Page 45 of Prince of the Sun

“Árrion.” I repeat. “That’spalacein Maevish.”

“Correct. Árrion is the royal stronghold that was established at the close of the Elemental Wars. It’s nestled deep within theSinthalësorëa,hidden in the peaks ofHenaithwin.”

I grin. “Now you’re just testing me.Sinthalësorëa—easy. Maevish. Noun. Translation:deep, forested valley.Henaithwin—even easier. Lukkarin. Proper noun. Translation:the Mountains of Mist.Made famous by none other than your father, who referenced theHenaithwinin a press conference almost a decade ago. One of the only instances wherein an elf has publicly revealed information about the landscape of Elaërion.”

“Very impressive, Kallister. In fact.” He leans forward, eyes flashing. “Some may go so far as to call itobsessive.”

Heat creeps up the collar of my sweatshirt. “I enjoy translation. That’s all.”

“Mm-hmm.” He leans back, throwing an arm over the back of the futon that comes dangerously close to being around my shoulders. “In any case. As its name suggests, Sinthalësorëa is indeed a vast forest, into which the rooms and towers of Árrion are tucked. The rooms were open and airy, windows always open to allow in the fresh air and sunlight that filtered through the mist. Paths connected the stone structures. Trees grew in such abundance that, when running along the trails, you could scarcely see any of the buildings, but for the few that crawl up the side of the mountain. You had to know exactly where you were going to get there.”

“It sounds…” I shake my head. “It sounds wonderful.”

“It was.” He smiles sadly.

“You keep speaking of Árrion in the past tense.”

“That’s because…” He lets out a long exhale. “That’s because Árrion no longer exists.”

“It was destroyed?”

“Not destroyed. It is no longer inhabitable.”

I can scarcely breathe, so afraid am I that Daerios might realize what he’s doing and stop. What he’s telling me is more substantial than anything I’ve read about Elvish history. I might be the first human to ever hear this tale.

“When I was just a boy, a group of Wild Elves were lured by a pack of nightshades into a realm of Elaërion known asZolaërren.

I do a quick translation in my head. “Maevish.Shadowfell.”

“Correct. No elf is supposed to enter Shadowfell; monsters roam beneath a sky of permanent black, dragging themselves between pools of darkness and craggy mountain peaks. When we sent missions over its border in the past, no elf returned.”

“But these elves…” I prompt.

He nods. “They returned. But not as the beings they once were.”

“As what, then?”

“As Shadow Elves.”

“I’ve heard of the species,” I say. “But I don’t think I’ve ever seen one.”

“You wouldn’t have. None crossed over from Elaërion to Earth. We wouldn’t allow it. They’d done enough damage to one realm, and were more than content to sit with their spoils.”

“I don’t understand.”

“When the Shadow Elves returned to the realm of the living, they were angry. They could not truly live outside Shadowfell; their skin, either pale whitish-green or sallow shades of grey, dried up under the sun, which meant they could come out only under the blanket of night. For that reason, my father and the general did not consider them to be a threat.” He shakes his head. “They could not have been more wrong.”

I ball up my shorts in one fist. I’mafraid. Afraid for little Daerios. How old was he when this happened? If he was alive, he couldn’t have been more than a boy.

“Amongst the Wild Elves who first crossed into Shadowfell, there was a skilled craftsman known as Ontamo. When he returned in his shadow form, he retained all of his skill, along with a deep hunger to bend the rest of Elaërion to the Shadow Elves’ needs.” Daerios’s fingertips brush my shoulders. “Ontamo went back to Shadowfell, where, using materials pulled from one of the many pools of darkness, he forged a blade.”

“What kind of blade?”

His lips pull sadly upward. “The kind that can sever a barrier between realms.”

“Oh.” The pieces fall into place. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”