to those who dared to challenge her authority. The room fell silent, the air thick with a mixture of fear and dread.

“You all know my stance on this matter. We have a new Chosen One. We will not squander his gift. We will not send him to fight in a pointless war. We will not use him as a pawn in your petty games. We will wait. We will watch. We will learn. And when the time is right, we will strike. And we will strike with a precision and a ferocity that will leave our enemies in disarray. We will not repeat the mistakes of the past. We will not allow our pride to be our undoing.”

Lyra’s words hung in the air, a chilling reminder of the High Elves’ long and storied history, a history filled with triumphs and tragedies, with victories and defeats. She was a woman who had seen the rise and fall of empires, a woman who had witnessed the folly of lesser races, a woman who knew that the path to true dominance was a long and arduous one, a path that required patience, cunning, and a willingness to make the hard choices.

Before Sarya could argue, the massive, intricately carved doors of the great chamber swung open, the sound echoing through the silent room like a thunderclap. All eyes turned to the Luminari who stood framed in the doorway, his silver armor gleaming in the ethereal light of the room, his eyes glowing with a faint, inner light.

“Who disturbs this council?” Yevgeni demanded, his voice a low, authoritative growl, his annoyance at the interruption palpable.

“My apologies, Archon Valenwood. Artisan-Prime. I have a message from Epistarchess Sylva. She says it’s a matter of the highest urgency,” the Luminari said, his voice a low, commanding, his gaze fixed on Lyra, his unwavering loyalty to her a testament to her power and influence.

The Artisan-Prime slowly glanced at her knight and studied his eyes for a few seconds before she spoke. “Bring them in,” she commanded, her voice a low, melodic purr that carried a weight of authority that was both subtle and absolute.

The Archons grimaced at the thought of seeing the old withered witch who was older than all of them. They saw Epistarchess Sylva as a blight of a High Elf. While the other High Elves kept their flawless beauty over the ages she let hers fade almost 100,000 years ago and she gotten uglier since. They didn’t see why Lyra kept the old witch around. But they didn’t question her judgement. At least not in her presence.

Sarya was one of the few that didn’t hate the old witch. She respected her. For it was the Coven of the Shadows that created most of their beauty potions and potions that enhanced their Mana Veins. But she did find the old witch to be a bit overbearing and her methods to be… unorthodox. But she was a powerful witch, and she was a valuable asset to the High Elves.

The Luminari bowed, his movements a fluid, silent dance, before stepping aside to allow the three witches to enter the room. Sylva walked in with her head held high, her gnarled hands clasped behind her back, her face a mask of stoic determination. Elara followed behind her, her movements just as graceful, her expression a careful, practiced neutrality. Tawny trailed behind them, her heart pounding in her chest, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and awe.

Sylva’s gaze swept over the assembled Archons and ambassadors, her eyes lingering for a moment on Sarya and Yevgeni, a flicker of disdain in her gaze, before settling on Lyra.

“What was so urgent that you had to come out of your sanctum and into my council, Sylva?” Lyra asked, her voice a low, melodic purr that was laced with a subtle, icy edge. She leaned forward in her throne, her long, silver hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of liquid starlight, her eyes the color of a summer sky narrowed into dangerous slits.

The old witch looked unfazed by the Artisan-Prime’s cold demeanor, her gnarled hands clasped behind her back, her face a mask of stoic determination. “We may have a problem in the Agon Continent.”

Lyra’s face didn’t change, but her curiosity was piqued. She leaned forward a little more, her long, slender fingers drumming a soft, rhythmic beat on the arm of her throne. “Is that so?” she asked, her voice a low, melodic hum. “And what kind of problem would that be?”

“The Shae al’morae chant was used in the human kingdom of Fiafyr,” Sylva said, her voice a low, serious murmur. The Archons’ attitude changed, they went from looking down at her to being more attentive as they could see the urgency in her eyes.

“What about this beacon is so concerning?” Lyra asked.

“A healer… A powerful healer has just eradicated a beacon we placed on one of the lesser bloodlines… And two more have vanished in the same area that we didn’t know about,” Sylva said, her voice a low, serious murmur.

The Artisan-Prime’s face remained impassive, but her eyes darkened with a mix of anger and concern. She looked at Sylva, her gaze a silent question, a demand for more information.

One of the Archons scoffed. “So? We have hundreds of those beacons placed all over the world. A few of them going dark is not a cause for alarm. It just means the lesser beings are finally dying out. And good riddance.”

“No. It’s not that simple, Archon Valerius. This was different. It wasn’t a slow fade. It was a sudden, violent eradication. A cleansing. A power we haven’t seen since the days of the Wasser Healer,” Elara chimed in, her voice a low, and serious.

“What line of abomination was freed?” Archon Yevgeni Valenwood asked, his voice a low, concerned murmur.

Sylva’s gaze swept over the assembled Archons, her eyes lingering for a moment on Yevgeni, a flicker of disdain in her gaze, before settling on Lyra. “We believe it is the Shadow Queen’s line.”

The usual stoic demeanor of the Archons shattered. A wave of murmurs rippled through the room. The Shadow Queen, a figure of legend and terror, was a name that had not been spoken in their halls for millennia. Her bloodline, a potent mix of demonic power and human ambition, was considered the most dangerous of all the abominations, a threat that could unravel the very fabric of their society.

“Wait! You said you think this happened in the Fiafyr Kingdom? Does this mean the Meredydd line have a Healer!? Xylos line should have been dealt with ages ago! Are the witches incompetent!?” Archon Faelar, a hotheaded noble with a mane of fiery red hair and eyes the color of a blood-orange sky, roared. He was a man who believed in decisive action, a man who saw the High Elves’ dominance as their birthright, and he was not about to let a bunch of lesser beings stand in their way.

“The Meredydd line was on the verge of extinction. Thanks to the infighting of the King and his older sibling. The last report my men told me was the older one, named, Alaric, didn’t have Xylos’ golden eyes, but the younger abomination does. The blood of Xylos Meredydd must be nearly spent,” Archon Yevgeni said, his voice a low, authoritative murmur. He looked at Sylva, his eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, his mind already calculating the best way to use this new information to his advantage.

“Don’t underestimate the Xylos Meredydd line. They never were much in the ways of magic, but the Incubus blood has given them mana, skills, and luck that makes it impossible to curse or kill them. We’ve done all we could to contain the line, but they always find a way to survive,” Elara said, her voice a low, serious murmur. She looked at Sylva, a flicker of concern in her eyes. She knew that the Meredydd line was a thorn in the High Elves’ side, a persistent threat that they had been unable to eradicate for thousands of years. And now, with the possibility of a healer in their midst, that threat had just escalated exponentially.

The Artisan-Prime tapped her fingers on the armrest hard enough to shut everyone up. The only sound was the soft, rhythmic tapping, a sound that seemed to command the attention of everyone in the room.

“We know for certain the healer freed the bloodline of the Shadow Queen,” Sylva added, her voice a low, serious murmur, her gaze fixed on Lyra, trying to get a read on one of the most powerful leaders of the High Elves. “And the odds of the other two being related to them are high. My guess is the healer freed the other two as well, given the time frame.”

Lyra stopped tapping and leaned back in her throne, with what looked like an uninterested look, but her eyes gave away her frustration. ‘Of all the continents. And of all the bloodlines, why this one? And of all the lesser species, why did this one have to be in the middle of the highest concentration of abominations? And it had to be the continent that we had to get rid of our rebellious wood elf idiots. This is a nightmare…’ she thought.