Life magic. Someone nearby has life magic.
Without moving, he sends out feelers of his own, and it’s not hard to detect the three elves approaching.
None of them are his family.
High borns, judging by the strength and number of affinities they share among them. The life wielder, who probably knows Tharios is awake now that their life magic has crossed paths, has a second affinity for soil wielding. Another soil wielder stands at his side, but this one harbors plant magic, too. He’s probably very at home in these woods.
The third elf is a water wielder with what feels like destruction magic. The thought tightens Tharios’s stomach.
Not that all destruction-wielding elves are evil. Father has three in his elite warrior band.
But destruction magic has been used for evil far more than the other affinities throughout elven history.
“Air magic,” a voice whispers.
“Air magic? A Westaria? Trysting with a human?” The disgust in the second elf’s voice is unmistakable. “I thought the infantile king took the fae slops as his pet.”
Anger burns within Tharios at their words. Fae slops pet. He knew elves had called Mother that in the past, but to hear it with his own ears makes his blood boil. Wisps of Lothlesi magic may flow through her veins, as it does all Mother’s kin, who have dwelled near the Lothlesi stronghold for generations.
But she’s an elf, wholly and completely. And the Lothlesi princess still slumbering at Tharios’s side deserves none of the slurs against her people, either.
It seems prejudice is still alive and well in Lostariel.
That they think Viala is human is probably for the best, though. Better they assume a kitten shares his bed rather than a sleeping tiger.
“This isn’t the king. Not that king, at least,” the first elf says. “A lot can change in three decades, though. This one has life magic, like the fae slops. And I sensed life magic probing us. He’s awake.”
“He must tryst with a human in secret because no elf would have him.”
That comment was definitely meant for Tharios’s ears. Are they trying to provoke him? Who are they, anyway? Elves who have no framework for the past three decades of Lostarien history?
But they called Father the King of Lostariel.
The sick feeling in Tharios’s stomach grows.
The missing elven rebels. The ones Mother and Father never weeded out of hiding following the battle whereFather almost died. A dozen of them were never accounted for. Most were presumed dead.
That seems to be not entirely the case.
Why are they here now, though? And where have they been hiding for the past thirty years?
“Viala,” Tharios whispers in her ear in Lothlesian. “Stay quiet and don’t move. We aren’t alone.”
She stiffens against him.
“High-born rebels,” he continues. “I’m going to free your magic so you can protect yourself if you need to, but I should be able to take them alone.”
She barely nods, and he frees her flame.
“We hear you whispering to your human pet, Westaria.”
“What do you want?” Tharios asks in Elvish.
“To send a message to the King of Lostariel. Is that you, or does your father live? He seemed determined to get himself killed when last we met.”
“My father lives.”
“Pity. You tell him he may have cut off the branches of Lostarien order and sown chaos among our people, but we are elves. Our roots run deep, and elves never forget.”
