Swords of Dark and Light

This is a work of fiction. Any nes or places are purely from my imagination. This should go withput saying, but please don't post in here, as this is a story by me only.

SWORDS OF DARK AND LIGHT
By Derek Alexander Jay

Chapter One

Night had always belonged to Vram. The stars above the northern forest glimmered like shards of glass, indifferent to the violence unfolding below. His blood-red eyes reflected every pinprick of light as he crouched in the shadows, bow in hand, waiting. Tonight, the Dark King’s enemies would feel his wrath. Tonight, the elves would learn the price of defiance.
He moved like a whisper through the evergreens, shadows bending and twisting at his command, erasing even the faintest trace of his passage. Each step was deliberate, a predator stalking its prey. His blackish-blue steed mirrored his movements, muscles coiled with anticipation, eyes glinting in the dim moonlight.

A faint rustle at the edge of a clearing pricked his ears. His prey had arrived. The elves were skilled—seasoned guardians of the northern forest—but their patterns were predictable, their patrols careless. Vram’s lips curved into a grin as he readied himself. “Hold the line!” a voice rang out, sharp and commanding. The leader, a silver-haired elf, stepped forward, her bow drawn and eyes alight with defiance. Her voice carried over the clearing, a mixture of authority and tension.

Three arrows streaked toward him in near-perfect formation. Vram’s reflexes were instantaneous. With a flick of his wrist, he deflected them, each one embedding harmlessly in the surrounding trees. The elves’ confidence faltered for a moment, and Vram seized it.
He plucked a fallen arrow from the ground, dipping its tip into the viscous yellow liquid he carried—a concoction known as Nifr Acid. It hissed faintly, smoke curling in the cold night air. He loosed it with precision, the arrow striking the leader’s armor with a shriek of burning metal. Her scream pierced the darkness, raw and defiant.

The other elves scattered, weaving between trees and fallen logs, their movements fluid and practiced. Magic flared from their hands: silver shields that shimmered in the moonlight, arrows tipped with crystal that could pierce even the strongest armor. Vram’s grin widened. The hunt was no longer a mere slaughter; it had become a game, a test of skill. Shadows stretched from him, wrapping around the trees, cutting off escape routes. Every move he made was precise, deliberate, deadly.

The clearing became a storm of danger and death. A elf leapt onto a branch, launching arrows like poison-tips, hydras and fire-bomb. Another began chanting, weaving a protective net that shimmered like moonlight. But Vram was a Shadow Mage, a predator who considered elves lower than scum. Nifr Acid melted through the protective spells of the less experienced, sending out fire and tortured screams.

A sudden movement caught him off guard—a young elf, barely more than a child, darted toward him with a silver-tipped dagger. Vram twisted mid-leap, letting the shadows swallow the strike. With a flick, he sent an arrow coated in Nifr Acid toward the child. The hiss of burning metal was accompanied by a scream, sharp and terrified. The elf crumpled to the ground, serenading him with sound of his tortured screams. Soon, it faded into nothingness.

The battle stretched on, a deadly dance of light and shadow. Vram moved like a shadow incarnate, striking, retreating, reappearing in impossible places.The elves fought fearfully, striking at wherever they thought him to be, and more often wounding themselves by tripping in explosives

Vram paused atop a small rise, surveying the battlefield. Fires smoldered where his arrows had struck, splintered trees marked where elves had fallen back. Yet the leader still stood, defiant, her silver hair catching the moonlight as she drew another arrow. Vram’s grin turned into a smirk. He had underestimated them—but the hunt was far from over.
The Dark King would be pleased. The elves would learn fear.