#elf!reader

​    "Excellent job." You heard Santa praise nearby. His warm voice stood out against the everyday elf.     It was almost time. Wheels were tested, bear bows were complimented, and tinsel was to be inspected. But then, you heard him. The Head Elf. ​    "Ready, Santa?" Asked of Bernard, only a stone throws away. ​    "Oh yeah," Santa clapped his hands together. "It's tinsel time." ​    Your name danced out of the elf's mouth. It was so smooth and bright that it stilled you. "They're such a hard working elf. It really shows."

​    At his words, your heart rang like a chorus of silver bells. Your mood soared high, but your foot veared to the side. A stray strand of tinsel. You never saw it lying there on the floor, and you definitely were not going to see it any time soon. The slip was fast, entirely unexpected. You soon found yourself toppled over into a barrel full of the decoration. ​    A collective gasp reached your finely tipped ears. "ELF DOWN!" ​    Reflexively, you kicked your feet. A meager attempt to free yourself somehow. It was difficult to say the least. That barrel was absolutely packed with tinsel. It would be a Christmas miracle to not find a single strand of it somehow still on you in the new year. ​    Through your sigh of defeat, you stilled and let your legs hang, suspended in the air. "Well…jingles…"

​    "Nobody panic!" Santa called over, his voice getting closer. "We've had worse!" ​    "What's the plan, Santa?" A fellow tinsel elf asked, a small thud hitting the side of the barrel. ​    "Alright, here's what we're going to do," Santa began. "You guys hold the barrel down." ​    "Check." ​    "Great. Now, uh… Bernard, can you reach in there and get ahold of their hands?" ​    "I'll do my best," the head elf said with some obvious uncertainty. ​     Wanting nothing more than to be two feet on the ground again, you reached up, your hands springing free of the tinsel. ​    "Whoa! Thanks for the jumpscare. Straight out of a horror movie." Santa gasped, staring into the barrel. "Go ahead, Bernard."

​    A pair of hands touched you. Each wrapped warmly around your wrists, and you mirrored the action, securing the hold. ​    "Alright…now, on the count of three," Santa instructed, grabbing your legs. "One……two……NOW!" ​    One firm yank, and you felt your world rotate back to normal, hands releasing their hold on you. You saw none of it, of course. The tinsel you had fallen into clung on like Velcro. ​    "Wow…you look like a festive Cousin It," Santa remarked in awe. ​    "Thank you, Santa."

    A shake of your arms and the weight of the tinsel began to lessen. There certainly was enough to spare for the whole winter season.     "There you are," Bernard smiled brightly, his fingers pulling aside the metallic decor in search of your face.     A smile of your own pulled at your lips at the sight of him. His closeness was surprising, but not unwelcomed. "I guess I can't hide in here forever," you shrugged, more tinsel falling off of you.     "Yeah, but, the tinsel really brings out the color of your eyes," Bernard said earnestly.     Your heart bloomed at the declaration. "Really?" Hopefulness sparkling in your eyes.     "Of course," he said as if any notion otherwise would be ridiculous. Then, his head tilted cutely as he inclined closer to you. "Would I lie to you?"     There was no hesitation in shaking your head in response to his question. Never had he lied to you. There was no reason to. And honestly, you did not think him even remotely capable of such a thing.

    Santa smiled, rubbing his hands together. "As far as tinsel inspection goes…it looks good to me. It certainly glimmers and hangs well. Good job, team!" ​    The other elves in the department cheered happily. Sometimes they tended to tease Santa in showing off the tinsel. However, it looked as though he would not have to worry about having baskets of the decoration dumped overtop his head that year. You had indirectly completed some field testing.

​    Bernard lingered as Santa turned to head to the next station. Carefully, he plucked a few strands off of your head as you brushed off the rest. ​    "Hey," he spoke softly, your eyes meeting his. "Maybe you'd like to join me for some hot cocoa later?" ​    Your eyes widened. Had you heard correctly? "I…" ​    "Bernard!" Santa called. ​    Hurriedly, before your chance could be lost forever, you nodded. "Yes," you smiled. "I'd love to." ​    "Great," he grinned bigger than you had ever witnessed before. "I'll see you later." Stumbling backward with a sheepish grin and a laugh to match, he scurried off to rejoin Santa.

~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~

Thank you for reading!

​You reached, and you found... nothing.

​It was as if a door had been slammed and bolted in the dark. The silence inside your own mind was deafening. Your eyes flew open, darting wildly around the room until they landed on your wrists.

​The dull, heavy lead of the bracelets seemed to swallow the dim light of the cabin. They weren't just metal; they were anti-magic. You let out a strangled, broken sound and began to claw at them. You dug your fingernails into the edges of the cold metal, prying until your skin went raw, but the bands didn't budge a millimeter. You could feel the hum of the ancient enchantments vibrating against your bone—a cruel, grounding magic that acted as a vacuum for your own.

​The realization hit you with the force of a physical blow: these were forged with Binding Spells. They were tethered to the soul of the one who had locked them. Unless Oscar released them, you were effectively severed from the stars themselves.

​"Hey, hey! Stop that. You're going to hurt yourself."

​Lando was on his feet in an instant, moving toward the bed. He was wearing a dark shirt now, though it was haphazardly buttoned, and his expression was pained. He reached out to catch your hands, but he was careful not to squeeze.

​"Get them off," you rasped, your voice sounding like dry leaves. You didn't recognize the desperate, begging tone in your own throat. "Please. It’s... it’s dark. I can't see the light. Get them off me!"

​"I can't, starlight. I really can't," Lando said, his amber eyes swirling with genuine guilt. He knelt by the side of the bed so he wasn't looming over you, trying to make himself look as small as a man of his size could. "Oscar put them on. Only he can crack the seal. He didn't do it to hurt you—he did it because you are to weak to use your magic without harming yourself."

​You yanked your hands away from him, tucking them against your chest as you curled into a ball, shaking. To an Elf, being cut off from magic wasn't just losing a weapon; it was like losing one of your five senses. The world felt flat, cold, and dangerously silent.

​"You’ve made me a slave," you whispered into the silk pillows, the weight of the lead bracelets feeling like mountain stone on your thin wrists.

​"We made you a survivor," a cool, steady voice interrupted from the doorway.

​Oscar stood there, his presence as imposing as a shadow. He held a small silver tray with a steaming bowl of broth and a cup of water. He didn't look apologetic; he looked resolute. He walked into the room, his movements silent, and set the tray on the nightstand.

​"The bracelets stay until your pulse is steady and your wound is closed," Oscar stated, his crimson-tinged gaze dropping to your frantic, wide eyes. "You can hate me for it all you like, but you will do it while you are breathing."

​He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress barely dipping under his weight, and picked up the cup. "Drink. Or I'll have Lando hold you down while I pour it down your throat. Choice is yours."

"You wouldn't dare," you barked, the defiance in your voice cracking like a whip. Despite the hollow ache in your chest and the leaden weight on your wrists, you didn't flinch. You stared straight into those dark, predatory eyes, your elven pride flare-up like the last embers of a dying fire.

​Oscar didn't growl. He didn't snap. He simply paused, the silver cup held halfway between the tray and your lips. Slow as a winter shadow, he lifted a single, perfectly groomed eyebrow.

​The silence that followed was suffocating. It wasn't the silence of an empty room, but the silence of a predator deciding exactly how much effort it would take to break its prey. His gaze remained cool, clinical, and utterly unimpressed by your outburst.

​"Wouldn't I?" he asked, his voice a low, melodic thrum. "I have lived for three centuries, little elf. I have stared down inquisitors, broken sieges, and outlasted empires. Do you truly believe a sharp tongue and a glare are enough to stay my hand?"

​He leaned in just an inch closer, the faint scent of old parchment and cold night air clinging to his clothes.

​"I have already stripped you of your magic and brought you into my home against your will," he reminded you, his tone devoid of cruelty but heavy with a terrifying pragmatism. "Do not mistake my hospitality for hesitation. I have no desire to be your enemy, but I have even less desire to watch you starve out of spite."

​"Osc, maybe give her a minute," Lando muttered from the corner, shifting uncomfortably. The werewolf’s protective instincts were clearly warring—his loyalty to Oscar clashing with the visible distress on your face.

​Oscar didn't look away from you. "She has had a minute. She has had several hours."

​He held the cup out again, the steam rising between you. "The broth, or the wolf. It’s a very simple equation. Your pride isn't going to heal your wound, but this will."

​You looked at the cup, then back at his unyielding expression. You could feel Lando’s anxious energy behind you, like a heat lamp in the room, while Oscar sat before you like a wall of ice. You were trapped between a force of nature and a force of will.

"No!" you snarled, the sound raw and guttural, a desperate animalistic defiance echoing through the small room. You flashed your teeth at him—a sharp, white warning that might have intimidated a human, but to a vampire, it was merely a spark of dying spirit.

​Oscar’s expression didn't flicker, but the air in the room suddenly grew heavy. "Lando," he said, not even needing to look over his shoulder.

​The mattress groaned as Lando moved. He didn't hesitate this time; his shadow loomed over you, broad and inescapable. He reached out, his large hands moving toward your shoulders with the intent to pin you firmly against the pillows.

The heat radiating from him was stifling, a reminder of the raw, physical power he held over your weakened frame.

​The sight of the werewolf closing in was the final blow to your resolve. Your shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of you as quickly as your magic had.

​"Okay! Okay," you gasped, your voice trembling. You shrank back into the headboard, your hands coming up in a frantic, defensive gesture. "I'll do it. Just... stay back."

​Lando stopped instantly, hovering just inches away. He looked down at you, his amber eyes filled with a flash of apology before he retreated just enough to give you air. He didn't go back to his chair, though; he stayed close, a silent enforcer waiting for Oscar’s next move.

​Oscar didn't gloat. He simply watched you, his gaze unreadable, as he held the silver cup out once more.

​With your hands shaking so violently that the lead bracelets clinked with a heavy, rhythmic chink-chink, you reached out and took the cup. The metal was warm, and the scent of the broth was rich and savory—infuriatingly tempting to your starving body.

You took a small, hesitant sip under Oscar’s watchful eye. The warmth spread through your chest, a cruel contrast to the cold void where your magic used to be.

​"Good," Oscar murmured, leaning back slightly, though he didn't leave the edge of the bed. "See? Not so difficult. If you cooperate, the bracelets will be off sooner. If you continue to fight us..." He let the threat hang in the air, his eyes tracking the way you swallowed.

​Lando let out a long, relieved sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "See, starlight? Not poison. Just Oscar’s 'special recipe' for people who don't know when to quit." He tried to offer a small, lopsided smile, but his eyes remained wary, settled on your pale, haunted face.

You forced yourself to swallow the broth slowly, despite your body’s urge to bolt it down. It was rich, seasoned with wild thyme and a hint of salt that made your parched throat ache with relief. It was easily the best thing you’d tasted in months, but you kept your expression flat, your gaze darting between the vampire’s frozen elegance and the werewolf’s restless warmth.

​You lowered the cup slightly, the lead cuffs feeling like anchors on your thin wrists.

​"So," you began, your voice still a bit raspy but regaining some of its elven clarity. "Will you at least tell me your names? Or am I to refer to you as 'The Statue' and 'The Beast' for the duration of my captivity?"

​Lando let out a sudden, bark-like laugh, the tension in his shoulders finally snapping. He looked at Oscar with an amused glint in his amber eyes. "The Beast? I like that. It’s got a bit of flair, doesn't it?"

​Oscar didn't laugh. He didn't even crack a smile, though the corner of his mouth gave a microscopic twitch. He adjusted the cuff of his shirt, looking every bit the aristocrat he was.

​"I am Oscar," he said, his voice smooth and measured. "And the 'Beast' currently eyeing the rest of your soup is Lando."

​"Hey! I wasn't eyeing it," Lando protested, though he did take a half-step closer to the bed, looking much more like a golden retriever than a predatory wolf. He leaned against the bedpost, crossing his arms. "I'm the one who carried you half the way here, by the way. Oscar did the fast part, but I did the heavy lifting."

​"You did the complaining," Oscar corrected drily. He turned his attention back to you, his dark eyes searching yours with a piercing intensity. "Now that we’ve moved past the introductions, perhaps you can tell us yours? It’s a rare thing to find a High Elf wandering a human market with a gut wound."

​You tightened your grip on the cup, the metal cool against your palms. You knew the weight of a name—how it could be used as a tether or a curse. But looking at the two of them—the vampire who had saved your life while his nature screamed to end it, and the werewolf who looked at you with more pity than hunger—you felt a strange, flickering moment of safety.

​"I’m y/n" you whispered.

​"Well, y/n," Lando said, his voice soft and surprisingly kind. "Welcome to the safest place you’ve been in a long time. Even if it feels like a cage right now."

​Oscar stood up then, the movement so fluid it was almost unsettling. "Finish the broth. Then you sleep. We’ll discuss the terms of your... stay... in the morning."

The clink of the lead bracelets echoed like a funeral knell in the quiet room. As the warmth of the broth hit your stomach, the reality of your situation felt even more suffocating. You dropped the silver cup onto the tray, the liquid sloshing over the side, and reached out toward Oscar’s retreating form.

​"Please," you whispered, your voice cracking, stripped of all its former steel. "Take them off. I can’t... I can't breathe like this."

You stretched your arms toward him, the heavy metal cuffs sliding down your forearms. It was a plea for mercy, a raw display of vulnerability that felt like baring your throat to a blade.

​You saw it then—the way Oscar’s back muscles pulled taut beneath the fine fabric of his coat. He froze, his hand hovering over the doorframe. For a second, the air in the cabin seemed to thin, the silence heavy with the internal war he was clearly fighting. You could almost feel the pull of your blood on his senses, competing with the desperate, hollow ache of your magic.

​"No," he said.

​The word was short, firm, and final. He didn't turn around to look at you. He knew if he saw the look in your eyes, his resolve might fracture, and he couldn't afford to be weak when your life was the stake.

​Lando stood by the bed for a moment longer. He looked at your trembling hands and the raw skin beneath the lead. His amber eyes were swimming with an apologetic warmth, his lips thinning into a line of shared pain. He reached out as if to pat your hand, but hesitated, drawing back instead.

​"Just sleep," Lando murmured softly. "The night goes faster if you aren't awake to count the hours."

​With a final, lingering look of guilt, Lando followed Oscar out. The heavy oak door groaned on its hinges and clicked shut, followed by the unmistakable sound of a heavy bolt sliding into place.

​You were left alone in the soft glow of the hearthfire. You pulled your arms back to your chest, the lead feeling colder than ever. Outside the window, the wind began to howl through the trees, but inside the cabin, the only sound was the frantic, uneven rhythm of your own heart and the mocking silence where your magic used to sing.

The silence of the room wasn't peaceful; it was violent.

​Without the soft, humming background radiation of your magic to buffer the world, your elven biology was overcompensating.

Every floorboard groan sounded like a crack of thunder, and the flickering of the hearthfire was a rhythmic roar. Your ears—exposed and sensitive—twitched at the friction of the silk sheets against your skin. It was overstimulating, a sensory flood that made your head throb.

Desperate to find a focal point, you sat up, leaning toward the heavy oak door. If you could just hear their voices, maybe you could figure out their plan. Maybe you could find a weakness.

​You strained your hearing, tilting your head and focusing every ounce of your sharpened senses on the gap beneath the door.

​Nothing.

​At first, you thought they had simply left the cabin, but then you saw it. Faint, shimmering lines carved into the wood of the doorframe—Silencing Runes. They were etched with a precision that only a vampire of Oscar's age could master. The runes created a vacuum of noise, ensuring that whatever was discussed in the hallway or the parlor stayed between them.

​You slumped back against the headboard, the lead bracelets clashing together with a heavy thud that made you wince.

​The realization was a bitter pill: Oscar hadn't just taken your magic; he had perfectly neutralized your every advantage. He knew exactly what an elf was capable of, even a broken one. You were trapped in a room, left with nothing but the loud, frantic thumping of your own heart and the scent of the healing herbs that mocked your helplessness.

​Outside, the moon was rising, and you knew that for a werewolf and a vampire, the night was just beginning. For you, it felt like an eternity in a lightless room.

The air in the room felt thick, a stagnant pool of silence that pressed against your eardrums. You stared at the flickering runes on the doorframe, their faint blue luminescence mocking you. If they blocked sound from coming in, did they block it from going out? You tested it, letting out a small, sharp intake of breath, then a soft hum.

The sound felt swallowed by the room, flat and lifeless, as if the very air refused to carry your voice out.

​If they couldn't hear you, perhaps they couldn't hear the latch of a window, either.

​Shifting your weight, you slid out of the bed. The movement was a slow, agonizing process; without your magic to dull the physical toll, the wound in your side felt like a hot brand pressed against your skin.

You clutched the oversized linen shirt to your body, the heavy lead bracelets swinging like pendulums, bruising your wrists with every step.

The wooden floor was ice-cold beneath your bare feet, each grain of wood feeling abnormally sharp against your heightened senses.

​You reached the window, your fingers trembling as they hovered near the iron latch. You didn't open it yet. Instead, you pressed your forehead against the glass, peering out into the moonlit wilderness.

​Your heart sank.

​The cabin wasn't nestled in a gentle clearing; it was perched on a jagged rise of stone. You weren't on the ground floor. Looking down, the earth felt dizzyingly far away—at least twenty feet of sheer timber walls and sharp, protruding rock below. On the second floor, you were effectively treed. Even at your peak, a jump from this height would be a gamble; in your current state, with your magic bound and your body broken, it would be suicide.

​The moonlight caught the silver of the forest beyond, the trees swaying in a wind you couldn't hear. It looked like freedom, yet it was entirely out of reach.

​A shadow moved near the edge of the tree line. Your ears flicked, catching the distant, rhythmic thump-thump of something heavy hitting the earth. It was Lando. Even from this height, you could see the massive golden-brown wolf pacing the perimeter of the cabin. He wasn't just out for a run; he was patrolling. Every few paces, he would stop, his snout lifting to the wind, scenting for threats—or perhaps, scenting for you.

​You realized then that the cabin wasn't just a hideout; it was a fortress designed by two of the world's most efficient predators.

You leaned your head against the cool pane of the window, a single tear tracing a path through the dust on your cheek. The lead on your wrists felt heavier than the stone foundation of the house. You weren't a guest, and you weren't just a survivor. You were a captive of the very thing you had spent your entire life running from: the gaze of those who knew exactly how much your life was worth.

The soft luxury of the bed was an insult you couldn't stomach. To an elf, vulnerability was the precursor to the cage, and you had spent too many years avoiding both to simply lie down and wait for morning.

​Moving with the silent, ghost-like caution of your people, you began to scavenge the room. You kept one eye on the bolted door and the other on the window where the golden wolf patrolled below. Your daggers—your beautiful, twin-leaf blades forged in the forest—were nowhere to be found. Oscar was too thorough to leave such masterwork steel within your reach.

​But even the most meticulous vampire can overlook the mundane.

​Near the hearth, tucked into a small wooden box meant for paring fruit or cutting wick, you found it: a small, utilitarian knife. It lacked the balance of your daggers and the edge was slightly dull, but as your fingers closed around the handle, a tiny spark of heat returned to your chest. It wasn't magic, but it was a tool. It was a choice.

​The lead bracelets clinked as you tucked the small blade into the waistband of your borrowed trousers.

​You didn't go back to the bed. Instead, you dragged a heavy, high-backed wooden chair toward the corner of the room furthest from the door but nearest to the window. It offered you a clear view of the entrance while keeping your back to the solid timber wall.

​You slid down onto the floor, pulling your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. The heavy cuffs weighed down your limbs, a constant, numbing reminder of your powerlessness, but you gripped the small knife hidden in your lap with white-knuckled intensity.

The fire in the hearth eventually died down to glowing embers, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floor. Every pop of the cooling wood made your ears twitch; every shift of the wind against the cabin's exterior felt like a footstep.

​You sat in the dark, a small, broken star in a cage of wood and lead. You wouldn't sleep. You wouldn't be caught off guard again. If Oscar or Lando came through that door, they wouldn't find a grateful patient—they would find what was left of a warrior, waiting in the shadows with a sliver of steel and a heart full of defiance.

The voices filtered into your consciousness like smoke, pulling you out of a dreamless, heavy stupor. Your neck was stiff, and your legs had gone numb from being tucked against the cold floor.

​"That looks uncomfortable," a warm, familiar voice murmured. It carried that low, vibrating hum you now recognized as Lando’s.

​"Not as uncomfortable as some of the positions I have put you in," a second voice responded. It was Oscar—cool, dry, and laced with a hint of dark playfulness that made your skin prickle.

​"Oscar!" Lando’s reprimand was followed by a muffled, fleshy thud—the sound of a playful shove or a hand hitting a shoulder—and a burst of quiet, genuine laughter.

The sound of their easy, intimate banter felt jarring in the high-stakes silence of your terror. You blinked, your vision blurry. You must have fallen asleep, you thought groggily, a wave of self-loathing hitting you. You had meant to stay awake, to be a sentry, but your battered body had betrayed your will.

​As your eyes adjusted, you realized the door was open. The silencing runes were dark, the spell deactivated for the morning.

​The two men were standing just inside the threshold. Lando was leaning against the doorframe, now fully dressed in a soft, cream-colored shirt that was rolled up at the sleeves, his curls a mess. Oscar stood a few paces ahead of him, looking as though he had stepped out of a portrait—not a hair out of place, his pale skin luminous in the morning light.

​Their eyes landed on you at the same time. They saw everything: the way you were huddled in the corner, the chair moved to form a pathetic barricade, and the white-knuckled grip you had on the small fruit knife hidden in your lap.

​The laughter died out instantly.

​"Morning, starlight," Lando said, his voice dropping to a cautious, gentle register. He didn't move toward you, sensing the sheer tension in your frame. "You're a stubborn one, aren't you? That floor is stone-cold."

​Oscar’s gaze dropped to the small knife peeking out from your fingers. He didn't look angry; he looked almost disappointed, his brow furrowing in a way that felt more like a lecture than a threat.

​"A paring knife?" Oscar asked, his voice smooth as silk. "I expected better of a High Elf. If you intend to kill me with that, you’ll find my skin is significantly tougher than an apple’s."

​He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his shadow stretching across the floorboards toward your feet. "Put the toy away before you accidentally nick yourself. We have things to discuss, and I prefer my guests to be conscious for the negotiations."

"Stay there," you snapped, your voice cracking with the effort to remain steady. You thrust the paring knife forward, the small blade trembling in the morning light. The lead bracelets felt twice as heavy now, dragging at your wrists as you tried to maintain your guard.

​Oscar didn't stop. He didn't even flinch. He simply watched the tip of the blade with the detached curiosity of a scholar looking at a dull insect. Then, something in his eyes shifted. The dark, wine-colored irises seemed to expand, bleeding into the whites until his gaze became an abyss of ancient, hypnotic power.

​"I told you," he said, his voice dropping into a low, resonant frequency that bypassed your ears and vibrated directly into your skull, "to put it away."

​The effect was instantaneous and terrifying.

​A wave of strange, cold numbness washed over your arm. It felt as though your nerves were no longer your own, but wires being tugged by a master puppeteer. Your fingers, which had been white-knuckled with defiance just a second ago, began to uncurl. You fought it—your mind screamed for you to hold on, to stay armed, to stay dangerous—but your body didn't care.

The knife slipped from your palm, clattering loudly against the wooden floor.

​"That's better," Oscar murmured. The heavy, pressurized weight of his gaze lifted, leaving you feeling light-headed and violated.

​"Oscar, easy," Lando muttered from the doorway, his playful mood gone. He took a step into the room, his eyes darting between your trembling form and Oscar’s cold profile. "She’s already terrified. You don’t need to use your powers on her."

​"I do if she insists on being a danger to herself," Oscar replied, not taking his eyes off you. He reached down and picked up the small knife, flicking the blade shut with a sharp click before tucking it into his waistcoat pocket.

​You sat there, slumped against the wall, your hands resting uselessly on your knees. The lead bracelets hummed against your skin, and for the first time, you realized that even without your magic, you were never going to be on equal footing with him. He didn't need your blood to control you; he just needed you to listen.

​"Now," Oscar said, standing tall and looking down at you. "you are going to move to the table like a civilized being"

The sensation was sickening. It wasn't that your mind had changed, but that your muscles had simply ceased to recognize your own authority. Before a single conscious thought could reach your feet, your legs straightened, lifting you from your huddled position in the corner with a mechanical, fluid grace that felt entirely foreign.

​You watched your own feet move across the floorboards—left, right, left—feeling like a ghost haunting your own skin. The lead bracelets clinked with each step, a heavy metallic rhythm that marked your march toward the table.

​Oscar stood by the chair, his hand resting on the carved wooden back, watching you with an expression of cool, clinical satisfaction. He pulled the chair out just as your body arrived, and your knees bent, lowering you into the seat with a precision that made your stomach churn.

​Once you were seated, the invisible strings snapped.

​The weight of your own body crashed back onto your consciousness. You gasped, your hands flying to the edge of the table to steady yourself, the cold wood a grounding shock against your palms. You looked up at Oscar, your chest heaving, eyes wide with a mixture of fury and genuine horror.

​"Don't... don't ever do that again," you whispered, your voice shaking with the violation of it.

​Oscar didn't flinch. He sat opposite you, his movements slow and deliberate, while Lando lingered behind him, looking deeply uncomfortable. The werewolf shifted his weight, his amber eyes darting to the floor.

​"It’s called 'The Command,' starlight," Lando said softly, his voice full of a pity that felt like salt in a wound. "It’s a vampire thing. It’s... not meant to be cruel, usually. Just efficient."

​"Efficiency is small comfort when your own body betray you," you spat, clutching your wrists. The lead cuffs felt even more restrictive now, as if they were part of the same tether Oscar used to move you like a doll.

​Oscar leaned forward, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers. The morning sun hit the sharp line of his features, highlighting the predatory stillness that defined him.

​"I have no interest in making you a puppet," Oscar said, his voice returning to its natural, velvet smoothness. "But I will not have you lunging at me with kitchen utensils while your side is still held together by hope. Now that you are sitting, and presumably listening, we can discuss why a High Elf is being hunted through a commoner's market by men carrying silver-edged blades."

He paused, his dark eyes locking onto yours. "Because those men didn't want your life, little elf. They had cages in their wagons. They wanted your vessel."

The moment you closed your eyes, the darkness behind your eyelids wasn't empty. It was filled with the smell of wet iron, the sound of heavy wheels creaking over mud, and the sight of those specialized, glass-lined jars the hunters carried—vessels designed to keep Elven blood from losing its potency.

​"I don't know," you whispered, the lie tasting like ash on your tongue.

​You knew exactly what they wanted. To them, you were an investment. A High Elf could be drained slowly for decades, or, if they were particularly ambitious, used to produce more of your kind—a self-replenishing source that would make them the richest men in the kingdom.

​"Don’t lie."

​Oscar’s voice didn't rise, but it grew cold, vibrating with a frequency that made the lead bracelets on your wrists hum. His gaze hardened into something sharp and unforgiving. He didn't just hear your lie; he felt the skip in your heart and the way your scent spiked with fear. He was a predator; he knew the taste of a secret.

​Lando, sensing the shift in Oscar’s temperature, moved closer. He pulled out the chair directly beside the vampire and sank into it with a familiar, easy grace. Without breaking eye contact with you, Lando leaned in, resting his shoulder against Oscar’s and tucking his head slightly toward the vampire's neck. It was a clear display of their bond—the wild, warm energy of the wolf curling around the cold, static power of the vampire.

​Oscar didn't pull away; he seemed to anchor himself in Lando’s presence, though his eyes remained fixed on you like a hawk.

​"We saw the cages, y/n," Lando said, his voice softer than Oscar's but no less serious. He reached out an arm, his fingers brushing against Oscar's sleeve as he settled in. "Those men weren't looking for a thief. They were looking for a prize. If we’re going to keep you hidden, we need to know exactly how high the bounty on your head is."

"They will not stop looking," Oscar added, his hand coming up to rest momentarily on Lando’s knee, a silent acknowledgment of the wolf's comfort. "And if they find this cabin, they won't just be coming for you. They’ll be coming for the monsters who 'stole' their property."

​He leaned forward, his shadow falling across the table. "Were you the only one? Or are there more of you being used as livestock?"

The lead bracelets hit the wooden table with a heavy, hollow thud as you laid your arms out like an offering. The Morning sun caught the intricate runes etched into the metal—the very things keeping you hollow.

​"Take these off," you said, your voice steadying as you met his gaze with a newfound resolve, "and I will tell you."

​For a heartbeat, the room went entirely still. You saw it—a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of Oscar’s upper lip. It wasn't a smile; it was the ripple of a predator being tested. Beside him, Lando shifted, his amber eyes flicking toward Oscar's face, waiting to see if the vampire would bend.

​"No," Oscar said. The word was a flat, cold stone.

​He didn't blink. He didn't even glance at the wrists you were offering. "Your cooperation is not a currency for your safety, y/n. You are alive because we choose for you to be. The bracelets remain until I am certain you won't use that magic to flee into the arms of the very men who want to bottle your soul."

​"Then I won't tell," you snapped.

​You pulled your arms back under the table, the lead clinking against your thighs. You leaned back, mirroring his coldness as best you could while your heart hammered against your ribs. "If I am to be a prisoner regardless, then my secrets are the only things I still own. You can use your 'Command' to make me walk, Oscar, but I'd like to see you try and command an Elven mind to speak what it chooses to hide."

​Lando winced, his hand tightening on Oscar’s shoulder. "Hey, let's not do the 'immovable object meets irresistible force' thing today, yeah? We're all on the same side."

​"Are we?" You looked pointedly at the heavy cuffs. "Because from where I'm sitting, I’m the only one here who can't leave, and you're the only ones who seem to be enjoying the morning."

Oscar’s eyes darkened, the red hue bleeding into the black. He looked at Lando, whose head was still tilted toward him, and then back at you. The air in the room grew heavy again, that pressurized silence returning.

​"You are proud," Oscar murmured, a dangerous edge of respect cutting through his frost. "It is a trait that usually gets your kind killed. But very well. Keep your secrets for now. But remember—when the hunters come knocking on this door, and they will, your silence won't just be your problem. It will be ours."

​He stood up abruptly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor. "Lando, feed her. I need to check the perimeter wards. Apparently, our guest thinks she's in a position to negotiate."

The suddenness of Oscar's departure felt like the floor dropping out from under you. Without him, there was no release; without his word, the lead on your wrists might as well be permanent.

​"Wait!" you called out, the word tearing from your throat.

​You surged upward, your chair screeching back, but you moved too fast. The jagged wound in your side—the one Oscar had meticulously stitched—protested with a white-hot flare of agony. You doubled over, a sharp, pained hiss escaping your teeth as you clutched your ribs.

​Oscar stopped. He didn't turn immediately; he stood with his back to you, his shoulders set in a hard, uncompromising line. The silence in the room was deafening until he slowly pivoted on his heel.

​His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were like twin embers. He walked back toward the table, each footfall slow and deliberate, until he was standing directly in front of you. He was so close you could feel the preternatural chill radiating off him, a stark contrast to the heat coming from Lando.

​"I am sorry," you whispered, your head bowed, your silver hair falling like a veil to hide your face.

​The apology felt like a physical weight, heavier even than the bracelets. You were a High Elf, a creature of starlight and ancient song, and here you were, bowing to a shadow.

Oscar reached out. For a moment, you flinched, expecting the cold bite of his Command or the grip of a captor. Instead, he placed two fingers under your chin and tilted your head up. His touch was icy, but his grip was surprisingly light.

​"Apologies are easy," Oscar said, his voice a low, smooth vibration. "Truth is much harder. Do you apologize because you regret your silence, or because you realized you are helpless without me?"

​Lando stood up from his chair, hovering at Oscar's elbow, his face etched with concern. "Oscar, leave it," he murmured softly. "She's shaking."

​Oscar ignored him, his gaze boring into yours, searching for the crack in your armor. "If I take them off, do you give me your word—not as a prisoner, but as an Elf—that you will not try to run until your blood is replenished? Because if you run now, you won't make it to the treeline before your heart gives out."

​He let go of your chin, his hand hovering near the etched lead of your left wrist. "Your word, y/n. Is it worth more than your pride?"

The moment the word left your lips, the air in the room seemed to settle. "I promise," you breathed, the vow coming out in a desperate rush. You would have promised him the moon, the stars, or your very lineage just to be rid of the dead weight pressing against your soul.

​Oscar didn’t hesitate. He reached out and encircled both of your wrists with a single, cold hand. His grip was like a band of iron, effortless and absolute, pulling your arms toward the center of the table.

​Lando leaned in, his breath hitching as he watched. He knew the weight of what was happening; a vampire of Oscar's age didn't often undo his own security measures.

Then, Oscar began to speak.

​His voice dropped an octave, losing its velvet charm and taking on the resonance of grinding stone and ancient earth. The language was archaic, a series of guttural, melodic syllables that felt older than the cabin, older than the forest itself. As he spoke, the temperature in the room plummeted.

​The etched runes on the lead began to pulse. A soft, ghostly blue light bled from the metal, casting long, flickering shadows against Oscar’s pale face. You felt a sharp, tingling sensation—like needles pricking your skin—as the magic that bound the shackles began to unravel.

​With a final, resonating word that vibrated in your very teeth, the internal mechanisms of the cuffs groaned.

​Click.

​The heavy metal bands snapped open. Oscar let go of your wrists, and the bracelets fell onto the wooden table with a heavy, final thud.

​The rush was instantaneous. It wasn't that your magic was fully back—your body was still too depleted to call forth a storm—but the connection was restored. The hollow feeling vanished, replaced by the faint, shimmering hum of the world around you. You could feel the life in the wood of the table, the distant pulse of the trees outside, and the overwhelming, thrumming heat of the werewolf sitting inches away.

​You pulled your hands back to your chest, rubbing the raw, red circles the lead had left behind. Your skin felt strangely light, almost as if you might float away.

​Oscar sat back, his eyes returning to their natural, dark state, though he looked slightly more tired than he had moments ago. He tucked his hands into his pockets, watching you with a hawk-like intensity.

​"Your word is given," Oscar reminded you, his voice returning to its calm, aristocratic silk. "The shackles of metal are gone. Do not make me replace them with shackles of blood."

​Lando let out a long, shaky breath, reaching out to slide a plate of fresh bread toward you. "There. Much better, right? Now, eat something that isn't liquid, starlight. You look like a stiff breeze would knock you over."

"Thank you... thank you," you whispered, the words tumbling out with genuine, shaky gratitude. The relief was so immense it felt like a physical weight had been lifted from your lungs, allowing you to finally draw a full breath. You kept your eyes on your wrists, obsessively rubbing the raw, chafed skin where the lead had sat. Without the dampening effect of the metal, you could feel the faint, rhythmic throb of your own circulation again—a tiny, flickering spark of your magic beginning to slowly, painfully knit itself back together.

Lando’s expression softened completely, his amber eyes losing every bit of their previous wariness. He looked like he wanted to reach out and cover your hands with his own to stop the frantic rubbing, but he kept his distance, respecting your space.

​"Eat," Lando urged, pushing the plate of thick, crusty bread and a small crock of golden honey even closer until it brushed against your knuckles. "Your body needs fuel to make magic, starlight. You can’t weave light out of thin air if you’re starving."

​He broke off a piece of the bread himself, showing you it was soft and fresh, the steam still rising from the dough. "Oscar’s right about one thing—you’re far too thin for a High Elf. I’ve seen saplings with more meat on 'em."

​Oscar, meanwhile, had regained his posture of detached elegance. He watched you with a clinical eye, noting the way your pupils reacted to the return of your internal light. He didn't join in on the warmth, but he didn't pull away either.

​"The redness will fade by midday," Oscar noted, his voice smooth and low. "I have a salve made of crushed marigold and beeswax that will take the sting out of the skin. Lando will bring it to you once you’ve finished that plate."

​He stood up, his tall silhouette blocking out a portion of the morning sun. "I will be in the study. Lando, once she is fed, she is to rest. No wandering the gardens, and certainly no climbing out of windows." He paused, his gaze flicking to you one last time. "We have a deal, y/n. I expect you to be ready to talk when the sun hits the meridian."

​As Oscar glided out of the room, Lando leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't mind him. He’s just grumpy because he had to use his 'Ancient Voice' before he had his morning tea. Or... well, his breakfast. Come on, try the honey. I gathered it myself from a hive near the creek."

Your eyes lingered on the door where Oscar had vanished, the air still seemingly vibrating from the weight of his presence. You felt a strange pull—a mixture of lingering fear and a budding, reluctant curiosity about the vampire who held your life in his cold hands.

The sound of crinkling tinfoil snapped your attention back to the table. Lando held a small, folded square of it, revealing a thick, amber-colored salve that smelled strongly of honey, earthy marigold, and a hint of something minty that cleared your senses.

​You hesitated, your fingers twitching toward the safety of your own lap. You weren't used to being touched—not like this. Elves were creatures of distance and grace, and your recent months as a fugitive had made any physical contact feel like a precursor to a blow.

​Lando noticed the flicker of doubt in your eyes. He didn't wait for you to retreat.

​"Easy, starlight. I'm not going to bite," he said with a soft, lopsided grin.

​He reached out and gently took your hands in his. His palms were massive compared to yours, calloused and radiating a steady, pulsing heat that felt like sitting too close to a sun-warmed boulder. Despite his size, his touch was incredibly light.

​As he began to spread the salve over the raw, red circles around your wrists, you felt a cooling sensation wash over the irritation. The sting vanished almost instantly, replaced by a soothing numbness.

​"There," Lando murmured, his focus entirely on his task. He used his thumb to work the cream into your skin with rhythmic, circular motions. "Oscar’s a grouch, but he knows his alchemy. This will have the skin closed up before the sun is high."

​He looked up at you then, his amber eyes searching yours from beneath his messy curls. For a moment, the predator was gone, replaced by a man who looked genuinely pained by the marks on your skin.

​"You're safe here," he said, his voice dropping to a low, sincere rumble. "I know it doesn't feel like it yet. I know we're... a bit much. But nobody is going to put those back on you as long as I'm standing between you and the door. You have my word on that."

​He gave your hands a tiny, reassuring squeeze before letting go, gesturing toward the bread again. "Now, eat. Before I decide to finish the honey myself."

​How long has it been since you’ve had anyone, let alone a man, treat you with something other than greed?

You took a bite of the bread, the crust crackling between your teeth. It was warm and buttery, but your mind was far from the meal. You swallowed, your gaze flicking back to Lando, who was still watching you with that unnerving, warm intensity.

​"What have you done with my things?" you asked, trying to keep your voice level, though a note of desperation slipped through. "My daggers. My pack. You haven't... you haven't thrown them out, have you?"

​Lando let out a low, huffing sound that might have been a laugh if he wasn't trying so hard to be gentle. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his thick arms behind his head.

​"Thrown them out?" he echoed. "Starlight, those blades are masterpieces. Oscar spent ten minutes just admiring the balance on them before he locked them away. He said the steel was 'forged in moonlight and tempered in ice,' or some other poetic vampire nonsense."

​He gestured vaguely toward the hallway, toward the room Oscar had called his study.

"They’re safe. Oscar has them in a glass case in the study—mostly to keep me from touching them, I think. He’s a bit of a collector. And your pack is tucked away in the trunk at the foot of your bed. Everything is there, down to the last silver coin and dried herb."

​He looked at you seriously, his amber eyes settling.

​"We aren't thieves. We took them because you were unconscious and, frankly, you looked like you’d try to gut us the second you saw our shadows. Which, to be fair, you did try to do anyway."

​He reached out and tapped the table near your plate. "You’ll get them back. But Oscar won't hand over those daggers until he’s sure you won’t try to plant one in his heart the moment he turns his back. He’s very fond of that heart, even if it doesn't beat much."

​You felt a small wave of relief wash over you. The daggers were family heirlooms, etched with the names of your ancestors. Losing them would have been like losing your history.

​"Can I see them?" you asked softly. "Just to know they're... intact?"

Lando’s smile widened, a flash of genuine warmth that crinkled the corners of his amber eyes. He didn't have the guarded, calculating air of the vampire; he seemed to operate on a frequency of simple, grounded honesty.

​"Finish your food first," he insisted, leaning back and crossing his massive arms over his chest. "If you have the energy for it after that, I’ll show you around the cabin. It’s better you know where everything is—and where the boundaries are—than for you to go poking around in the dark and tripping over one of Oscar's more... temperamental antiques."

​You were taken aback by how easily he agreed. You had expected another round of negotiations, or perhaps a flat refusal until you’d "earned" their trust. The immediate compliance made your elven instincts prickle with confusion; in the world you had been living in, nothing was given without a steep price. But you didn't voice your suspicion. You weren't about to talk yourself out of a chance to see where your weapons were being kept.

​You began to eat with a much faster pace, the fear of losing the opportunity outweighing the lingering ache in your side. The bread was hearty, the honey rich and floral, and as the nutrients hit your bloodstream, you felt a faint, golden hum of energy begin to return to your limbs. It wasn't the roaring tide of magic you were used to, but it was a start—a flickering candle in a previously darkened room.

Lando watched you with an amused expression, his head tilted to the side. "Slow down, starlight. The daggers aren't going to sprout legs and walk away. Oscar is a man of many faults, but he’s obsessed with preservation. He probably spent half the night cleaning the road grime off your hilts with a silk cloth."

​As you swallowed the last of the bread and wiped the honey from your fingers, you felt a surge of restless vitality. You pushed the plate away, the wood scraping lightly against the table. Your wrists, now coated in the soothing marigold salve, felt remarkably better—the raw, angry red was already fading into a dull pink.

​"I'm finished," you said, your voice regaining some of its melodic, elven strength. You stood up, testing your weight. The sharp pain in your side was now a dull, manageable throb, thanks to the combination of the meal and the removal of the lead dampeners.

​Lando stood as well, towering over you. He moved with a heavy, rhythmic grace, like the shifting of the forest floor. He gestured toward the archway leading out of the kitchen.

​"Alright then. Tour starts now," he said, his voice a low rumble. "We'll start with the main hall. Just... a word of advice? Try not to touch anything that glows blue. Oscar likes his wards, and they aren't always as friendly to guests as I am."

​He led the way out of the kitchen, his presence a shield of heat in the drafty hallway. As you followed, your eyes darted to every corner, every shadow, and every window. You weren't just taking a tour; you were mapping your cage.

​The cabin was larger than it appeared from the outside, constructed of ancient, darkened timber and decorated with artifacts that looked like they belonged in a museum—tapestries that depicted wars long forgotten, and silver-rimmed mirrors that seemed to hold onto reflections for a second too long.

​"Down that way is the cellar—stay out of there, it's mostly Oscar's 'vintage' collection and it smells like a tomb," Lando explained, pointing to a heavy iron-bound door. "And up those stairs is the library and Oscar's study."

​He stopped in front of a pair of double doors made of polished mahogany. He reached out, his hand hovering over the handle, before he turned back to you with a wink.

​"Ready to see your daggers?"

"Yes," you breathed, the word nearly tripping over itself in your haste. The prospect of being reunited with your blades—the last physical tether to your home and your kin—sent a jolt of adrenaline through your veins that even your fatigue couldn't suppress.

​Lando’s smile softened into something almost indulgent. He didn't just point the way; he reached out and took your hand. His palm was a broad, calloused expanse of radiating heat, his fingers curling around yours with a firm but careful pressure, as if he were guiding a fledgling bird back to its nest. The contact was jarring—your people rarely touched so casually—but the warmth was a welcome contrast to the icy memory of the lead shackles. He led you through the hallway, his heavy boots thumping a steady rhythm against the floorboards, while your bare feet made no sound at all, like a ghost following a titan.

​When he reached the mahogany doors of the study, he didn't knock. He simply pushed them open with the easy confidence of someone who knew he was always welcome.

​The air inside the study was different from the rest of the cabin. It was cool, still, and heavy with the scent of old parchment, expensive tobacco, and the metallic, underlying tang of ozone from the various magical artifacts lining the shelves. Sunlight filtered through tall, narrow windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air like tiny, golden spirits.

​Oscar was seated behind a massive desk of blackened oak, his silhouette framed by the sprawling library behind him. He was holding a delicate porcelain cup to his lips, his posture as rigid and elegant as a marble statue. At the sound of your entrance, he lowered the cup with agonizing slowness.

​Your breath hitched in your throat.

​The elegant, aristocratic mask Oscar wore was momentarily stained. His lips were slick with a vivid, visceral crimson, and as he set the cup down on a silver saucer, you saw the tips of his fangs—sharp, translucent, and tipped with wet, ruby-red blood. The sight was a violent reminder of exactly what he was. He wasn't just a savior or a jailer; he was an apex predator who required the life-force of others to maintain his frozen perfection.

​Oscar didn't look embarrassed. He didn't wipe his mouth. He simply stared at you with those dark, bottomless eyes, his gaze flicking from your face to the place where your hand was still entwined with Lando’s.

​"You move quickly for someone who was at death's door twenty-four hours ago," Oscar remarked, his voice a low, melodic thrum that seemed to vibrate the very air. He picked up a silk handkerchief and daintily dabbed at the corner of his mouth, the white fabric blooming with red stains. "I assume Lando has been filling your head with promises of a grand tour?"

​"She wanted to see the daggers, Oscar," Lando said, his voice dropping an octave as he felt the tension radiating off you. He didn't let go of your hand; if anything, his grip tightened slightly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a silent gesture of protection. "I told her you were keeping them safe."

​Oscar’s gaze drifted to a velvet-lined display case sitting on a pedestal near the window. Inside, resting on a bed of midnight-blue silk, lay your twin blades. They looked beautiful—the silver filigree of the hilts had been polished until they glowed, and the ancient Elven runes along the flat of the blades seemed to pulse with a faint, sympathetic light now that your own magic was no longer suppressed by lead.

"They are remarkable specimens," Oscar said, standing up. He moved around the desk with that fluid, predatory grace that made your heart hammer against your ribs. He stopped a few feet away, his presence a cold front moving in against Lando’s heat. "Most of your kind carry toys. These, however... these have tasted the blood of kings and the shadows of the Void. They are far too dangerous to be left in the hands of a girl who hasn't yet regained her balance."

​He looked directly at you, his eyes narrowing. "Do you feel that, y/n? The way they hum for you? They are hungry. And so are you." He stepped closer, the faint scent of copper clinging to him. "The question is: if I open that glass, will you use them to defend this house, or to try and carve a path through the two men who kept you from the butcher's block?"

The heavy, suffocating atmosphere of the study—thick with the scent of ancient ink and the metallic tang of fresh blood—shattered in an instant. Lando didn't just break the tension; he pulverized it with a casual, devastating grin.

​"Oh, Oscar, stop being such a buzzkill," Lando groaned, rolling his eyes so hard it looked physically taxing. He didn't let go of your hand; instead, he leaned his weight back, looking at the formidable vampire with the kind of playful irreverence that should have been suicidal.

"Honestly, the brooding 'Lord of the Manor' act is getting a bit dusty. Can't you be a bit more of the man I take to bed instead? You know, the one who actually knows how to have a conversation without sounding like a prophecy of doom?"

​The change in Oscar was visceral. The cold, predatory mask he had been wearing—the one stained with blood and sharpened by centuries of detachment—cracked like fine porcelain. For a split second, he looked genuinely stunned, his dark eyes widening as he stared at the werewolf. Then, the silence was broken by a sound you never expected to hear from a creature of his ilk.

​Oscar let out a laugh. It wasn't a cruel or mocking sound; it was a rich, melodic baritone that seemed to start deep in his chest. He shook his head, the terrifying image of the blood-stained aristocrat melting away into something far more human, even as he used the silk handkerchief to finally wipe the last of the crimson from his chin.

​"You are an incorrigible brute, Lando," Oscar murmured, though his tone was now shot through with a warmth that completely transformed his aura. He looked at the werewolf with a mixture of exasperation and deep, undeniable affection. "I am attempting to maintain a certain level of decorum for our guest, and you insist on dragging my reputation into the mud."

​"Your reputation is fine," Lando countered, flashing a cheeky, toothy grin. "It's your personality that needs a vacation."

​You, however, felt as though the temperature in the room had suddenly spiked to a fever pitch. Your cheeks flared with a heat so intense it felt like you were standing too close to an open forge. You were a High Elf, raised in the structured, ethereal courts where even a misplaced glance was considered scandalous, and yet here were your captors—a vampire and a werewolf—discussing their intimate life with the casual ease of neighbors talking about the weather.

​The realization of their bond hit you with the force of a physical blow. It wasn't just a tactical alliance or a shared residence; it was a tangled, living knot of fire and ice. You looked down at your feet, suddenly fascinated by the grain of the floorboards, trying to ignore the vivid images your mind was unhelpfully conjuring.

​"I... I apologize," you stammered, your voice small and thick with fluster. "I didn't realize... that is to say, I wasn't aware of the nature of your... arrangement."

​Oscar’s laughter subsided into a soft, lingering smile—the first genuine one you had seen. He stepped toward the glass case, his movements still graceful but lacking the sharp, lethal edge from moments before.

​"Do not be embarrassed, little elf," Oscar said, his voice now a gentle silk. "Lando simply lacks a filter between his heart and his tongue. It is one of his more... exhausting charms."

He reached into his waistcoat, producing a small, ornate silver key. With a delicate turn of his wrist, he unlocked the display case. The soft click of the latch sounded like music. He didn't take the daggers out, but he stepped aside, gesturing for you to come closer.

​"Come," he invited, his eyes meeting yours with a newfound softness.

"Since Lando has thoroughly ruined my attempt at intimidation, you might as well see your heritage. I have spent the night ensuring they were treated with the respect they deserve."

The moment your fingertips brushed the cool, familiar metal of the hilts, a jolt of recognition hummed through your very marrow. The daggers felt alive, responding to the faint spark of magic now flickering in your veins. They were pristine—free of the mud and dried blood of the market—and for the first time since the hunters had closed their nets, you felt like a person again, rather than a piece of prey.

​"Thank you," you whispered. You meant it. For a collector like Oscar to not only save your life but to tend to your steel with such reverence spoke of a code you hadn't expected from the undead.

​As you turned your head to meet his gaze, the breath you had just found hitched in your throat.

​In the kitchen and the hallway, the space had felt larger, but here, tucked between the desk and the display case, you were trapped in the gravity of two titans. Oscar was a pillar of elegant, frozen shadow, standing a full head and a half taller than you. His presence was cold and refined, like a mountain peak. Then there was Lando, still close enough that you could feel the rhythmic, sun-like heat radiating from his broad chest and heavy shoulders.

​Between the two of them, you felt impossibly small—fragile, like a piece of glass caught between two great stones. The height difference was sudden and overwhelming; you had to tilt your head back just to see the line of Oscar’s jaw.

​The memory of Lando’s earlier comment—about their "arrangement"—rushed back into your mind, making your skin burn. You were standing in the intimate sanctuary of two powerful predators who shared a bed, and the air suddenly felt far too thin.

​Your cheeks flared a deep, embarrassed crimson. You quickly averted your eyes, staring intensely at a stack of leather-bound books on the desk to avoid the amused, knowing glint you were sure was in Oscar’s eyes.

​"I... I think the salve is working very well," you managed to say, your voice a bit higher than usual, desperately trying to pivot back to a safe, clinical topic.

​Lando let out a low, vibrating chuckle that you could feel in your own chest. "Oh, she’s adorable when she’s flustered, Oscar. Look at her ears, they’re practically glowing."

​"Lando," Oscar warned, though his voice lacked any real bite. "Stop teasing our guest. She has had a traumatic few days; she doesn't need you treat her like a new pup in the den."

​He reached out, his long, pale fingers hovering near the glass case, and for a second, you thought he might touch your shoulder. Instead, he simply closed the lid—though he didn't turn the key.

​"Keep your daggers close, y/n" Oscar said softly. "But keep your promise closer. We are going to have that talk now. Lando, get her some tea. He is much better at brewing herbs than he is at being subtle."

The sound of Lando’s retreating laughter echoed down the hallway, leaving a sudden, ringing silence in the study. Without the werewolf’s boisterous warmth to act as a buffer, the air felt twice as charged.

​You frantically tucked strands of your silver hair behind your ears, trying to shield the telltale pink glow of your skin, but your elven physiology was a traitor. Your ears remained stubbornly peaked, twitching slightly with every beat of your heart. You felt like a moth pinned to a board under Oscar’s steady, ancient gaze.

​Oscar didn't move away to give you space. Instead, he watched your clumsy attempt at composure with a small, knowing smile that was far more unnerving than his earlier coldness. It wasn't a predatory smirk; it was the look of someone who had lived long enough to find the innocence of others deeply fascinating.

​"It is a futile effort," he murmured, his voice as smooth as aged wine. "High Elves have never been particularly good at hiding their hearts. Your people were built for truth, not deception."

With a flick of his wrist, he caught the back of a plush, velvet-lined chair and pulled it out from the desk. He didn't use his "Command" this time; he simply held the chair in a silent, courtly invitation.

​"Sit, y/n" he said. "The tea will take a moment. Lando is... meticulous when he wants to impress someone, and despite his rough edges, he quite likes you."

​You sank into the chair, the velvet soft against your back, but you remained on the edge of the seat, your hands folded tightly in your lap. Oscar didn't return to his place behind the desk. Instead, he leaned back against the heavy oak wood, crossing his long legs at the ankles, effectively staying within your personal space.

​"Now," he began, his expression turning serious as the levity of the previous moment faded. "The men in the market. You said you didn't know why they were after you, but we both know that's not true. You aren't just any elf. The way your magic felt against my lead... it was pure."

​He leaned a fraction closer, his dark eyes searching yours. "Who are you running from? Because hunters with silver-edged steel and soul-vessels don't work for mere coin. They work for someone who knows exactly how much you are worth."

The words felt like stones dropping into a deep, dark well. You kept your eyes tightly shut, but the darkness was no sanctuary; it only sharpened the memory of the heavy iron shackles, the smell of cheap tobacco, and the way the hunters had looked at you—not as a living soul, but as a harvest.

​"I don't know who they are," you whispered, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to remain stoic. "But I know what they mostly wanted me for."

​You clenched your hands in your lap, your fingernails digging into your palms as the shame and terror of the realization bubbled up. The lead bracelets were gone, but the phantom weight of them still seemed to ghost over your wrists.

​"They either wanted to keep me as a blood bag," you said, the term sounding like a profanity in the quiet elegance of the study, "to drain slowly, day by day, for the potency in my veins... or to keep me as a breeding mare. To sell off the offspring as if they were nothing more than pure-blooded livestock."

​A heavy, oppressive silence followed your confession. You finally opened your eyes to find Oscar’s expression had shifted. The knowing, playful smile was gone, replaced by a cold, terrifying stillness. His dark eyes didn't just look at you; they seemed to see through you, analyzing the sheer gravity of the cruelty you had escaped. The crimson stain on his lips from earlier seemed more prominent now, a stark reminder of his own nature, yet his outrage was palpable.

​"And," you added, your voice barely audible, "I also know that I was the only elf they were hunting. This wasn't a raid. It was a targeted extraction."

​Oscar leaned off the desk, his shadow stretching long and jagged across the floorboards. He didn't speak for a long moment, the only sound being the distant whistle of the tea kettle from the kitchen and the soft crackle of the hearth.

​"A breeding mare," Oscar repeated, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that made the fine hairs on your arms stand up. "To attempt to commodify the Light of the First Dawn... that is not mere greed. That is a specific kind of sacrilege."

​He began to pace the length of the rug, his movements no longer fluid and relaxed, but sharp—like a wolf pacing the confines of a cage. "If you were the only one, then you were selected. High Elves do not simply 'appear' in common markets unless they are being tracked from the borders of the Sun-Gardens."

​He stopped and turned back to you, his gaze intense. "To hunt a High Elf specifically for the purpose of lineage or blood-harvesting requires someone with deep pockets and a complete lack of fear regarding the Elven Courts. You are more than a fugitive, y/n. You are a stolen relic."

​The door creaked open, and Lando stepped back in, carrying a tray with three steaming cups. The warm, earthy scent of chamomile and honey followed him, but he froze the moment he saw the look on Oscar’s face and the way you were trembling in your chair.

​"What happened?" Lando asked, his voice low and protective. He set the tray down on a side table and moved instantly to the space between you and Oscar, his amber eyes darting between you both. "Oscar, what did you ask her?"

​"She told me the truth, Lando," Oscar replied, his eyes never leaving yours. "She was being hunted for her womb and her veins. And whoever sent those men... they weren't looking for a thief. They were looking for a source."

The air in the room changed instantly. It didn't just get heavy; it became electric, vibrating with the raw, primal frequency of a predator pushed to his limit.

Lando’s posture shifted. His shoulders seemed to broaden, and the easy-going, golden-retriever energy he’d radiated in the kitchen vanished. His eyes didn't just glow; they burned with a terrifying, molten amber light. A low, guttural growl started deep in his chest—a sound that wasn't human, a sound that spoke of bone-crushing jaws and a thirst for the hunt.

​"I will rip them to shreds if they try to come into my territory," he snarled, his lips curling back to reveal elongated, razor-sharp teeth. The "beast" wasn't just a metaphor; it was right there, pressing against the surface of his skin, ready to tear through the floorboards to get at anything that threatened his home.

​Your heart skipped a beat, then began to hammer against your ribs like a trapped bird. For a moment, the memory of the hunters was replaced by the immediate, terrifying reality of being in a small room with a shifting werewolf. You knew the lore: werewolves didn't just protect their land; they claimed everything in it.

​You blinked, and in that split second, Oscar had moved.

​He didn't walk; he simply appeared at Lando’s side, his hand pressing firmly against the center of the werewolf’s chest. The contrast was startling—Oscar’s pale, slender hand against the rough fabric of Lando’s shirt, the icy stillness of the vampire acting as a heat sink for the werewolf’s fire.

​"Easy," Oscar said, his voice a cool, stabilizing anchor. His touch seemed to act like a lightning rod, drawing the frantic energy out of Lando. "You are scaring our guest."

​Lando’s breath was coming in heavy, jagged hitches. He looked up at Oscar, then his gaze flicked to you. Seeing your wide eyes and the way you were pressing yourself back into the velvet of the chair, the amber fire in his eyes began to dim. The growl died down into a frustrated huff.

​"I'm not... I'm not going to hurt her," Lando muttered, though his hands were still balled into white-knuckled fists. He looked at you, a flicker of genuine guilt crossing his rugged features. "Sorry, starlight. I just... I don't like the thought of those bastards putting their hands on you. Not on my watch."

​Oscar didn't move his hand from Lando’s chest immediately. He kept it there, feeling the werewolf’s heart settle. "His protective instincts are... unsubtle," Oscar explained to you, his voice returning to its calm, aristocratic hum. "But he is correct. No one enters this forest without our leave, and certainly no one leaves it if they mean you harm."

​Oscar turned his head slightly, his eyes locking onto yours with a chilling intensity. "But we cannot fight a shadow. You say you were the only one. Does that mean your kin are safe in the Sun-Gardens, or does it mean you are the last of a line they believe is extinct?"

You spoke with a hollow sort of pragmatism, a shrug that felt far too heavy for your slight frame. "We are only a few handful of elves left," you said, the words echoing the lonely reality of your people. "None of us has lived in the Sun-Gardens for probably a decade. Elves have been hunted longer than I have existed."

​The admission seemed to drain the remaining warmth from the room.

To the world, the Sun-Gardens were a legend, a golden myth of a lost age. To you, they were a graveyard of memories you weren't even old enough to truly own.

​Oscar’s hand finally dropped from Lando’s chest, but he didn't move away. He looked at you with a profound, quiet gravity. To a vampire, someone who measured time in centuries, the erasure of an entire race was not just a tragedy—it was a personal affront to the history he shared.

​"A decade," Oscar murmured, his voice sounding like dry leaves skittering over stone. "The world has grown very dark indeed if the High Courts have been reduced to whispers in the brush."

​Lando’s anger had shifted from a jagged, violent heat to a low, simmering ache. He reached for one of the tea cups he’d brought in, his hands still a bit shaky from the near-transformation, and held it out to you. The steam carried the scent of elderberry and honey.

​"Drink this," Lando insisted, his voice thick with a new kind of resolve. He didn't look at you like a "prize" or a "relic" anymore. He looked at you like a pack mate who had been separated from the hunt. "I don't care how many of you are left. In this house, you aren't a 'handful' of anything. You're just you."

​He glanced at Oscar, a silent communication passing between them—the kind that only comes from years of shared lives and shared beds.

​"If the Sun-Gardens are empty," Oscar said, picking up his own cup—the one still stained with that faint, copper rim—and sitting on the edge of his desk, "then this cabin is the closest thing to a sanctuary you have left. But you must understand, y/n, the men who hunt the last of a kind do not stop until the collection is complete."

He took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving yours. "They will track your scent. They will follow the trail of your magic. And eventually, they will find the edge of this forest."

​"Let them," Lando grumbled, finally sitting down on the rug at Oscar's feet, leaning his back against the vampire's legs in a display of grounding comfort. "I've been looking for an excuse to thin the local hunter population anyway."

​Oscar ran a hand distractedly through Lando’s unruly curls, a gesture so domestic it almost made you look away again. "We need to strengthen the perimeter wards. If she is a 'source,' as they believe, her very presence acts as a beacon to those trained to find it."

​He looked at you, his gaze piercing. "Can you mask yourself? Now that the bracelets are gone, can you fold your light inward, or are you still to weak?"

"I need my spellbook to be able to do that," you said, your voice gaining a flicker of its old authority. You looked directly at Oscar, meeting those dark, ancient eyes without flinching this time. To mask yourself is a complex procedure, woven with intricate geometric patterns that required a focus you simply couldn't summon with just your raw, battered will.

​"You placed my backpack in my room, correct?" you asked, leaning forward slightly.

​Oscar nodded slowly, his fingers momentarily stilling in Lando's hair. "In the trunk at the foot of the bed, as Lando said. I found the book within. It is... ancient. The binding is made of star-glass and silver-thread, if I’m not mistaken."

​His gaze drifted toward the door, then back to you. "I felt the hum of it when I carried the bag. It didn't care for my touch. It’s quite protective of its owner."

​"It’s keyed to my bloodline," you explained, the technicality of the magic grounding you. "Without it, my light is like a signal fire in a dark valley. With it, I can become as silent as a stone."

​Lando looked up from his spot on the rug, his chin resting on his hand as he looked at you. "Well, that’s settled then. No sense in leaving a giant 'Eat Here' sign pointing at our roof. Once you’ve finished that tea, we’ll get you back to your room so you can do your... spooky elf-hiding business."

​He reached out and gave your knee a quick, friendly pat—a gesture of pure, pack-level comfort—before looking back up at Oscar. "I'll go check the southern line while she's working. If any of those bastards followed us, they'll be lingering near the creek."

​Oscar’s expression remained thoughtful, his hand dropping from Lando's head to rest on the werewolf's shoulder. "Go. But do not engage unless they cross the threshold. I want to know who they are before we turn them into fertilizer for your garden."

​The vampire turned his attention back to you, his eyes searching. "Will you be able to manage the spell in your current state? Masking one's essence is a draining endeavor, and you have barely managed a piece of bread and a cup of tea."

The shift was so sudden it stole the air from your lungs. One moment, Lando was a man with a cheeky grin and warm hands; the next, a ripple of kinetic energy tore through the space he occupied. There was a sickening, wet crackle of shifting bone and the sound of fabric straining to the point of failure.

​In his place stood a creature of terrifying beauty—a massive, brown wolf with shoulders that nearly brushed the bottom of your shoulders. His eyes remained that same molten amber, but they were now set in a predatory skull designed for crushing. The "beast" didn't just feel like a threat anymore; he was a physical force, his heavy, hot breath misting in the cool air of the study.

​"Yes, I will manage," you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the gargantuan wolf now looming at Oscar's side. You looked Lando—the real Lando—straight in those burning eyes. "I have done that spell while being in a weaker state than I am now. Hunger is a familiar companion; it won't stop me from being invisible."

​The wolf let out a low, huffing sound—a canine version of a chuckle or perhaps a respectful nod—and nudged his massive head against Oscar’s hip.

Oscar didn't even flinch at the transformation. He reached down and ran his hand along the wolf's thick neck, his pale fingers disappearing into the dense fur. "He will escort you to your door," Oscar said, his gaze fixed on you. "And then he will hunt. Do not be alarmed by the noise outside. The forest tends to scream when he’s in a foul mood."

​You stood up, your legs feeling a bit more solid with the tea warming your core. As you walked toward the door, the great wolf fell into step beside you. The sheer scale of him was overwhelming; his back was level with your chest, and you could feel the immense heat radiating from his fur, a living hearth on four legs.

​He didn't crowd you. He paced himself to your slower, gingerly steps, his claws clicking rhythmically against the wood. It was a silent, heavy protection that made you feel both incredibly safe and profoundly small.

​When you reached the door to your room, the wolf stopped and sat back on his haunches, watching you.

​"Thank you, Lando," you whispered.

​He let out one final, low rumble—a vibration that you felt in the soles of your feet—before turning with startling speed and disappearing down the hallway toward the back entrance of the cabin.

​You pushed open your door. There, sitting on the trunk at the foot of the bed, was your weathered leather backpack. You hurried to it, your fingers trembling as you unbuckled the straps. Reaching past your spare tunic, you felt the cold, familiar tingle of the star-glass binding.

​As you pulled the spellbook out, the silver thread on the cover flared with a faint, welcoming violet light. You were home, in the only way you could be anymore.

“Occludere lucem, manere in umbra...” As you spoke the incantation, the violet light from the book began to bleed onto your skin, crawling up your arms like cooling liquid. Slowly, the hum of your magic began to dampen, the "beacon" Oscar had described fading until you felt like nothing more than a shadow among shadows.

​You sat cross-legged on the bed, opening the ancient pages to a diagram of interlocking circles. You bit your lip, focusing your intent. You didn't need much power—just enough to pull the veil over your head.

It’s hot in the Arlathan Forest, sweat dripping down your naked body as you navigate the winding woods. Trying to get away from him.

He’s stalking you, like you’re his prey.

Branches snag on your face and hair, breathing coming in heavy puffs. You ignore the sting of the wooden fingers and the leaves digging into your bare feet.

You press forward, eyes looking ahead and nowhere else. The wind howls against your skin, and a rock digs painfully into the sole of your foot. You hiss, but pump your legs faster.

Fear — and desire that burns hot within — grips your heart when you hear fallen branches crunch behind you.

And then a whistle echoes through the quiet night air.

A low croon that mocks you. It’s so close, he’s so close.

A wide tree is to the left, and you make a sharp turn and scramble to hide behind the trunk. Your heart is beating wildly, cunt aching with need.

And then, “You can run, but you can’t hide.”

With that, you take off into a run again.

Even with your superior elven hearing, you don’t see it coming until it’s too late. You’re suddenly knocked to the ground, the man pressing your face into the dirt as his mouth comes to brush the shell of your elongated ear.

“Caught you, little prey.”

The predator had caught the prey.

He turns you on your back, the weight of him pressing you into the ground. His leg pushes between your thighs, knee bearing down on your cunt. You’re staring into his — Davrin’s — umber eyes. Davrin’s expression has the satisfaction of a lion after a successful hunt. And you’re the figurative antelope caught between the lion's teeth.

“H-How did you find me so fast?” You whimper, the heady throb between your legs building to a pounding.

“Your heart is racing so quick a Halla could hear, you made it so easy. Like you wanted to be caught,” Davrin growls, grinding his knee along your saturated folds. The wetness smears into his trousers, but Davrin doesn’t mind.

“You’re drenched, little prey, so willing for me. Didn’t you get enough from last night?”

Memories of your midnight chase with Davrin lance through your mind, and the thought of the pleasure he had given you for hours makes your heart palpitate. It was the first time you both had decided to explore this new dynamic; him the predator, you the prey.

And with the way his cock is straining against the rough material of his trousers, you can safely say you’re both enjoying this.

“Looks like you didn’t either, Dav,” you murmured, heart still racing in your ribcage with the fastness of a hummingbird.

Davrin chuckles, “I admit I relish the chase… but the prize is the part I can never wait to sink my teeth into.”

Your cunt quivers, and involuntarily your hips start rubbing against his knee, breathy little moans falling from your lips.

Lips finally descend onto yours, and you push back with just as much fierceness, hands coming to grip Davrin’s shoulders. He’s only wearing a thin shirt, and your long nails scratch through the material. He hisses in your mouth.

“Naughty, naughty,” his voice is tight with lust. Fingers trail down your body until they reach the prize — your cunt. His fingers prod and push your slick through your folds, rubbing on your clit.

“Emma salin, please Davrin!” You beg, hips frantic against his leg.

Davrin grunts, his lips coming to connect with your neck before he bites down and draws your blood. You moan into the night air, orgasm fast approaching. When fingers press into your opening until they hit the base, and his teeth sink deeper into your skin, you erupt. Liquid gushes around his fingers, but Davrin keeps thrusting them in and out at a brutal pace, teeth nipping down your shoulder. His shirt is torn and scratch marks line his back, but it only drives Davrin further.

“Davrin, Davrin, Davrin!” You chant his name, eyes rolling back in your head when he crooks his fingers against the spongy spot inside of you.

“Yes?”

His head is tilted, eyes dark with lust and amusement. His lips are quirked in a smirk, and, not for the first time, you’re struck by how beautiful he is.

“Want your cock,” you say, voice lilting with neediness. You’re dripping, and panting like a Halla in heat for him.

Davrin is quick to undo his trousers, pushing them to his thighs. His calloused hands are rough as they spread your legs apart and wrap them around his hips. You gasp as he sheathes himself in one thrust, filling you up and making you mewl and scratch his back further. He starts at a bruising pace, tip of the head brushing against your cervix.

“Rook… fuck,” he groans, cock pulsing within your walls.

Your lips find their way to his thick neck, biting any inch of skin available to you. His hips piston rapidly, and every time the thick curls surrounding the base of his cock tickle your clit, you see stars.

Your climax is rapidly approaching, and by the way Davrin’s hips are stuttering every time he drives himself into you, he’s close too.

Davrin’s tongue laves the teeth marks he’s left on your shoulder and neck, fingers coming down to rub your clit in fast circles. His lips trace up until he’s right next to your ear.

“Cum for me, little prey,” he whispers against your ear, licking the shell before biting down.

And so you do, with a loud scream and an arch of your back.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Davrin hisses, throwing his head back as he finishes.

He knows there's this concept of love at first sight for elves and he witnessed something similar with the Ainur, finding the one who was meant to be yours for eternity was always a reason for celebration but witnessing it and feeling it was entirely different.

As an elf you would need to lock your gaze with him to see the truth in his spirit, he was no elf though.

He felt something when he arrived at the elven city but now he knows. Being in your presence, feeling your soul unknowingly call out to him, hearing your voice, like an enchantment taunting him, it was torture. It terrified him like nothing else in his long existence.

He never thought he would have this, well, he never even thought of it as something that would interest him. Part of him was angry for losing control over his decisions once more, after all, this was decided for him, not by him. On the other hand he knew this could be a gift but he felt fear at the thought of being tied to someone, of being so vulnerable to another being.

The inner battle in him took too much of his attention and he didn't realise he was turning in the wrong direction until it was too late.

You never believed in the tales of love at first sight, the idea seemed to be ridiculous to you. How could you get to know someone enough in a simple glance to decide to spend the rest of, well, forever, with them? A glimpse into the soul, they said. A glimpse... Ridiculous.

— ELVES HISTORY.

The ancient homeland of the elves would have been an island in the New World, relatively close to the Kingdom of Elbaf. It might have been named "Ljósálfheimr" and could have their own giant tree called "Alfheimr". It would have been filled with eternally green forests, mountains, and rivers. Their constructions would have been made in harmony with nature, carved into the living wood of the great tree and the stone of the mountains.

Elves were natives of an island that is now destroyed. Over 4000 years of history, to the beat of gunfire and the crackle of flames, would have vanished from the world. As creatures with a strong connection and balance with nature, its destruction would not have been provoked by a lack of resources due to exploitation, but by an external factor. A war, against humans. It might have taken years, perhaps even decades or nearly a century, but the outcome would have been decided by the end of the Void Century. A bunch of elves survived the event; some of them may have been taken as prisoners of war by the now-established World Government, but most would have been soldiers returning to the land they swore to protect with their lives, only to arrive too late. They would have found no survivors. This suggests it was an intense, continuous attack that lasted for hours on end—a day or two at most. The great tree Alfheimr was burned to its roots. But the World Government did not stop until they ensured there were no survivors on land. Those soldiers would have had to escape as best they could before even approaching the coast of their island; as firsthand witnesses to the events of that total war, they carried the future on their shoulders. What was gone would not return, but that did not take away the pain; they had been taught not to cling to material things, as the true value of thinking beings like them lay in their reasoning and knowledge. They would not live to see the consequences of their fluttering, their rebellious act of spreading their knowledge, but they trusted that one day, the hope they once felt, their descendants might feel it too.

Elves would likely have refused to advance technologically if it meant sacrificing their land.

Its highly likely that the elves would have been drawn to the Tree of Knowledge on Ohara when the world's historians began to gather there. But they would have suffered the same fate as the other inhabitants of the island.

Any elven survivors, although they may travel or wander the world alone, might group based on the goal they pursue. There might be the Wayfarers, who roam the world as bounty hunters, mercenaries, writers, or in any job that doesn't require them to get involved with other people. Then there are the Hermits, who live in areas uninhabitable for humans or in zones not controlled by the World Government. And finally, the Embedded, those who have allied with the Revolutionary Army and have infiltrated to sabotage World Government and Marine operations.

— ELVES CULTURE.

Elves would have a low libido and interest in socializing, due to their lack of urgency in fulfilling such needs. However, elves might be among the most fertile races (in Norse mythology, they are associated with fertility).

Inspired by the Álfablót, elves might celebrate a communal autumn festival where outsiders are forbidden. During this event, they might feast, drink beer, and use the blood of a sacrificed animal in rituals to ensure stability, fertility, and protection.

The lack of urgency in the elves actions would be more of a social factor than a biological one. Even so, elves have trouble relating to non-elven individuals.

The family structure of the elves would be quite peculiar. They would not form particularly strong or emotional relationships with anyone, not even with their own children. Instead, they would have a sense of belonging closer to that of a clan.

For elves, who are often seen as representing beauty and purity, scars, permanent marks, or bodily imperfections would be frowned upon.

Elves would most likely have their own language. Many history books could be written in the Elven tongue, and even some of their symbols might have been engraved on the Poneglyphs. Furthermore, it's possible that some elves kept diaries throughout their lives to record their memories and avoid forgetting them, having to take time to read them and remember details. In this way, they might have indirectly become the world's first historians—all due to poor long-term memory caused by their vast number of years alive.

Elves would be extremely fetishized and objectified due to their beauty by other races, especially humans, just as happens with mermaids. Would be groups that specifically prefer young elves and justify it by saying they are already on legal age (perhaps by their own cultures standards, but they might still be minors in elven culture). Ideal for predators. A victim with innocent features that won't fade, too young to understand what's happening and who won't run away, after all, grew up in an environment where this victim is expected to fulfill a role as slave but at the same time they can be disgusted by the feeling of being dirty.

The Tenryubitos would love what elves superficially represent: that youth and beauty, misunderstood as eternal. In their perverse minds, an elf would be an ideal lover. Beautiful, young, and serene. Submissive out of fear. And human's standard of beauty has probably been adapted to resemble elven features by human artists, poets, and sculptors. As slaves, they would be displayed as trophies, caged in beautiful clothes and jewelry like dolls. Used and collected.

This elven obsession with being pure and excelling in knowledge would probably due to the communal fear of being possessed, body and soul. It would be a generational trauma as a consequence of having been hunted, raped, and treated as objects for centuries (and would probably never stop). This would go so far as to have actively suppressed their emotions and desires so as not to be like those who have harmed their people. If they can't feel anything, nothing can be broken within them. Due to their very structure of perceiving offenses as a clan, each experience would be passed down to warn future generations of the perversions that await them outside the protection of their people. Predisposing young elves to fear other races. It wouldn't help them be a race extremely sensitive to emotions and intentions. The mere perception of lust or possessiveness would disgust the elves, and make them attack with extreme violence.

Being emotionally numb, elves would constantly need a purpose to continue, otherwise they could enter a state of melancholy and lethargy until they find a new passion.

Elf-human hybrids would be recognized for possessing part of the androgynous elven beauty, with a slightly more robust build. Their ears, visibly shorter, but still pointed. They would also have retained a longer life expectancy than their human parent, capable of reaching up to 200 years of life, and experience relatively delayed aging. However, this interbreeding would be met with indifference or condescending pity by a certain part of the elves, although it wouldn't be a problem because they are too scattered around the world. I imagine that in the old days hybrids would be rejected, since that would mean that there was a union without permission of the clan and the purity was stained, not of the blood, but of the body.

Elves might despise sport hunting or hunting for pleasure, seeing it as barbaric. They would prefer to obtain nutrients through their botanical knowledge since they would be experts in the area, knowing every plant, fungus, root, and fruit, as well as their uses.

Elven diet could be almost vegan, based mostly on a mix of roots and nuts, as well as forest fruits, honey, and mushrooms. From the sea, they would collect shellfish, algae, and plankton. But they would also include meat, fish, and alcohol occasionally on days of celebration.

As in Norse culture, elves might celebrate Jól, the winter solstice, when the sun symbolically dies, and they light great bonfires and candles to await its rebirth. It would be a massive event, with a great feast and toasts. Similarly, they might celebrate the Midsumarblót, the summer solstice, lighting a great bonfire to ask for protection from spirits. Its quite likely that they believe in a Sun God.

For elves, the earth would be a sacred and maternal entity.

— ELVES CURIOSITIES.

The complexity of emotions would be difficult for the elves to understand; they would consider it the root of greed and lust. The simpler, the better.

Elves would have a style inspired by viking warriors, with tunics of linen and silk, cloaks, hardened leather armor, and finely crafted chainmail.

Elves would probably have a good relationship with the Tontattas, who are respectful of nature.

Ancient civilizations often consider plump bodies, especially in women, as beautiful, as they represent fertility. The elves might have acquired this ideal and maintained it for centuries, due to their solitary attitudes (and perhaps a tendency to consider their own culture superior in certain aspects), and even today they might retain this preference for plump partners. Similarly, they probably consider chubby babies to be more beautiful and healthy. It could also be a reflection of their rejection of their own traits, which are so desired by their persecutors.

The World Government, just as happened with the Lunarians, would have assigned an initial bounty of 100 million berries for information on and the capture of an elf.

An elf would surely have no reason to join Big Mom; the only way one would be in Whole Cake Island would be through abduction.

Its very unlikely that there is any elf in Shanks' crew.

I feel that elves would reject being consumers of Devil Fruits.

Perhaps an elf once met Montblanc Noland and was fascinated by his knowledge. They would probably feel the same intrigue towards Usopp. Although they wouldn't like lies since they are extremely sensitive to emotions and intentions, but as long as Usopp doesn't attack (he NEVER EVER would) the elves would tolerate him.

Luffy would not survive on elven cuisine alone; even though he can eat all kinds of food, he NEEDS meat daily. Austere preparations are a definite no.

If elves and vampires existed in the same universe, they would be enemies; a reference to the Ljósálfar (Light Elves) and the Dökkálfar (Dark Elves), a conflict between light and darkness.

I feel like within their seriousness, elves are quite sassy.

And what if female elves have to menstruate for centuries? What a torment.

NOTE ONE: I've never really researched elves, but they really do have quite a unique background. But they got me wrong with the language, my romance language can't handle nordic; I easily messed up some terms. I think I'll edit this later. I felt like this part was very weak, but after all, it's a what if drabble, it doesn't have to be super structured. I just didn't understand the essence of the elves. However, I had to nerf them and take away their libido otherwise they would reproduce like rabbits.

You kneeled before the squirming body of a dwarven soldier, too delirious off his own pain to scorn the healing of an elvish maid. There was a cut on his leg that was bleeding profusely, his skin showing the beginning signs of infection from the poison the orcs used. He was muttering in Khuzdul, his eyes staring blankly at the sky. His eyes were locked on the sun, and if there weren’t other grievous injuries taking priority, you would’ve reminded him to not stare at the sun. But who cares for blindness if you’re already dead?

With ghost-like touches and careful concentration, you placed the healing salve on his leg, cleaning the wound as best you could beforehand. He hissed in pain from the contact, his eyes no longer looking at the sun but at you. He continued to speak in Khuzdul, this time at you, with spite and pain written on his face. You weren’t concerned, continuing to work as you numbed yourself to your surroundings. 

A group of elven soldiers marched past you, carrying the body of their fallen comrade, faces stricken with grief. Your eyes darted away from the sight and returned your attention to carefully wrapping your patient’s leg with bandages. 

“I don’t have anything for the pain, I’m afraid,” you said to him, briefly meeting his eyes that went back to looking at the sun. He muttered incoherently, and while he spoke Common this time, his words were lost on you. 

Tying the final bandage, you then began the same work on the rest of his wounds. More wails and more dead bodies carried from the battlefield, but you blocked it all out. There was no time to be swallowed in the suffering. Once all his wounds had been tended to and your dress was drenched in the blood of another patient, you stood from the ground. A dwarven soldier rushed forward to bring his comrade to the tents where the injured were resting. Words of thanks fell from his mouth, but you had already turned away, moving towards the next person. 

This time it was an elf, so young he couldn’t be more than a century old. Old enough to serve in the guard but too young to die; it made you sick to your stomach. There was a gash near his neck, the veins around it turning black. The poison had already gotten into his system; it was only a matter of time before it took him. Yet you kneeled beside him and gently placed his head in your lap as you began cleaning the wound. 

Unlike the dwarf from before, his eyes met yours, a grin on his lips. It looked out of place on his face, contorted into pain. He spoke softly in elvish, reciting an old song that mothers usually sang to their children when putting them to bed. As the cold salve touched his neck, he froze up, twitching slightly at the sensation.

Silence enveloped the two of you, he no longer sang, yet his eyes stayed on you. A stray piece of hair had fallen from your messy braid, the elf reaching up and grabbing it. He held it between his fingers, mouth parted and eyes a thousand miles away. 

“Naneth--” he trailed off, muttering more incoherent words. You swallowed thickly, forcing yourself to continue working as a spark of pain reactivated your cold heart. He called you mother; the poison must’ve already reached his head, making him see things that weren’t there. 

Tears pricked in the corners of your eyes as you looked away to reach into your healer’s kit. He must’ve been so terrified as death came closer, seeking comfort in a mother that wasn’t even here. You didn’t have the heart to correct him. Let the boy have a small bit of comfort. 

With a strip of bandage in your hand, when your eyes went back to his body, his eyes were shut, and his breathing ceased. Dead. 

Your hand fell limp at your side, eyes unmoving from his face. He looked at peace, expression no longer twisted in pain. A shuttered breath escaped your mouth, the chill in the air allowing you to see it blow away. You stood with shaky legs and trembling hands, two soldiers approaching to take his body away.

You’d been a healer for as long as you could remember, training for this since you were a little elfling running wild. Time allowed you to become numb to tragedy, keeping a clear head to do what needed to be done. But the elven boy’s death managed to stab a needle right through your heart. He was so young and vibrant, his potential severed by senseless war. It left a bitter taste in your mouth, like the ashes of the bodies the humans were burning. 

The mud squashed beneath your feet, eyes unseeing. You were a ghost on the battlefield, blood-stained dress blowing in the wind. How did the other healers seem so emotionless? Was the bite of death something that lessened the more you were near it? In a few years, would you have a disposition that was nearly mechanical? A part of you hoped for that release, while the other part of you was terrified by it. 

You turned, eyes meeting the misty blues ones of King Thranduil. He stood a few feet away from you, a vision amongst the dead. Tall and noble, he looked every bit the king he was. Golden like the dawn, his hair was loose and messy, and his previously pristine armor was dirty with mud and blood, cuts and minor wounds marring his body. Yet he looked eerily perfect. 

His stare was heavy, yet you refused to be the one to look away. A hint of a smirk appeared on the edges of his lips as his head tilted to the side. Long and sure strides brought him closer to you while you stayed locked in place. The king stood before you, towering over your smaller form. You may have been on the taller side; he made you feel as though you were a hobbit.

“What is your name?” 

You lowered your head in a half-bow, a pathetic attempt to show respect, not entirely accustomed to the presence of royalty. 

“Y/N, my king.”  

He nodded, mouthing your name as if to commit it to memory.

“Do you live in Eryn Galen? I have never seen you.”

“I grew up in Lothlorien, where I spent most of my life before training to be a healer in Imladris. I have only recently moved to Eryn Galen.”

Thranduil raised his eyebrows and clasped his hands behind his back. 

“How lucky we are to have a student of Lord Elrond among us.” You could discern if his words were patronizing or genuine, his tone not betraying his intentions. 

“I did not train under Lord Elrond personally.” You felt the need to correct him, not wanting him to think you of a higher station than you were.

“But your teachers were overseen by him, were they not?”

You nodded.

“Then you were trained by Lord Elrond, even if he himself didn’t oversee your education.” 

A small smile appeared on your lips, and you nodded. “I have no choice but to agree; who would I be to disagree with a king.”

A coy smile pulled on the edges of his lips as his eyes shone. 

“A foolish woman is who you would be. Walk with me?” It was phrased as a question, but he didn’t wait for your answer. His long strides carried him towards camp, and you had no choice but to follow.   

“Tell me, do you plan on staying in Eryn Galen long?” His voice was crisp but quiet enough that only you could hear them.

“I do. I have grown fond of the people and its forest.” You spoke genuinely and truthfully. The wood elves were reclusive and suspicious, but once you broke through those barriers, they were full of merriment and loyalty. You cherished the relationships you had already formed and were eager for more. 

“Even in its sickly state,” his tone was sardonic but not enough to hide the pain in his voice. How terrible it must’ve been to see his home twisted into something so evil while powerless to stop it. 

“I believe there is still hope for it to be returned to health.”

Thranduil stopped in his tracks, eyes meeting yours. You stopped as well, patiently waiting for what he may say next. His expression was unreadable, eyes searching yours for the answers to questions you didn’t know. 

Wherever he was searching for, it sent shivers down your spine and made goosebumps form on your arms. The moonlight was kind to him, bathing him in a silvery light that made him look like the elves of Lothlorien who always seemed to shine. You felt your heart stutter as butterflies formed in your stomach. 

It could’ve been a trick of the light, but you could’ve sworn there was a hint of affection in his bright eyes. After the death of his wife, rumors spread of his cold demeanor and harshen disposition. But now, before you, none of those adjectives seemed suited for him. As soft as the stars and as beautiful as the moon, how could he be anything but good and kind?

“I hope that you are right.” He finally broke the silence, eyes raising to the sky before he continued walking, and just as before, you matched his strides. Neither of you spoke, relishing in the silence after a terrible day full of death and terror. 

Finally, the both of you stopped in front of the tent that was yours.

“It was good to meet you today, Y/N. I hope to see you again; I find your company pleasant and your conversation enjoyable.”

A red flush made your face warm, and a child-like grin appeared on your lips. As light as a feather, you would’ve floated away had the king not grabbed your hand, delicately placing a kiss on your knuckles. 

When he released your hand, you lowered into a half curtsey, the movement not as fluid due to your dress that was stiff from the dried blood covering it. 

“It was an honor to speak with you, my king. I wish you a good rest tonight.” 

He smirked in a way that made your flush deepen.

“And if I find it difficult to find rest, will you brew me a tea to lull me to sleep.” 

“Herbology happens to be my specialty.” 

Thranduil gave a single, firm nod, yet his eyes never moved from yours. The affection you’d seen before was brighter, easier seen in the dim lighting. And you were certain your eyes portrayed the same attraction. Could this be the beginning of something wonderful?

“Then I shall know who to call upon in my hour of need.” He lowered into a full bow, his cloak billowing around him. You took a step back, a bout of giggle escaping your mouth. Who would’ve thought the stern king had a sense of humor?

“Farewell, my lady.” 

He then swept off further into the camp, and you stayed in your spot, watching his form disappear, only moving once you could no longer see him. You turned and entered your tent, hand placed upon your flushed cheek. As you readied yourself for bed, the encounter with Thranduil replayed in your mind. And suddenly, you found yourself dancing alone, unable to push back your excitement. 

And as you lay in bed and shut your eyes, you desperately hoped this would only be the beginning and not where the story would end. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ