Her Immortal Mate (Brides of the Vrakken #3)

15. The Chronicler

From the personal accounts of The Chronicler, First Age of Protheka

I remember the day the vrakken vanished beneath the surface as though it were yesterday - though in truth, it was millennia ago. The dark elves' reaction was fascinating to witness, their pride and arrogance blinding them to the truth that lay right beneath their feet.

"The Thirteen have claimed them," the dark elves whispered in their gilded halls. "Our gods have taken back these creatures who dared to challenge us."

Their assumptions amused me, as I watched them build elaborate theories around the vrakken's disappearance. They constructed grand tales of divine intervention, of the Thirteen rising up to protect their chosen people by dragging their enemies into the depths.

Some of the more zealous dark elves took it upon themselves to venture below, convinced they would find evidence of their gods' victory. I observed as small bands would disappear into cave mouths, armed with magical lights and righteous conviction.

"We must see the glory of the Thirteen's work," declared one particularly vocal warrior, his violet eyes blazing with fervor as he led his followers underground. "We must witness their triumph."

Those who returned spoke of encountering wildsponts - raw magic that made their skin crawl and their powers fluctuate wildly. The few survivors described how their companions were torn apart by unseen forces in the darkness, their screams echoing through twisted tunnels before being suddenly silenced.

"The magic down there... it's wrong," a shell-shocked survivor told me, his hands trembling as he gripped his staff. "It feels alive. Hungry. Like it wants to consume you."

Between the wildsponts' dangerous nature and their unshakeable belief that their deities dwelled in those depths, most dark elves eventually abandoned their underground pursuits. They convinced themselves that the caverns were sacred ground, not meant for mortal feet to tread.

But not all heeded these warnings. Some dark elves, driven by hatred or curiosity or both, continued to venture below. They would slip away in small groups, armed with protective spells and determination. Very few ever returned.

I watched as another group of dark elves descended into the caves, their magical lights dancing off crystalline walls. This party was led by a seasoned battle mage named Veriax, his platinum hair tied back as he traced intricate patterns in the air.

"The wildsponts pulse stronger here," he muttered, pressing his palm against the rock face. "We're close to something."

His team reached a cavern where magic sparked visible in the air, like lightning trapped in amber. They attempted to harness it, to bend it to their will as they did with all magic on the surface. But wildsponts are not so easily tamed.

The magic surged, wrapping around three of their party. In a flash, they vanished - transported who knows where. Well, of course, I know where. But I don't have to share all my information. Perhaps to the frozen wastes of the north, or the depths of the endless sea. Such is the nature of wild magic when wielded improperly.

The remaining dark elves pressed on, emboldened rather than deterred by their losses. Their arrogance would be their undoing. They found what they sought — a vrakken nest deep within the twisting tunnels. But they were not prepared for what awaited them.

The vrakken emerged from shadows, pale as death and twice as swift. They moved like liquid darkness, their wings scraping stone as they descended upon the intruders. I observed as the dark elves' magic flickered and died, snuffed out by the raw power emanating from the wildsponts that the vrakken had learned to harness.

"Please," begged one of the dark elves as a vrakken seized him. "We only wished to-"

His words cut off as his throat was slashed. Too bad the vrakken couldn't use the elves for blood. The vrakken didn't kill them all, though. Some they kept, chaining them in the depths as servants. A fate worse than the quick death their companions received. Though the dark elves died quickly underground.

Those dark elves who managed to escape spread tales of the horrors below, but few believed them. Most assumed they'd simply gone mad from exposure to the wild magic. It was easier to believe that than face the truth — that their enemies had not been destroyed, but had instead found a new kingdom in the darkness.

Within a few generations, the vrakken became nothing more than frightening bedtime stories. The dark elves convinced themselves that such monsters couldn't possibly exist - they were simply cautionary tales, meant to keep young ones from wandering too far from home.

Until the vrakken decided it was time for them to come back to the surface.

But that is a story for another time…

To be continued