SILVERBLOOD

"Legend says that somewhere, hidden from all eyes, there lies an ancient book, forgotten by the world. The Book of Elion. No one knows if it was ever truly real or merely a tale whispered by fairies and sages, but legend has it that within are all the spells ever created, the healing ones, the forbidden ones, and the ones that were never meant to be spoken. The book’s cover was forged from pure silver, and woven into it were the bones of the four dragon races, the elemental dragons, majestic beings who once filled the skies with their flight. Ignar, master of fire, Aerysal, queen of the wind, Vaelis, lord of the waters, and Tharom, the slumbering giant of the deep earth. They are long gone, yet their essence still lives on within this book. At the heart of the cover, some say, still burns a living gem: the Dragon’s Heart. A stone with infinite mana, capable of destroying the Elven Staff and melting the Fairy Crown. But such power can only be awakened by a truly pure soul. One without hatred. Without a thirst for vengeance. Without even a shadow in their heart. Only then, and only through a spell from the book’s pages, can the Dragon’s Heart be touched. If the book falls into the wrong hands, chaos will once again flood Elarion. Many stories speak of Elarion as a realm once in harmony with magical beings, Eryan."

"But Mother... I don’t understand. Why can’t we be like that anymore?"

"Because of greed, my dear. Greed brings out the worst in people. You must never become like that, Eryan. You must love, hope, work. And always, always, my sweet child, you must help. Do not fall prey to greed. Let your heart remain pure like the fairies, kind and good. Let your courage be like that of the dragons, who, though the most powerful of beings, were gentle. And let your ambition be like the elves, great warriors, strong and honorable.

The boy listened sleepily, his head resting on his mother’s chest. Her voice, gentle and steady, surrounded him every evening with stories of Elarion. A place once full of magical beings, of fairies and elves, of forests that sang and waters that healed.

But that world had fallen apart. Wars between humans, elves, and fairies had lasted for decades. Magical beings now hid in the skies, far from the hatred of the greedy. Humans had hunted the creatures of nature, trying to steal their power. The fairies and the elves fought back. From that moment, peace became a legend.

The crickets sang in harmony with the frogs. Inside, the fire burned quietly, casting dancing lights on the old wooden walls. Eryan was asleep, dreaming of a world full of magic, while his mother sat on a chair, watching the old fireplace, knitting in silence.

*

The next morning, soft daylight slipped through the small windows carved into the aged wood of the house. On the low table made from an oak trunk smoothed by time, steam rose from a deep, dark wooden bowl. It had just been carved, still showing knife marks around the edges, and was filled with a stew of vegetables and herbs picked from the garden. Eryan sat on a short stool, his legs dangling in the air, blowing gently over the hot soup. Next to him, a heavy wooden mug smelled of mint and lavender tea. He rested his elbow on the table, gathering crumbs of dry bread with his fingers, forming them into a little pile while his mother moved around the house.

"I was thinking we could go pick linden flowers today. What do you say?"

The boy nodded, still focused on the crumbs he gathered, waiting for the ants to arrive. It was an early summer morning. Warm and calm. Butterflies flew freely, bees danced from flower to flower, and the old house, covered in forest moss, remained hidden from roads and people. Several weeping willows surrounded the small home. The little garden was separated by a low fence, but that didn’t stop rabbits and foxes from wandering close. Eryan was happiest when he saw a new animal. He tried to draw it, to get close, sometimes even to catch it. He had long wished for a dog, and his mother had promised that for his birthday, she would go down to the market in hopes of finding a puppy. In the morning calm, the air suddenly grew heavy. The bowl of soup trembled slightly under the vibration of distant steps. The spoon swayed gently, tapping the edge with a faint clink. Mirael, Eryan’s mother, was still standing near the table, her hands wet from chopping vegetables, when the ground began to shake. The sound wasn’t normal. It was a gallop, fast and heavy. Whoever was coming didn’t come with good intentions. The windows trembled, and a piercing neigh broke nature’s silence. Mirael froze. Eryan looked at her curiously, but in her eyes, he saw something he had never seen before. Pure fear. She put the knife on the table, wiped her hands hurriedly on her apron, then turned abruptly toward her son.

"Eryan. Come here. Now."

Her voice trembled, her hands moved on instinct, guided by a mother’s urgency. The gallop had stopped. Now heavy footsteps could be heard, getting closer.

She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the back wall, where a rug woven by the grandmother covered a small, hidden trapdoor. A hiding place built years ago “just in case,” but never used.

"Don’t make a sound, do you understand? Don’t come out until it’s quiet again."

Tears filled her eyes. She looked at her child, perhaps for the last time. Her hands trembled. Something inside her was breaking. One thought gripped her heart: What will become of my child? Eryan had no one else. And that thought tore her apart more than fear itself. Eryan wanted to ask what was happening, but he didn’t get the chance. His mother cupped his face in her hands, looked deep into his eyes, smiled faintly, and then gently closed the trapdoor, leaving it openable from the inside. She pulled the rug back over it, and the house went quiet. Eryan looked through the cracks in the floor. The door creaked open. Two strangers entered, dressed entirely in black, from head to toe. They wore no shining armor, but heavy treated leather with visible stitching and reinforcements on the shoulders and thighs. Their helmets had mask-like shapes that covered the lower part of their faces. Only their eyes were visible cold and merciless. They wore scorched insignias on their chests elven runes, but distorted, blackened and slashed the mark of the rogue mercenaries. One of them had a deep scar running down his left cheek, close to his eye. He stepped closer to Mirael and, without warning, grabbed her throat.

"Take what you want and go. I don’t want trouble," Mirael said, trying to sound brave, though her heart raced in her chest.

"Woman... if we wanted to rob you, would we stop at your stable?" the one with the scar replied, his voice oozing with disdain. "We’re looking for a fugitive fairy. A criminal. Blonde, a little shorter than you, with eyes like emeralds. Have you seen her?"

"No..." Mirael answered weakly, struggling to breathe under the stranger’s grip.

The man paused, scanning the room. His gaze stopped at the two bowls on the table. One full. One empty. Mirael silently thanked the skies that her son had eaten first.

"Expecting someone?"

"M-my... my husband," she stammered. "He went to the market."

"Are you sure you’ve seen nothing?" he asked, tightening his grip.

"I... I promise I haven’t...

With a sharp crack, her neck broke. The scarred man let go. Her body hit the floor with a deafening thud, heavy and lifeless. Eryan watched from the hiding place, his eyes full of tears. His mother lay on the ground, lifeless. He wanted to run to her, to scream, to defend her, but he couldn’t. Fear held him frozen, his hands clenched, his jaw tight. He was paralyzed. Watching helplessly. Time stopped. Eryan could no longer feel the floor beneath him, nor the air around him. He pulled his knees to his chest, fingers clenched over his mouth, the way he did during nightmares. But this wasn’t a bad dream.

No... his mother lay on the ground, lifeless. He didn’t understand what had happened. His ears rang, he could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his skull, and his breathing was uneven. The strangers’ heavy steps had left the house moments ago. The door had creaked, a sword had scraped against the frame… then silence.

He waited a few more moments, staring through the cracks in the floor, then pushed open the trapdoor and rushed toward his mother. He crawled to her, his little legs weak and trembling. His mother... was cold. He began to cry loudly, the ground collapsing beneath him. He held her tightly, his small hands clinging to her clothes. His face turned red, tears streaming endlessly. He couldn’t speak. Not when the sobs wouldn’t stop. Not when his body shook with grief. Not when the only sound in the house was his wailing, loud and overwhelming, full of despair.