Varthiel Arakanos found humans annoying. As a general rule, and like most Dark Elves, he found dealing with them wearisome and never did so when it could be avoided. Most Dark Elves were fortunate never to have to engage in dealings with such an immature, impetuous, and self-destructive breed.

  But as the fifth hour of his time in what his captors euphemistically termed "protective custody" wore on, he decided that these humans, these Americans, were the most maddeningly incomprehensible of their breed he'd ever encountered.

  Contrary to his expectations, they hadn't tortured him for information. Far from it. Instead, he had been given food, a bed to sleep on, and assurances of Icepaw's continued safety. The food was dreadful, by Dark Elf standards, and the bed was one he wouldn't let his zburator have pups on, but the lack of pain was...unsettling. They hadn't even tried to probe his mind magically. It defied all logic. Why detain a Dark Elf scout if not to extract secrets? Were they simply incompetent? Or was this some insidious form of psychological torment? He paced the sterile confines of his cell, his boots clicking softly on the polished concrete floor. The room was devoid of any feature save a cot, a metal sink-toilet combination, and a heavy steel door with a small, thick window.

  Yet his keen senses detected no magic woven into the walls, no wards, no glyphs of binding – just cold, dead metal and stone. Their reliance on purely physical confinement spoke volumes about their ignorance of the arcane arts. Yet, these same Americans possessed devices that captured moving images and voices with impossible clarity, and weapons that spat fire and death without a trace of the arcane. Their ignorance wasn't merely a lack of knowledge; it was a profound, seemingly biological disconnect, as if they were blind to a spectrum of light visible to every other sentient race in Loriath. How could a people capable of creating such wonders be so utterly oblivious? How could anyone be so technologically advanced and yet so utterly blind to the fundamental energies that underpinned reality? It was like building a magnificent palace without understanding how to quarry stone. It made no sense!

  In fact, now that Varthiel thought about it, nothing about the Americans made sense. They were clearly the masters of a vast realm, and yet they treated prisoners with baffling softness. He'd been interrogated—if one could call it that—by the human Shaw several times now. She'd asked polite, almost simplistic questions about Sarnathi geography and culture. When he'd offered nothing but silence or vague deflections, she hadn't pressed. She hadn't raised her voice. She'd simply nodded, thanked him for his time, and left him alone with his thoughts.

  Varthiel ground his teeth. Surely this was some devious ploy to lull him into complacency. Well, it wouldn't work. Not on him. He would not be tricked into lowering his guard.

  The door clanged open with a buzzing sound and Varthiel stiffened as Shaw strode in.

  “Good afternoon. And how are we doing?” she asked.

  "Is it afternoon?” Varthiel replied sardonically. “Time seems to blur together in here.”

  “You know,” Shaw went on, ignoring the barb. "When you first touched down on American soil, you spoke of the possibility of diplomacy. But surely even you must admit it’s rather hard to initiate diplomacy with someone you know little about. You’ve barely said a word to us.”

  She gestured, and a guard came in with a tray of food. Varthiel stared at it suspiciously, at which Shaw rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she sighed, in a long-suffering tone. She took a bite of chicken-fried steak. “See? Not poisoned or drugged. Happy now?”

  Varthiel watched her chew with barely concealed disgust. The manner in which humans masticated their food had always struck him as vulgar—like watching a zburator tear into fresh prey, but with considerably less dignity.

  "Your concern for my well-being is touching," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  Shaw swallowed her bite and set the tray down on the edge of his cot. "Look, I get it. You think we're playing some elaborate mind game. We're not. That's not how we operate. But this situation is unprecedented for all of us."

  The Dark Elf's crimson eyes remained fixed on Shaw's face, searching for any sign of deceit. There was none he could detect, which only deepened his suspicion.

  “Unprecedented, how exactly?” Varthiel ventured, choosing his words with extreme care.

  Shaw leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Honestly? I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you.”

  Varthiel snorted with humorless mirth. “You have no concept what my people may or may not believe, human. Do your worst.”

  Instead of answering, Shaw cocked her head. “You really don’t think much of us humans, do you?”

  “How perceptive.”

  “May I ask why?”

  Varthiel began ticking points off on his fingers. “You are emotionally immature, self-destructive, perpetually ignorant, and fundamentally incapable of learning from your own mistakes or history. You are short-tempered, quick to anger, and even quicker to resort to violence. Your kind regularly engages in mass self-slaughter over resources that could easily be shared or over abstract differences in philosophy. A single Dark Elf lives longer than a dozen human generations, yet in all that time, your kind never seems to progress beyond petty squabbles and self-inflicted catastrophes. You are—”

  "I get the picture," Shaw interrupted, pushing herself off the wall with a sigh. "And yet here we are, feeding you, not torturing you, asking questions politely instead of using force."

  Varthiel fell silent. This contradiction had been nagging at him since his capture, though he’d be damned if he let Shaw know it. “Why?” he finally asked.

  “Because we’re not your enemies. We want peace, trade, and good relations with your people. Varthiel, I remind you again that you spoke of diplomacy when you first got here. You asked if anyone nearby had the authority to treat with you. I do. So, let’s talk."

  “That first requires trust, and as I am a prisoner, I have no reason to trust you,” Varthiel snapped.

  “You’re not a prisoner, you’re a guest. You’re in here for your safety as much as anything else. Anytime you want to leave, you can. No one will stop you. But before you do, shouldn’t you at least hear me out? We're already sitting down to talk with the Dwarf kingdom, you know as much. We'd like to talk with yours as well."

  Varthiel pursed his lips. "How do I know you simply haven't deceived the Dwarves?” he finally said. “Perhaps you plan on betraying them once they are of no use to you. You humans know more of treachery and betrayal than any other race in Loriath."

  Shaw snorted. "Deceived the Dwarves? You think they'd be easily fooled? They boarded our warship after we aided them, saw our weapons firsthand, and chose diplomacy. That’s not deception on our part—that’s pragmatism on theirs." She leaned forward, his gaze sharp. "You’re a scout, right? Trained to assess and analyze. So take your head out of your ass, put aside your prejudices, and assess and analyze this: if we wanted to pick a fight, we would've done it by now.”

  Her blunt speech took him aback. For a moment, Varthiel was too stunned to respond. Few had ever addressed him with such forthright disrespect, certainly no human. His long fingers curled into fists, then relaxed as he forced his rising anger back down. As much as he hated to admit it, the human had a point. In fact, this Shaw woman unnerved him more each time they spoke. It was not that humans were incapable of logic—he knew that—but rather that they rarely employed it as often or with as much precision as she did.

  Shaw watched his expression change, noting the flicker of surprise that crossed his angular features. She had gambled that directness might break through where diplomacy had failed, and that gamble seemed like it was paying off. She could see the calculation happening behind those crimson eyes.

  “And," Varthiel said at last, "on the slim chance you are telling the truth, what, then, do you want to know?"

  "I already told you. Tell us more about Sarnath. What's the culture like? Tell us about your people and who rules you. We want to know more about you."

  "If I share these things," he finally said. "I will ask you questions in return, and you will answer them in kind. Truthfully. If you wish to know about my kind, I will know all about yours as well. Information is power--it cannot be given in exchange for nothing. And know this: I will not give anything that might be used to harm my people. I would die before placing them at risk.”

  Shaw cocked her head. “Spoken like a true parent. How old is your kid?”

  Varthiel blinked, taken off-guard. “How…?”

  “Only someone with something precious to lose talks like that. I’ve got two myself, a boy and a girl.” Shaw reached into her back pocket and withdrew a foldable piece of leather. Inside were various pieces of green-colored paper. She fished inside it for a moment, then removed two pictures—not paintings, but pictures, like a moment in time captured forever. “My son, David, and my daughter, Ellen,” she said.

  Varthiel leaned in a little, curious despite himself. He noted the genuine warmth in Shaw’s voice when she spoke of them. She was exposing a vulnerability no Sar'Kadan warrior would ever display so openly. It felt like a calculated risk, a deliberate lowering of shields. Why?

  He nodded, just once. "Your progeny are not as deformed as one might expect of your inferior breed," Varthiel stated matter-of-factly.

  Shaw's expression shifted ever so slightly—not to anger, but to something resembling amusement. She slipped the photos back into her wallet and tucked it away.

  "You know, most humans would take offense at that remark," she said. "But I understand what you're doing. Testing boundaries, maintaining your superiority. It's a classic interrogation resistance technique."

  Varthiel felt a flicker of irritation. Once again, this human was more perceptive than he'd given her credit for. "My son is but on the cusp of adolescence," he admitted after a long pause. "His name is Har’Kel. In our language, it means He of Stone Will.” The words felt strange on his tongue, a personal detail offered to a potential enemy. But something in Shaw's gesture had stirred something in the Dark Elf—a recognition, perhaps, that despite their vast differences, they shared at least one commonality.

  "He is in the care of his mother," Varthiel continued, surprising himself with this voluntary disclosure. "She is a formidable sorceress, more than capable of protecting him should the need arise."

  "He of Stone Will," Shaw repeated. "That's a powerful name. What's he like?"

  Varthiel hesitated. This was not how interrogations were supposed to proceed. Where was the leverage, the threats, the pain? Still, if his affection for his offspring was a weakness to exploit…then so was Shaw’s.

  "He is...willful, befitting his name. Headstrong. Too curious for his own good." A ghost of pride flickered across Varthiel's severe features. "He excels in elemental magic beyond his years, and will soon be choosing a zburator mount of his own.”

  “Zburator…that’s the wolf-thing you flew in on?” Shaw asked.

  “He is far more than that. To my people, the noble zburator is companion, protector, and so much more," Varthiel explained, his voice softening despite himself. "The bond between a Dark Elf and their zburator is sacred. It transcends mere ownership or domestication. When a young Sar'Kadan comes of age, they enter the great breeding grounds beneath Mount Kaldurath. There, they are chosen by a zburator pup—or not. Those who are not selected must follow different paths in service to our people."

  Shaw nodded thoughtfully, genuinely intrigued by this cultural insight. She made a mental note to include these details in her report. The zburator bond could be significant—both culturally and strategically—if relations with the Dark Elves progressed.

  "So it's the zburator that chooses, not the other way around," she observed. "Interesting."

  Varthiel nodded. “To choose a zburator mount, and be chosen by it in turn, is one of the greatest events in the lives of my people. I regret I cannot be there to congratulate my son, for I know he will sit astride a mighty one.” He paused. “I have shared much. Now it is your turn. Speak, then, of your offspring.”

  Shaw nodded. This was a delicate moment in what was becoming an unexpectedly productive conversation. This moment represented a critical breakthrough—the first genuine cultural exchange with the Dark Elf. Such information was invaluable, not just for her personal mission but for the broader diplomatic initiatives that would soon unfold. But she also understood that reciprocity was essential; she would need to offer something meaningful in return, and respect the quid pro quo that Varthiel was establishing.

  "David's fourteen, into baseball and video games. Smart kid, but a typical teenager in many ways. Spends too much time on his computer, argues about bedtime, thinks he knows everything,” Shaw said, her expression softening slightly. "Ellen's eleven, plays violin, reads everything she can get her hands on. Both of them would be absolutely fascinated by you, by the way."

  Varthiel noted the change in her demeanor, the way her shoulders relaxed infinitesimally when speaking of her offspring. Weakness, a part of him thought once more. But another part—a part he was increasingly uncomfortable acknowledging—recognized the genuine pride in her voice. It mirrored his own feelings for Har'Kel.

  "And their father?"

  "He's not in the picture anymore," Shaw replied, with a practiced evenness that betrayed little emotion. But Varthiel, attuned to the subtle changes in expression that betrayed a being's true emotions, caught the slight tightening around her eyes. "We divorced when Ellen was five. He lives in Seattle now. Sees the kids during summer and some holidays."

  Varthiel absorbed this information with interest. Among the Sar'Kadan, permanent separation was rare—not because of any particular cultural taboo, but because their long lives made them cautious about forming such bonds in the first place. When Dark Elves took partners, they typically did so after decades of consideration.

  “What of your son’s mother?” Shaw asked him in turn. “What's she like?"

  “She is the fire to my ice, and the great love of my heart,” Varthiel said. “I would die for her without a moment’s hesitation if it meant ensuring her safety, for she is as beautiful as a winter morning.”

  Shaw arched an eyebrow. “That’s awfully poetic.”

  “Among my people, poetry is held in the highest esteem of all the creative arts,” Varthiel said. “We are not slaves to our emotions, like your kind are, but we are not made of ice and stone. You would be moved to tears by even the least of our songs and epics.”

  Shaw smiled, a rare genuine expression that reached her eyes. "I'd like to hear some of those someday."

  "Perhaps you shall," Varthiel said finally. “Though it is unlikely. And even if you did, I doubt your human ears could truly appreciate the subtleties of our melodies." Despite his dismissive words, his tone had softened ever so slightly.

  Outside the cell, two intelligence analysts watched the exchange on monitors. They exchanged glances, recognizing the small but significant breakthrough Shaw had achieved.

  "She's good," the younger analyst whispered.

  His superior nodded. "The children angle was particularly inspired.”

  Varthiel, unaware of their scrutiny, continued. “Elaborate, human. You say your son is fourteen, as your years are measured. For my people, that is barely out of toddlerhood. Am I to assume, then, that this is the age of transition to adulthood for your kind, hence his rebellious temperament?”

  Shaw chuckled. "He's not a man yet, no. Humans typically consider adulthood to begin around eighteen, though that's a recent development. A few centuries ago, a fourteen-year-old boy would have been working alongside men."

  "A few centuries," Varthiel repeated, unable to keep the condescension from his voice. "You speak of such a span as if it were vast. I have undergarments older than that."

  To his surprise, Shaw laughed outright. "I bet you do.” Then she smiled. “Your son, Har'Kel—how old is he by comparison?"

  Shaw watched Varthiel carefully, noting how the question made him pause. His crimson eyes narrowed slightly, weighing the strategic value of this information against what he'd already revealed.

  "Har'Kel has seen thirty-eight winters," Varthiel said finally. "By your reckoning, he would be considered an adolescent, though our young mature more slowly than yours. A Dark Elf is not considered fully adult until they have lived at least a century."

  Shaw couldn't hide her surprise. "A hundred years? So you're—"

  "Three hundred and seventy-three," Varthiel interrupted.

  She gave a low whistle. “Damn. I’m jealous.”

  “That is expected. There is much about my people that warrants jealousy.” Varthiel leaned forward. “I would know more about this realm you call home, human. Clearly, you have managed to establish an empire of considerable size—larger than any human realm my people have encountered before. How?”

  “That’s a long story,” Shaw said.

  “What is time to a Dark Elf?” Varthiel gave a negligent wave of his hand. “Go on.”

  “Well…it begins about two hundred-odd years ago,” Shaw said, in the sort of tone one might use when relating a legend or fairy tale. “My country originated as 13 disparate colonies established on this continent by a king across the sea. For a while, everything was good. The king left us to our own devices and let us run our own affairs. But then things changed. He started imposing taxes without our consent, stationing troops in our homes at our expense, and generally treating us in a much harsher manner than he'd done before. We'd been running our own show for a long time by that point, and we were not prepared and not pleased that, all of a sudden, the king was trying to micromanage everything."

  Varthiel frowned. "I fail to understand what is so upsetting. Setting taxes is a monarch's prerogative, and the quartering of troops is something all Sar'Kadan are accustomed to."

  Shaw leaned forward, surprise evident on her face.

  "Really? That's normal to you?" she asked, genuinely curious. "Having soldiers living in your home at your expense?"

  Varthiel regarded her with mild confusion. The human's reaction seemed disproportionate to what he considered a basic fact of life.

  "Of course. The Queen's warriors must be housed somewhere when they travel. It is an honor to provide shelter to those who defend our borders."

  Shaw leaned back in her chair, considering how to explain concepts of democracy and self-determination to someone from a monarchical society. The very ideas that Americans took for granted might seem alien, even dangerous to Varthiel. "It's not that simple," she explained. "In our culture, the relationship between ruler and ruled is... different. We believe that government derives its power from the consent of the governed. We believed we deserved to have our opinions heard and taken into consideration if we were to be taxed, and if we had to quarter troops in our own homes, we shouldn’t have to shoulder the cost for it. We tried to petition the king to have him hear our grievances, but he refused to listen. We can agree, at least, that a king should listen to his subjects, right?"

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  "Granted," Varthiel said grudgingly.

  "Eventually," Shaw continued, "we decided enough was enough. We declared independence and fought a war to secure it. It was a close-run thing. We were up against an empire far stronger than we were at the time. But we were lucky enough to have a group of gifted, brilliant men leading us, and against all odds, and after years of bloodshed, we triumphed. After that, we established a new system. A republic – a government where leaders are elected by the people for limited terms, not born into power. We vowed that from then on, we would bend the knee to no one and never have a monarch. Ever again." She dug out her phone and pulled up a copy of the Declaration of Independence. “See this? This is the most famous document in our history. It has been preserved, carefully, even to this day. The men who led us in that war all signed it at the onset of the conflict.”

  “What does it say?” Varthiel couldn’t help but ask.

  "It lays out the reasons we felt we had to break away. Our grievances against the king and the principles we believe in." She scrolled through the document, then stopped at a particular passage. "Here: 'We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.'“ Shaw's voice took on a reverent quality that Varthiel found puzzling. "And that when a government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or abolish it."

  Varthiel stared at the document displayed on Shaw's device, his crimson eyes narrowing as he processed what she was telling him.

  "Equal?" he finally said, the word sounding strange on his tongue. "Your founding document claims all men are equal?" He couldn't keep the incredulity from his voice. "Even the lowliest peasant equal to the highest noble?"

  Shaw nodded. "That's the ideal, yes. Anyway, after the war, we drafted a Constitution—basically a set of fundamental laws limiting government power and guaranteeing individual rights. The President leads the executive branch but can't make laws alone. Congress, elected by citizens, handles legislation. Courts interpret the laws. Power is deliberately fragmented to ensure no one branch of government gets too powerful and each has a means of checking the other two."

  Varthiel blinked slowly. In Sarnath, power flowed from the Queen downward through the noble houses, each with its designated place in the hierarchy. The idea of deliberately fragmenting authority seemed like madness—a recipe for chaos and weakness.

  "And this... fragmented power... has served your people well?" he asked, genuine curiosity overriding his usual disdain.

  "It's not perfect," Shaw admitted. "We've had our share of struggles and civil unrest. But we've managed to build a powerful nation without ever having a king or queen. We've existed for only around 250 years, but in that time, we've gone from thirteen colonies hugging the eastern seaboard to spanning a continent.”

  Varthiel nodded. Conquest, at least, he understood. "And your enemies? They simply allowed this expansion?"

  "Not exactly.” A shadow crossed her face. "I won't pretend our history is spotless. We displaced the native peoples who lived here first. We fought wars with our neighbors. We even fought amongst ourselves—a bloody civil war that nearly destroyed us. But through it all, we never lost sight of the fact that we’re building something better: a society where anyone can live free, equal under the law, with the rights to speak their minds, worship as they please, and choose their own leaders."

  Shaw's passion was evident, but privately Varthiel found the entire concept preposterous.

  "And what of those who are simply better than others?" he asked. "Surely you cannot mean to suggest that all humans possess equal capacity for leadership or wisdom."

  "Equal rights doesn't mean equal ability," Shaw clarified. "We recognize that people have different talents and aptitudes. But we believe everyone deserves the same basic protections and opportunities under the law."

  "You seem very proud of them,” Varthiel said. “These rights you speak of."

  "Yup."

  "Then answer me this, human. If each of your people is at liberty to pursue their own ends, if all do not work for the sustainment of the greater whole, how do you keep your country strong? If all are equal, then none can be exceptional. If all are allowed to pursue their own vain and petty ambitions, the collective strength of a people withers."

  "We don't see it that way," Shaw countered. "We believe that if each person is able to pursue their own goals in life and achieve their greatest potential, the collective becomes stronger than any forced unity." She gestured toward the window where Minneapolis sprawled around them. "Look at what we've built. Our strength comes from millions making their own choices."

  "At considerable risk," Varthiel pointed out, "if those choices are destructive ones."

  Shaw nodded slowly. "True. Freedom requires responsibility. Like I said before, our system isn't perfect. But it endures because people believe in its core principles." She leaned forward intently. "Tell me, Varthiel Arakanos—what would you do if you could choose your path? What would you do if you weren't a scout?"

  Varthiel blinked. He'd never even thought about it before. The idea of it never crossed his mind. He was a scout. His father had been a scout. His grandfather had been a scout, and his son would be a scout too. He was a scout because that was his allotted, pre-assigned role in Dark Elf society. The question was like asking him what he would do if he weren't breathing.

  "I...I do not know," he finally said.

  Shaw saw the bewilderment on Varthiel's face and understood it immediately. For perhaps the first time since his capture, Varthiel looked genuinely unsettled.

  The silence stretched between them.

  "I have always been a scout," Varthiel finally said, his voice softer than Shaw had heard before. "It is my purpose. The question itself is... nonsensical to me.” His tone turned sharp. “Our system isn't some primitive arrangement forced upon unwilling subjects. It is elegant, refined over millennia. We are not some downtrodden race of ignorant masses.”

  Shaw nodded slowly, careful not to appear judgmental. This was precisely the kind of cultural insight she’d had hoped to gain—a glimpse into the structure of Dark Elf society. She made mental notes about the rigid social structure this suggested. It could have profound implications for any diplomatic relationship—and might represent a fundamental incompatibility with American values.

  Varthiel continued. His mouth twisted into a skeptical grimace. "More, you speak of freedom as if it were some sacred thing," he said. "But I see no freedom in your actions toward me. I am held captive, am I not?"

  Shaw raised an eyebrow. "I told you before—you're free to go whenever you like. The door isn't locked from our side."

  "You expect me to believe that?" Varthiel scoffed.

  "Try it," Shaw challenged, and to Varthiel's surprise, she stood up and walked to the door, pushing it open fully. She gestured toward the hallway beyond. "Walk out right now if you want. I won't stop you."

  The Dark Elf remained seated, suspicion etched across his angular features. This had to be some sort of test or trap. Yet something in Shaw's demeanor suggested she was telling the truth. The realization disturbed him more than if she had been lying.

  "And if I were to leave?" he asked carefully. "What then?"

  "Then you're free to go," Shaw said with a shrug. "You'd be escorted to your zburator. We've been caring for him—or her?—in a facility nearby. Then you'd be free to fly back to your people. Though I'd appreciate it if you'd consider staying for further talks. We could learn a lot from each other."

  “That remains very much in question.” Yet Varthiel resumed his seat with a huff. “Very well. You have told me much, and I am bound by our agreement to reciprocate. Ask, and perhaps I will deign to answer.”

  Shaw already had a list of questions memorized. “Tell me about your homeland. What’s it like there? Who rules? You mentioned a queen, and some sort of noblewoman, according to Baines’ report.”

  “Sarnath is my home. The home of all my people. It lies far to the north of here, and it is a realm of ice and fire: of tundras and great walls of glacial ice so high they tower to the heavens, and mountains of fire that spew slow rivers of lava. We claimed it as our own in the dawn of days, and there we dwell still. Sarnath is a harsh land, and it has shaped us even as we shaped it in turn. My sovereign, Queen Alarae Illyrian, rules there, as she has always done since time out of mind. My liege, Lady Nyrena Arany’ar, serves her, as do we all.”

  "Queen Alarae has ruled us for as long as the Dark Elves have drawn breath," he continued, his voice taking on a reverent quality that surprised even him. "She led our people through the Great Migration. It was she who discovered Sarnath, claimed it, and transformed it from a barren wasteland into a realm of power and beauty. I cannot count how long she has sat upon her throne, but it has been many, many thousands of years. She is the greatest sorceress of my people, perhaps the greatest sorceress in the known world.”

  Shaw listened intently, making mental connections between his account and the fragments of information they had pieced together from other sources. Thousands of years of continuous rule by a single monarch was almost incomprehensible to her human understanding of time and power.

  "And this Lady Nyrena—she's your direct superior?" Shaw asked.

  “Indeed—and I told this to the other human, Baines, as well. She is young, as my people measure such things, but has already elevated her House to great heights. She may well soon sit upon the Twilight Council.”

  “The what?”

  “The Twilight Council. Twelve of the greatest lords of Sarnath, who sit in conclave and advise the Queen. They are some of the most ancient and powerful of our kind, and they guide Sarnath's path through the ages."

  Shaw nodded, filing this information away.

  "And what is your role in this hierarchy?" Shaw pressed. "Just a scout, or is there more to it?"

  Varthiel hesitated. "I serve as Lady Nyrena's eyes and ears beyond our borders. There are many scouts in her service, of which I am but one. Our task is to observe and report, nothing more."

  He wasn't being entirely truthful, and Shaw knew it. Intelligence officers rarely operated with such limited mandates. But she chose not to challenge him on this point, sensing it might disrupt the tentative rapport they'd established.

  "And you've never encountered humans before?”

  “I have had the misfortune to encounter humans on several occasions, but never your particular breed,” Varthiel said.

  "And is that what brought you to our shores?" she asked. "To observe and report?”

  The Dark Elf didn’t even bother denying it. “Yes. Reports reached Sarnath of strange things to our south, tales of preposterous things which, to my chagrin, I now know to be all too true. I was dispatched by my Lady Nyrena to ascertain the truth of these supposed fables, gather information, and report back to Lady Nyrena without engaging or revealing myself to the natives." Varthiel's lips twisted in a sardonic smile. "Obviously, I failed in that last directive."

  Shaw took a moment to process all this. “And how will your liege, Nyrena, react when you tell her all you’ve seen? Should we be concerned?”

  "Lady Nyrena will react as she always does—with calculation and foresight. She will weigh what I tell her against the interests of our people and the will of the Queen." He paused. "As for whether you should be concerned... that depends entirely on your intentions toward Sarnath."

  The human woman leaned forward slightly. "And if our intentions are peaceful? If we seek only trade and diplomatic relations?”

  "Then perhaps there is no need for concern." Varthiel's crimson eyes fixed on Shaw's face. "But I have lived long enough to know that intentions can change rapidly, particularly among your kind."

  “Then let me put your mind at ease,” Shaw said. “Follow me.”

  She turned and made for the door. Varthiel was instantly wary. “Where are you going? What is this?”

  "I want to show you something."

  “And what is that? Come to the point!”

  Shaw turned and smiled. “Home. Your home."

  The Dark Elf paused. "What do you mean?"

  "Come with me, and you'll find out."

  The human turned and began walking out of the room. Varthiel, unable to resist, followed, cursing her inwardly all the while.

  She led him down the hall to a room where several of the mechanical devices he'd heard them call "computers" had been set up, and on the screen, projected by some means, was an enlarged version of...of...

  "Impossible," he breathed.

  The image on the screen was unmistakable. It showed the jagged peaks of the Great Mountains, rendered in impossible detail from a vantage point high above the clouds. Below, nestled within the snow-laden valleys like a spider in its web, lay Argonar. The Dark Elf capital was depicted with chilling clarity: the obsidian towers of the Royal Palace, the winding streets of the Lower City, even the distinctive serpentine curve of the River Styxus cutting through the desolate icebound landscape. It was Argonar as Varthiel had never seen it – exposed, vulnerable, laid bare.

  Dark Elves were proof against the cold, but the chill that ran down Varthiel's spine as his brain processed the implications of what he was seeing had nothing to do with the weather. He had to grip the nearest table to steady himself.

  "No," he whispered. "No! It is not possible!"

  Agent Shaw gestured calmly at the screen. "That's your capital city, right? Taken three hours ago." He tapped a key. The image shifted seamlessly, zooming closer—revealing the Palace's obsidian spires in terrifying detail. Individual windows were visible. Guards patrolled the battlements, tiny as insects. "Our satellites," Shaw continued plainly, "see everything. Day and night. Through cloud cover. Across continents."

  "S-satellites?" Varthiel asked numbly.

  "Machines," Shaw explained, "orbiting far above the clouds. Watching. Always watching. Think of them as mechanical eyes and you won't be too far off." She tapped another key. The image shifted again—zooming, somehow, even closer onto a specific courtyard within the Palace complex. Tiny, armored figures moved about with precise, lethal grace. "We see troop deployments. Supply caravans." Another tap. The view panned northwest, following the glacial path of the Styxus River toward the volcanic soil of the surrounding farmlands. "We see fields being sown...and fortifications being built." The image froze on a newly erected watchtower complex near the Bleak Pass, its construction visible against the snow.

  Varthiel kept shaking his head. Fear coiled in his gut. His homeland lay naked before these strangers. Every courtyard, every barracks, every defensive emplacement – exposed.

  He had a sudden vision of the flying machines that intercepted him when he first got here soaring over his homeland. He imagined iron ships like the ones he'd seen steaming into Sarnathi waters and disgorging hordes of ravening humans onto the Dark Elves' sacred soil. He imagined Argonar burning.

  "What," he finally said, in a voice so tightly controlled it almost shook, "do you hope to gain by this? Why show me this?"

  Agent Shaw leaned forward slightly. "We want you to understand the reality of your situation, Varthiel. Your Lady Nyrena dispatched you to spy on us, and now, thanks to you, we know why." She tapped the keyboard again. The image shifted to a thermal overlay, showing heat signatures clustered within Argonar's citadel – thousands of lives glowing like embers against the frozen backdrop.

  "What are those?" Varthiel demanded.

  "Heat signatures. Essentially, we can see where people are gathered, moving and living," Shaw explained. "We know Argonar's population density. We know the location of all its military garrisons." The thermal overlay dissolved, replaced by a topographic map highlighting strategic passes, volcanic vents, and aqueducts feeding the city. "We even think we've figured out how some of the infrastructure works, too. You harness the geothermal energy created by the volcanic activity beneath you to power your forges and defenses, correct? Very efficient. We'd love to know how--we have our own ways of harnessing geothermal energy, but nothing on that large a scale."

  "That is because your simian brains lack the capacity to comprehend true mastery!" Varthiel snapped.

  "Now, now. No need to be rude. Let me be clear, Varthiel. We are not threatening you. We have no desire to start a war with anyone—not you, not the Dwarves, no one. We got torn away from the world we knew and dumped here, without any warning or explanation. We're still dealing with the fallout of that."

  "You reveal to me your weakness," the Dark Elf pointed out.

  "Hardly. We're revealing our priorities," Shaw countered smoothly. "We need friends. Allies. Your Queen sent you to spy on us; we're showing you why that's unnecessary." She leaned back, folding his hands. "You see, Varthiel, we didn’t really need you to tell us about the size of your home, its cities, or anything like that. We just needed you to corroborate what we thought we already knew at the time. What you call a threat display, I call transparency.”

  The revelation he’d been outfoxed and outplayed by a human was almost as horrifying as the knowledge his homeland was exposed to the eyes of the humans' infernal machines. Varthiel felt physically ill as he experienced something he had never experienced before—not in all his centuries of life. Helplessness. It crashed over him like an avalanche, smothering his pride and certainty beneath its weight. He tried to recover his composure, but his usual icy demeanor was irreparably cracked. The humans had been watching Sarnath—his home—for gods knew how long already. All his efforts at reconnaissance had been meaningless. Worse than meaningless.

  "Why show me this?" he demanded again, his voice hoarse.

  "Because we want peace," Shaw said simply. "Not war. Not conquest. Just peace, trade, and mutual understanding. We've already begun those discussions with the Dwarven kingdom. We'd like to do the same with yours."

  As she spoke, Shaw watched his reaction carefully, noting every micro-expression that crossed his angular features. She could see the rapid calculations happening behind those crimson eyes—the weighing of options, the assessment of threats, the dawning realization of his people's vulnerability. It was exactly the reaction she had hoped for.

  "This is why we haven't harmed you," she continued softly. "Why we have treated you with respect. Why we're offering you food and shelter rather than interrogating you under duress. Not only because it’s against our principles, but also because we don't need to. We're showing you this because we want you to understand that transparency serves us both better than deception."

  It was a long, long time before the Dark Elf found his voice.

  “What would you have me do?" Varthiel asked, and for once his tone of haughty superiority was entirely absent.

  Shaw's expression softened. "Be our messenger. Return to your Lady Nyrena and to your Queen, with gifts from us to them. Tell them what you've seen. That we've shown you these capabilities not as a threat, but as a demonstration of good faith—that we're being transparent about what we know and what we can do. Explain that America seeks diplomatic relations, not conflict. Tell them we'd welcome an official envoy with full diplomatic protections."

  Varthiel's crimson eyes narrowed, his mind working furiously through the implications. In the world of Dark Elf politics, such a revelation of power would never be made without intent to intimidate or coerce. Yet these humans insisted their motives were peaceful. Could it be true? Or was this some elaborate deception?

  "And if she refuses?"

  "Then we respect her decision," Shaw replied. "We won't force contact. But we hope she'll see the benefits of dialogue over distrust. I think both our nations would benefit hugely.”

  “And what gifts would you have me deliver?”

  Shaw thought about it. “Small things, but one from each of the fifty states.” At his frown, she elaborated. “Think of them like provinces. America is made up of fifty of them. Each state is unique, so you’ll carry back with you a sample of our culture—examples of American crafts, foods, and cultural artifacts. A token of goodwill." She gestured at several large briefcases sitting on a nearby table. "Maple syrup from Vermont. A small vial of sand from Florida's beaches. A tiny carving of a bear from Alaska. A small bottle of bourbon from Kentucky. Nothing dangerous.” A thought seemed to occur to her, then. "And some books, I think, concerning our history and political system."

  Varthiel considered this. Such gifts would be meaningless trinkets to the Queen or Lady Nyrena, but he could see how the gesture itself might be deemed significant. The books, now those merited examination. He knew it would be a simple matter to have Lady Nyrena's best mages translate them into Sar'Kadan script once he got back to Argonar. And since Shaw hadn't offered to do that herself, he suspected she knew it too.

  And the fact of the matter was that, no matter how much he hated to admit it, Sarnath was not prepared for a fight against humans like these. Oh, he had no doubt they could inflict terrible damage upon the Americans, but victory was far from certain. In fact, it was almost impossible. No zburator could outfly or outmaneuver a flying machine like the ones he’d witnessed.

  Dark Elves prided themselves on icy pragmatism, and it was that same pragmatism that informed his decision now. Shaw was right: diplomacy with these strange, bizarre humans, these Americans, might yield rich rewards. After all, why should the Dwarves be the only ones to reap such a bountiful harvest? Sarnath could not afford to be left behind. He imagined his people piloting one of those flying machines and almost smiled.

  Yes. Yes, there was an opportunity here.

  "I will deliver your message," Varthiel said finally, straightening his shoulders. "And these...gifts. Though I make no promises about how they will be received."

  Shaw nodded, clearly satisfied with this outcome. "That's all we ask. When would you like to leave?"

  "Immediately," Varthiel replied without hesitation. The need to report what he had learned burned within him like a fever. Every moment he remained in this strange human facility was another moment Sarnath remained unaware of the true nature of these Americans and their capabilities.

  "Fair enough. We'll have your zburator brought up from the facility where we've been keeping him. He's been well cared for, I promise you."

  Varthiel's eyes narrowed. "If any harm has come to Icepaw—"

  "None has," Shaw interrupted firmly. "We've treated him with the utmost respect. You have my word. We've consulted with our veterinary experts and biologists to ensure his dietary needs were met, though we had to guess at some things."

  Varthiel wanted to scoff at the notion that a human's word meant anything, but he held his tongue, unwilling to press the point further. The thought of seeing Icepaw again lightened his mood considerably.

  "Then let us proceed," he said.

  Within the hour, Varthiel stood in an open courtyard and finished securing several briefcases of gifts to Icepaw's saddle. The zburator seemed well-rested, though he could sense the creature's discomfort at having been kept in a confined space for so long.

  The wind whipped Shaw's hair around her face as she watched Varthiel inspect his mount. Icepaw growled low in his throat as his master approached. His ice-blue eyes gleamed with intelligence while Varthiel ran his hands along his flank, checking for injuries.

  Satisfied, the Dark Elf turned to Shaw. "He appears unhurt," he conceded grudgingly, and his tone suggested he'd expected otherwise.

  "I told you he'd be well taken care of," Shaw said, a small smile playing at her lips. "We're not monsters, Varthiel."

  The Dark Elf's expression remained guarded as he mounted the zburator with practiced ease. He growled again, louder this time. The human guards on station nearby took a few involuntary steps backward.

  "You have given me much to consider," Varthiel acknowledged, settling into the saddle. "I will deliver your message and your gifts faithfully, though again, I cannot guarantee how they will be received by my lady and my Queen."

  "That's all we ask," Shaw replied. She stepped forward, extending a hand. "Safe journey, Varthiel Arakanos. I hope we meet again under more formal and more cordial diplomatic circumstances."

  The Dark Elf stared at her outstretched hand in momentary confusion before belatedly recognizing the human gesture. After a brief hesitation, he reached down and clasped it with his own. His skin was cool to the touch, like marble warmed slightly by the sun.

  "Perhaps we shall, human," he replied, his tone marginally less disdainful than it had been days earlier. "Though as I’ve said, I make no promises."

  Shaw watched as Varthiel mounted Icepaw with fluid grace. The zburator's powerful muscles tensed beneath its silvery fur as it prepared for flight. With a final nod to Shaw, Varthiel whispered something in his mount's ear. The creature's wings unfurled with a sound like sails catching wind, and then it bore itself aloft with astonishing grace. Within moments, Varthiel and his mount were nothing but a diminishing silhouette against the vast blue Minnesota sky.

  Shaw stood there observing them until they disappeared completely, her expression thoughtful.

  "Think he'll actually deliver the message?" asked one of the intelligence officers who’d been observing Shaw’s exchange from the adjacent room.

  "He will," Shaw replied with quiet confidence. "He's many things, but my gut says he's not, at his core, a bad person. He’s not stupid, either, and while he can be an arrogant ass, I get the feeling he’s not one to break his word once he’s given it. He understands the situation. He understands what's at stake, and he'll report it accurately to his superiors."

  "And then what?" the officer pressed.

  "Then we wait and see what they decide to do with the information," she replied, turning away from the empty sky. "But I think they'll reach out. They're too pragmatic not to."

  The intel officer nodded. "The satellite imagery was a masterstroke. Nothing like showing someone their own bedroom window from space to drive home the point.”

  "Sometimes the simplest approach is the most effective," Shaw agreed. "We ran a real risk of spooking him too much, but it paid off." She glanced at her watch. "Make sure we have eyes on him for as long as possible. I want to know exactly what direction he heads in."

  "Already on it, ma'am. We've got satellites tracking him, and we've scrambled a stealth drone to follow at a discreet distance."

  Shaw smiled. “Excellent.”