The last child skipped out of the classroom, their giggles fading down the hallway. Eldrin, the elven teacher, slumped in his chair and rubbed his long, tapered ears—a nervous habit from childhood. The room glowed softly in the afternoon light, dust floating like gold specks around him. His desk was cluttered with scrolls, ink pots, and a half-eaten honeycake, its edges nibbled into a crescent by students' teeth.
The school, like everything the King in Red had designed, was both strange and practical. The wooden desks, small and orderly, stood in neat rows, their surfaces scarred with generations of carved initials. Ten years had passed since the Long Night ended, and though the King's odd rules still baffled the elders, the town thrived. Crops grew in tangled abundance. Children's laughter rang like wind chimes. And the sun—steady and unblinking—hung where the endless dark once loomed.
Eldrin blinked slowly, fatigue weighting his eyelids, and opened the heavy leather book on his desk: Chronicles of the Red King, written by his father, the 868th Lambengolmo. The pages smelled of old parchment, a material no longer used since the King invented paper—thin, pale sheets that curled at the edges. His father had been a scholar, a prankster , and now the Minister of Education, a role the King granted him after he'd organized the court's chaos into something resembling order.
He flipped to a page stained with tea rings. Today, he planned to transcribe his father's writings from the crude parchment scraps into this new, bound book. His father's handwriting sprawled across the margins, letters slanting drunkenly between doodles of frowning elves and winged pigs. Eldrin sighed and scratched his temple. His father had never been a careful scholar—but how could he blame him? His mother had died in childbirth, taken by the cold the day Eldrin was born, and the last Lore Master had perished before passing on his knowledge.
Most of their history lived only in fragments, passed down by elders whose memories frayed like old rope. Eldrin's life's work was to rebuild it, word by word, whisper by whisper.
His father had described the King as a reckless youth—immature, impatient, prone to shouting "Why the hell not?!" at sensible advice. But eight years ago, after a council meeting, the King had pressed his palm to the Guardian Tree he'd planted. From that day, he grew quieter. He still cursed like a sailor , but he listened more, his crimson eyes narrowing in thought rather than rage.
Maybe he's finally growing up, Eldrin thought, though he doubted the King would ever stop hurling fools into the northern sea for muttering "Neoth".
He turned to a page where the parchment had torn, its edges feathery.
The Son of Neoth (DO NOT CALL HIM THAT):
Our King despises his father. Say "Neoth" near him, and he'll teleport you into the freezing sea. I learned this when I tricked my brother into shouting it during a council. The King shot up, eyes blazing like red stars, veins crackling with lightning. I've fought ice spiders, but his rage? It slammed me to my knees. I stared at the floor until he stormed out. Then I fished my brother from the waves—half-frozen and cursing my name.
Eldrin traced the ink-blotted words, his finger smudging a line. The book—if you could call it that—was just parchment scraps stitched together with sinew and bound in leather from some scaly beast. He flipped to page 986, where his father's writing steadied into reluctant neatness.
I was there when the King was born.
He emerged from the red egg standing on a puddle of ice,his back ,his joints cracked , the ground melting beneath his feet. Naked, he took a deep breath ,he smirked and struck a pose he called "dramatic flair." The red mist around him dissolved, revealing… everything. He gestured rudely at his bare backside, demanding clothes. For weeks, he sat in a cave, watching us like we were his personal theater. His magic was flashy but simple—bursts of speed, punches that cracked stone. He named his moves absurdly:
"Shadow Finger": Stab a finger into an enemy's heart.
"Sparkle Fart": A blinding flash of light (do not ask).*
*After years beside him, I've learned:
Never mention Neoth.
Never ask what he and Neoth did together (unless you enjoy icy swims).*
Recorded quotes from the King:
"Shit!" (his favorite).
"Son of a watermelon!"
"Bastard!"
Translations of his ramblings:
"What the shit? Elves in Planetos? Neoth and his tutorial quests. 'Fight the Long Night?' Suicide! I'd rather grill monster meat and philosophize."
"What're you lookin' at, handsome bastard?" (to a mirror).
"A thousand years old? What the shit? Oh, so you're ancient." (to me).
"Meat, meat, meat. I want a Big Mac!"
Eldrin chuckled, the sound dry as autumn leaves, and glanced out the window. The Great Guardian Tree rustled in the wind, its bark shimmering faintly red. The King had planted it the day they'd arrived here, burying a blood-red pearl wich the guardian emerged from ,and watering it with his own blood—a ritual he still performed each winter solstice.
Hours slipped by. The sun set, painting the room in bruised purples, and Eldrin lit an oil lamp. He hunched over the desk, his quill scratching steadily as he transcribed his father's chaos into orderly lines. By dawn, his neck ached and his fingers were stained black, but the new book lay complete—crisp pages bound in leather, my father's madness made coherent.
He stood, stretching his stiff back, and blinked at the sunrise stinging his eyes. After capping the ink bottle and rinsing his quill, he walked to the school door, pausing to adjust a crooked desk with his hip.
Outside, the Guardian Tree's roots snaked across the path, glowing faintly. A farmer passed by, his boots crunching gravel. "Good morning, Teacher!"
Eldrin nodded, his smile thin but genuine. "Morning."
He followed the main road, its stones smooth and symmetrical, quarried from the Lonely Mountain far south. As he passed the tree, he paused. Its branches arched like the Mother Tree from ancestral tales—a giant whose roots once cradled their entire village. But that tree was gone, swallowed by the Long Night.
At the town square, a young human waved from a honeycake stall. "Morning, Garvin," Eldrin called, his stomach growling.
"Two honeycakes, Teacher?" Garvin grinned, flour dusting his apron like snow.
"Please." Eldrin reached into his robe for coins, but Garvin waved him off.
"Just tell me how the Pact Ceremony goes!"
Eldrin laughed, the sound warmer now. "I promise by the moon." He took the honeycakes, their warmth seeping into his palms, and bit into one. The sweetness clung to his teeth, familiar as childhood.
He walked on, licking sticky fingers. The King's inventions surrounded him—clay bowls replacing leaf plates, paper scrolls instead of bark—but the scent of moonflowers still clung to his people, a ghost of their ancestral land. The humans here smelled different: earth and iron, like turned soil after rain.
Near the town's northern edge, a young scribe approached. Silver hair braided neatly, he pressed a hand to his heart and bowed. "Mae govannen, Lambengolmo," he said in Elvish, voice reverent. "Your wisdom guides us as starlight in shadow."
Eldrin returned the gesture, fingertips brushing his heart before raising his palm outward—a scholar's blessing. "Mae govannen, pen-neth," he replied. "Your quill honors the past. May it write truths even the stars would whisper."
The scribe's cheeks flushed, and Eldrin hid a smile. So eager. So young.
Ahead, the King waited by a gnarled, dark-barked tree, his crimson cloak rippling like fresh blood against the dawn. His red eyes—cold and bright as the comet that once heralded his birth—locked onto Eldrin. A faint smile ghosted his lips, more a reflex of patience than warmth.
Eldrin halted a few paces away, his gaze lowering to the dirt path. Among elves, only the Lambengolmo and high lords were permitted to meet the King's eyes—a privilege the humans here took for granted, their blunt stares unburdened by millennia of tradition. Yet even now, Eldrin felt the weight of that crimson gaze: a paradox of peace and violence, like a still lake hiding drowned blades.
He straightened his robes, the honeycake's sweetness still clinging to his tongue, and stepped forward. Stopping three strides from the King, he pressed his right hand to his heart and bowed deeply, his silver hair sweeping the ground—a gesture unchanged since their ancestors knelt beneath the Mother Tree.
The King's sigh echoed in Eldrin's mind, smooth and metallic, like a sword drawn from velvet. "Mae govannen, Lambengolmo." The words bloomed without sound, the King's lips unmoving. "Next time, gather the council before greeting me. Nine bows this morning—nine. Must I endure this pantomime every time we meet outsiders?"
Eldrin kept his head lowered, hiding a smile. The King detested ceremony, yet upheld it fiercely, as if defying Neoth's shadow required clinging to every thread of their past.
"Your dedication honors us, hîr nín," Eldrin replied silently, the mental speech their kind shared flickering like candlelight between them.
The King's cloak rustled as he pushed off the tree. "Honor. A pretty word for tedium." His mental voice softened, grudgingly fond. "Rise. Your scribes await, and I've no desire to hear another speech to my 'eternal wisdom.'"
Eldrin straightened, daring a glance. The King's eyes had dimmed to smoldering embers, his annoyance tempered by the faintest quirk of his brow—a silent joke between them.
Eldrin rose to his feet and turned toward the scribe who had greeted him at the town's entrance,and gently shook his head .
The young elf's silver eyes dimmed respectfully as he stepped backward, his hand drifting instinctively to his heart in a gesture of humilty. Eldrin smiled faintly, watching the scribe retreat to join the cluster of other scribes nearby, their heads bowed like saplings in a shared breeze.