As it turned out, we were not the only ones who had arrived late to the formal dinner. There was a conspicuously empty chair positioned next to the well-mannered young Sagar, and I didn't think much of its vacancy at first, dismissing it as perhaps a servant's seat or simply an extra chair. That is, until the chair's mysterious owner finally showed up, and everything changed.
He was an Elf—a genuine, living Elf standing before me in flesh and blood.
I had never seen one in person before this moment, never encountered one of these legendary beings during my entire life in the North. But I had read extensively about them in one particular treasured book from my childhood named *The Continent's Oldest Races*, a thick tome that had occupied countless hours of my youth. Within that ancient book were detailed elves' illustrations—drawings that depicted their characteristic pointed ears and their magnificent, almost supernatural looks that were described as so breathtakingly beautiful you physically couldn't tear your eyes away from them once you glimpsed their faces. According to the historical text, most of the elf tribes had tragically gone extinct after the cataclysmic Age of Dragons ended so abruptly. The book had stated matter-of-factly that when the last dragon finally died and drew its final breath, the ambient magic saturating the world became increasingly scarce, dwindling to almost nothing. The elves, whose ancient tribes relied fundamentally and intrinsically on that magic for their very survival, naturally went extinct gradually over the subsequent years as the magic faded. There were supposedly a few tribes still remaining in remote corners of the world, hidden away, but actually seeing one in person was considered so extraordinarily rare that you would probably die of old age before ever encountering one face-to-face.
So, I was genuinely, profoundly surprised to see one standing before me now. Even Katherine, normally so composed, was visibly stunned into silence. "Is that actually an elf?" she whispered urgently to me, her voice barely audible, her eyes wide with disbelief.
The mentioned elf walked in confidently from the opposite side of the dining hall, entering through the far door with an otherworldly grace. He was clad surprisingly in only a thin layer of cotton clothing despite the brutal, bone-chilling cold that permeated the castle. His skin was remarkably pale—almost iridescent, seeming to glow faintly with its own internal light, like polished pearl or moonstone. His hair was pure silver, not the gray of age but a brilliant metallic silver that caught the candlelight. His golden eyes were breathtakingly, almost painfully beautiful—the color of molten gold or late afternoon sunlight. He strode with absolute confidence and preternatural grace, moving as if he floated slightly above the ground. As soon as he drew closer to the table, both sons of the Duke and Arvid immediately rose respectfully to their feet in unison.
"Teacher," they greeted him in perfect synchronization, their voices carrying profound respect.
I was caught completely off guard by this revelation. This ethereal being was the teacher that Arvid had talked about reverently all the way here during our journey? I would have never in a thousand years guessed that his teacher was an actual elf, one of the legendary oldest race. It seemed he taught the Duke's sons as well as Arvid. The implications staggered me—imagine learning directly from an elf who had lived over thousands of years, who had witnessed empires rise and fall, who had seen the Age of Dragons firsthand. The thought made me feel a sharp pang of jealousy I tried to suppress.
He waved his elegant hand dismissively at their show of respect, and gracefully took his designated seat next to the very eager young Sagar, who looked thrilled to be sitting beside him.
Arvid turned toward my side, his face animated. "Rhia, this is my teacher—the one I've been wanting to introduce you to," he said, smiling warmly with obvious pride. I dragged my gaze toward the elf, studying him carefully, and he too looked at me with sharp, penetrating attention that felt almost invasive.
"It's a pleasure to meet you. I am Arandial," he said in a voice like music, then added with unsettling familiarity, "It's nice to see you again, Furnaiona."
I went completely silent, frozen. I could suddenly hear my own heart beating frantically in my chest, the sound impossibly loud in my ears. And I could hear—gods help me, I could actually *hear*—the arrogant, triumphant laugh of the Dragon within me, that ancient presence cackling with dark amusement, the sound freezing me to my very core. This had never happened before, not like this. "Nice to meet you again, Arandial," I heard her arrogant, deep, husky feminine voice echo clearly in my head as if she were speaking aloud. I was shocked to my very core, unable to even move a muscle. For the first time in my entire life, I felt viscerally what it felt like to have my body nearly taken over completely, to lose control. It was Arvid's concerned voice that finally woke me up from my inner turmoil, pulling me back from the abyss.
"Oh, her name is Rhiaenne, actually. She's the Queen of Draga," he replied gently, correcting his teacher's strange mistake.
I let out a shaky, barely controlled breath. Then I deliberately clenched my fists tightly under the table where no one could see, using the pain to ground myself. I forced myself to open my eyes fully and looked at him directly, meeting his golden gaze without flinching, not letting anyone at this table discover how violently I was shaking inside.
"I am Rhiaenne Sarenna Draga, the Queen of Draga," I told him clearly, enunciating each syllable, accompanying the words with a smile that didn't reach my eyes.
He was visibly taken aback by my emphatic assertion, looking momentarily startled. He looked like he desperately wanted to refute my claim to my own identity, to insist I was someone—something—else entirely. His piercing golden eyes seemed to look straight through me, seeing me for the monster, the dragon vessel that I truly was beneath the human flesh. I could see the exact moment he consciously decided to feign ignorance, to pretend he didn't know what I was.
"Oh, well, my sincere apologies—I was reminded of an old friend from long ago," he said smoothly, recovering his composure. "Well, perhaps my old age is finally getting to me—after all, I am one thousand and fifty-seven years old now." He delivered this with dry humor, trying to diffuse the tension.
"I believe I've seen you before, actually. You were with Arvid when I rescued him from those caves all those years ago, weren't you?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. "You were just a small child then."
"I'm deeply sorry about your brother and your sister-in-law," he added with disturbing casualness. "I arrived too late to save them. If I had been faster, perhaps they would still live."
He spoke about their deaths so casually, too casually, as if discussing the weather or describing pleasant scenery rather than the violent deaths of people I had loved. It pricked painfully at my heart, like a knife sliding between my ribs. And in that moment, I decided with absolute certainty that I didn't really like him at all, would probably never like him. He talked about death without even an ounce of appropriate regard for it, without acknowledging its weight. Perhaps it made sense for him—after living over a millennium, he had undoubtedly witnessed more deaths than any average person could possibly imagine, become desensitized to loss. Yet despite understanding this intellectually, it still felt oppressive and wrong, dismissive of the people I had lost.
Arvid immediately noticed my expression change drastically. He saw the way I clenched my fists even tighter under the table and how my eyes became noticeably sharper, throwing invisible daggers at his teacher.
"Please excuse my teacher," Arvid said quickly, attempting to smooth things over. "He's been through more than any of us can comprehend. He doesn't see life and death the way we mortals see it. Time moves differently for his kind."
Of course Arvid had a valid point, a reasonable explanation. Yet I somewhat childishly, stubbornly decided not to forgive Arandial anyway, holding onto my resentment.
I could now clearly see and understand how he had single-handedly defeated and killed all those assassins who had murdered my family. He was an elf, after all. Elves possessed inherently stronger bodies and possessed almost supernatural agility to match. Those superhuman physical capabilities must have played a decisive role in the rescue operation. He was supremely capable, devastatingly efficient.
I didn't say anything further, didn't voice my displeasure or let my barely contained rage show outwardly either. I masked it all with practiced, hard-won ease and let out only a small, neutral "I see" directed at him. Arvid clearly respected him deeply, revered him even.
So, even though I personally didn't like him and probably never would, I would simply have to act politely indifferent in his presence. No big deal, right? I could manage that.
But that proved to be considerably harder than I had initially thought it would be. When I observed the way Arvid's eyes positively shone when he talked animatedly with Arandial, and witnessed the way the elf effortlessly became the magnetic focus of the entire table with everyone hanging on his words, it pricked at something raw inside me far more painfully than I thought it would. And the ethereal, supernatural beauty of him—that flawless, ageless face—made me feel embarrassingly inferior in comparison, inadequate and plain. Although I tried desperately to tell myself that I wasn't affected by his presence, that it didn't matter, the feeling persisted. The children and the adults all talked with him eagerly, laughing at his stories, and I gradually lost my appetite entirely, my stomach turning.
Katherine was the first to notice my subtle change in demeanor, my withdrawal. She smoothly excused both of us from the table and physically took me out of the increasingly suffocating dining room, away from that overwhelming presence.
"His presence is genuinely kind of insane," she said once we were safely away in the corridor, her voice low. "It's like people are getting actively charmed by him or something, like he's casting some spell. Are you alright? You barely ate anything during dinner."
"You didn't get charmed yourself?" I asked her weakly, feeling absolutely drained of something vital, as if my life force had been siphoned away.
"At first, yes, absolutely," she admitted, her voice filled with shame at the confession. "I genuinely could not take my eyes off him. It was like being under an enchantment."
"But then I saw you visibly struggling, saw the distress on your face, and it all vanished instantly—the spell broke," Katherine explained. Then with deep concern written all over her face, she reached out to steady me as I swayed.
"But are you okay? You look absolutely terrible, like you've lost your life essence or something vital," she added with alarm.
I shook my head slowly, indicating honestly that I didn't know what had happened to me, what was wrong. "I feel really, extremely tired," I added as an oncoming severe headache settled painfully in my temples, pounding. Which was deeply weird and concerning. What the hell was happening to me?