The air in the library was thick with the scent of aged parchment and the faint, metallic tang of magic. Sera Elvida stood before the weaponry shelves with her arms crossed and her lips curled in a scowl. The elven robes they'd forced her into itched, the fabric was too soft and clean, like wearing someone else's skin. She missed her old jacket, the one she'd left behind in Veldros—stained, frayed, and smelling of smoke and sweat.
She rolled her shoulders, the weight of her knife a familiar comfort at her hip. The blade wasn't much—just a simple, sharp thing she'd stolen off a drunk noble years ago—but it was hers. Unlike everything else in this gods-damned treehouse kingdom.
With a sigh, she stepped closer to the shelves, her fingers trailing over the spines of the books. The titles were etched in flowing elvish script, some glowing faintly, others pulsing as if alive. She didn't care. She wasn't here for poetry or history or whatever other useless drivel elves filled their heads with.
She was here for weapons.
"Swords of the Silver Dawn," she read aloud, voice dripping with disdain. "The Art of the Elven Bow." She scoffed. "The Etiquette of Dueling."
She rolled her eyes.
"Ugh."
She kept walking, scanning the titles with growing irritation. Every book seemed to be about some pretentious, graceful weapon, longswords, rapiers, bows, as if elves couldn't fathom anything that required less than five feet of personal space and a lifetime of training.
"Where's the real shit?" she muttered under her breath.
Her fingers stopped on a book with no title.
The spine was plain, bound in dark leather so worn it had lost its luster. No gold lettering, no glowing runes—just a blank, unassuming thing tucked between two gaudy tomes about "The Elegance of the Elven Blade" and "The Sacred Dance of the Spear."
Sera smirked.
"Now that's more like it."
She pulled the book from the shelf, half-expecting it to bite her. It didn't. It was heavier than it looked, the leather cool against her palms, the pages thick and slightly rough at the edges.
She turned it over in her hands.
No title on the cover either.
"Mysterious, she drawled, rolling her eyes. "How thrilling."
Still, it was the least obnoxious thing she'd found so far. Maybe it would at least have something useful or, failing that, something violent enough to keep her entertained for five minutes.
She tucked it under her arm and turned to find a table only to nearly jump out of her skin as a tiny figure materialized beside her.
"Gah! What the—?!"
A fairy—no taller than her hand, with shimmering wings and a smug grin—hovered in the air, giggling like she'd just pulled the funniest prank in the world.
"You should see your face!" the fairy cackled, flipping midair. "Like a startled cat!"
Sera's pulse roared in her ears, her fingers twitching toward her knife.
"Do that again," she hissed, "and I'll twist your wings off!"
The fairy's laughter cut off, her tiny face scrunching in offense.
"Rude!" She crossed her arms. "No wonder you don't have any friends!"
Sera bared her teeth. "Better than having friends like you, you air-smelling fairy!"
The fairy gasped, her wings buzzing furiously. "Air-smelling?! I'll have you know I bathe in rosewater and moondew!"
"I don't care!" Sera snapped, shooing her away. "Go bother someone else!"
With a final, indignant "Hmph!", the fairy zipped off, leaving Sera alone with her stolen book and a lingering urge to stab something.
She exhaled sharply through her nose, forcing her fingers to unclench.
"Stupid place. Stupid fairies. Stupid everything."
She stalked to the nearest table, smooth slab of polished wood nestled between two towering bookshelves, and dropped into a chair with all the grace of a disgruntled badger. The book landed with a heavy thud, sending up a small cloud of dust.
She stared at it.
"Please don't be boring," she muttered, flipping it open.
The first page was blank.
She frowned.
The second page had a single word etched in bold, jagged letters:
WEAPONS
Sera's smirk returned.
"Okay. Now we're talking."
She flipped to the next page.
WANDS
Beneath the heading was an illustration—an elegant, slender wand carved from what looked like ivory, its tip glowing faintly. The text beside it unfurled in flowing script, detailing its origins, its making, and the secrets it held.
*Flip*
The Dawnwhisper
"Carved from the heartwood of the First Tree, where the morning light first touched the Silver Grove."
Origin: The Dawnwhisper was not made. It was found. The oldest elves spoke of a branch that fell from the sacred canopy during the first storm of creation, still pulsing with the raw magic of the world's birth.
Crafting: Only the High Artificers of the Grove were permitted to shape it, using blades of starlight and chisels forged from frozen moonlight. The process took a century, the wand absorbing the whispers of the wind as it was carved.
Properties: It hummed with the energy of dawn, its magic strongest at daybreak. It could coax plants to grow in seconds, summon gentle rains, or weave illusions of golden light.
Usage: Wielded by healers and diplomats, those who sought to mend rather than break.
*Flip*
The Voidspine
"A shard of the abyss, tamed and bound."
Origin: Unlike the Dawnwhisper, the Voidspine was no gift of nature. It was taken from the heart of a dying star, where light collapsed into nothing. The elves did not craft it; they captured it, sealing the fragment in a casing of blackened silver.
Crafting: The process was not recorded. Those who attempted to replicate it vanished. The only known Voidspine in existence was kept under lock and key in the royal vaults, its surface cold enough to burn flesh.
Properties: It devoured. Spells cast through it were amplified but left the wielder hollow, as if the wand fed on their very soul.
Usage: Forbidden.
*Flip*
The Laughing Reed
"A wand with a sense of humor."
Origin: Cut from a willow that grew where a trickster spirit had died, its wood forever imbued with mischief.
Crafting: Shaped by a mad archmage who sang to it as he worked, the wand absorbing his laughter. When finished, it would occasionally giggle on its own.
Properties: Spells cast through it had a habit of going… sideways. A fireball might turn into a shower of butterflies. A levitation spell might make the target dance uncontrollably instead.
Usage: Mostly a novelty. Occasionally used by entertainers. Definitely not trusted in serious situations.
Sera's nose wrinkled.
"Boring."
*Flip*
ROBES
More illustrations—flowing garments woven with enchantments, pockets that held more than they should, fabrics that could turn blades or repel fire.
*Flip*
The Everveil
"Worn by those who walk unseen."
Origin: Spider silk harvested from the Dreamweaver Spiders of the eastern forests, each thread spun under the light of a new moon.
Properties: The robe shifted colors to match its surroundings, its edges blurring like mist. The wearer's footsteps made no sound, their breath silenced.
Usage: Assassins. Spies. And, on one memorable occasion, a very mischievous prince who just wanted to sneak into the royal kitchens.
*Flip*
The Emberhide
"Forged in dragonfire."
Origin: Woven from the scales of a slain fire drake, its hide still smoldering centuries later.
Properties: Immune to flame. Could withstand the breath of a dragon. Also very warm—uncomfortably so in summer.
Usage: Worn by the Grove's border sentinels, who stood watch against the ogres' fire-wielders.
"Still boring."
*Flip*
BOWS & ARROWS
She skimmed the descriptions—different woods, different fletchings, arrows tipped with poison or light or "the essence of the wind itself."
*Flip*
The Sigh of the West Wind
"A bow that never misses."
Origin: The bow's wood was taken from the Stormbitten Oak, a tree that stood alone in the Wandering Wastes, where the winds howled like grieving spirits. It was said that the tree had been struck by lightning a thousand times—not by chance, but by the sky's own fury. Each strike left behind a vein of silver in its grain, threading through the wood like veins of fate. The elves waited centuries for a single branch to fall, knowing that only the tree itself could choose when to relinquish its power.
Crafting: The bow was carved under the guidance of the Windseers, elven mystics who listened to the whispers of the air. The bowstring was not spun from fiber or sinew—it was woven from the wind itself, a single breath of the West Wind captured in a moment of perfect stillness. To string the bow was to bind a tempest.
Properties: The bow did not miss. Not by the fault of the archer, nor by the whims of fate. Arrows loosed from it adjusted, bending midair as if guided by unseen hands. It hummed when drawn, a sound like distant thunder rolling over the hills. In the hands of a true master, it could fire arrows that never ran out—each shot pulling the previous one back through time, an endless cycle of flight and return.
Usage: Reserved for the queen's personal archers—the Veilstriders, who stood atop the highest towers of the Silver Grove, their arrows piercing through fog, through darkness, through the very fabric of deception.
*Flip*
The Nightfang Arrows
"They bite twice."
Origin: The arrows were fletched with feathers from the Dusk Ravens, birds that nested only in the graveyards of the Hollow Kingdoms. Their tips were forged from the fangs of a Shadow Panthera, a beast that stalked the edges of dreams. The venom in its fangs did not kill—it remembered.
Crafting: The arrows were assembled in absolute silence, under the light of a waning moon. The fletching was bound with thread spun from widow's hair, and each arrowhead was quenched in a brew of distilled nightmares.
Properties: The first wound was clean. A sharp sting, then numbness. The victim might even laugh, thinking the injury trivial. Then, exactly one hour later, the venom awoke. The pain returned tenfold—a slow, gnawing agony, as if the wound were being torn open again and again by invisible teeth. The arrows whispered as they flew. Some claimed they heard their own name on the wind before the strike.
Usage: Officially? Hunting. The elves were nothing if not polite. Unofficially? They were used to send messages. A nobleman who betrayed the Grove might find one embedded in his bedpost upon waking. A bandit chieftain might collapse an hour after escaping an ambush, his body writhing in delayed torment.
*Flip*
The Hollowsong Bow
"It does not shoot arrows—it shoots ghosts."
Origin: A cursed relic from the War of Whispered Names, where the dead were bound to their weapons rather than released to the afterlife.
Properties: When drawn, the bowstring vibrated with the screams of those it had slain. It fired no physical arrows. Only the spectral echoes of past victims, their forms reshaped into deadly projectiles. Each shot drained a fragment of the wielder's own life force.
Usage: Locked away in the Black Vault.
"Boring."
*Flip*
SPEARS
Her eyes caught on one illustration in particular—a long, slender weapon carved from living wood, its tip glowing with a faint, blue light.
*Flip*
The Stormrend
"The sky weeps when it is drawn."
Origin: The spear was not crafted—it was awakened. In the heart of the Silver Grove stood the World Tree, its roots delving deep into the earth's veins, its branches brushing the heavens. When the First Storm split the sky, a single branch fell, still crackling with divine fury. The elves did not carve it into a weapon; they convinced it to become one.
Crafting: For ninety-nine nights, Eldrin sat beneath the branch as it lay upon the earth, whispering to it in the language of wind and thunder. On the hundredth night, the branch shivered. The bark peeled away of its own will, revealing a shaft of living wood, its grain swirling like storm clouds. The tip sharpened itself, not into metal, but into solidified lightning—a blade that hummed with the promise of tempests.
Properties:
The Breath of the Gale – When spun, the spear summoned winds strong enough to flatten armies. Eldrin could call upon breezes to lift him aloft or hurl back foes with the force of a hurricane's sigh.
The Kiss of Lightning – A single thrust sent jagged bolts ripping through the air, their paths erratic as living things. The strikes left no burns—only charred, blackened scars where the victim's magic had been unmade.
The Storm's Will – The spear was alive. It resisted unworthy hands, its weight growing unbearable, its lightning lashing out at those who dared grasp it without permission. Even among the elves, only Eldrin could wield it without being torn apart—body and soul—by the fury within.
Usage:
The Stormrend was not a weapon of war.
Sera recognized it.
"Eldrin's."
The old elf had wielded something like this during their training sessions, his movements fluid, effortless, like the spear was an extension of his body. Sera had watched, grudgingly impressed, as he'd demonstrated forms that could apparently channel the wind itself into a weapon.
She scowled.
"Still not my style."
*Flip*
The Mourning Thorn
"It does not pierce flesh—it pierces time."
Origin: Forged in the aftermath of the Shattering, when an elven prince tried to undo a death that had already happened.
Properties: Its tip existed in three heartbeats at once: past, present, and future. A wound from it might bleed yesterday's blood, or tomorrow's. Those struck often forgot their own names, their memories unraveling like old thread.
Usage: Sealed away in the Chamber of Lost Hours.
*Flip*
OTHER WEAPONS
She skimmed—axes, hammers, flails, things with too many spikes or too many chains.
*Flip*
The Bonegrinder
"An axe that remembers every skull it's split."
Origin: In the days when giants still walked the earth and dragons ruled the skies, a warlord of the northern wastes sought a weapon worthy of his legend. He tore a fang from the jaws of the great wyrm Vermithrax and bound it to the spine of a frost giant king, still slick with marrow. The axe was born screaming, its first swing splitting the warlord's own skull as it drank his madness.
Properties: With each life taken, the Bonegrinder grew heavier—not just in hand, but in soul. Warriors who wielded it for too long began to hear whispers in the cracks of its blade, the voices of those it had slain begging for company. The axe refused to be sheathed until it had tasted blood. Those who tried found their hands fused to the handle, their skin peeling away like old parchment. The final warrior to lift it—a berserker named Hroldun the Unbreakable—collapsed under its weight, his bones snapping like dry twigs. The axe pinned him to the earth, a tombstone for his arrogance.
Usage: Now it rests in the Hall of Relics, chained to a pedestal of black iron. The elves sometimes bring their young warriors to see it: "This is what happens when hunger outlives wisdom."
"Boring. Boring. Boring!"
*Flip*
*Flip*
*Flip*
And then... her fingers stilled.
Her breath caught.
KNIVES
The page was filled with them.
Daggers with curved blades, thin as needles. Knives with serrated edges, designed to tear rather than slice. Small, palm-sized blades perfect for concealment. Heavy, weighted ones meant for throwing.
*Flip*
The Silent Fang
"Forged from shadowsteel, near-weightless, its edge sharp enough to cut through silence itself."
Origin: In the city of Vellisar the Unseen, where assassins traded secrets like currency, a blind smith worked in absolute darkness. He melted down the nails of a hanged mute, the tears of a widow who never spoke again, and the last breath of a strangled spy. The blade that emerged from his forge didn't reflect light. It ate it.
Properties:
The Silent Fang – A blade forged from shadowsteel, near-weightless, its edge sharp enough to cut through silence itself.
The Widow's Kiss – Coated in a venom that lingers, slow and sweet, ensuring the target has time to know they're dead.
The Ashen Tooth – A knife that burns as it cuts, leaving wounds that never fully heal.
Usage: There are no records of its kills.
Sera's pulse quickened.
Her fingers traced the illustrations.
*Flip*
The Widow's Kiss
"Coated in a venom that lingers, slow and sweet."
Origin: The recipe was etched onto a single scroll, locked in a box made from the coffin wood of executed queens. It called for: The last sigh of a dying lover. The venom of a spider that only fed on heartbroken widows A drop of honey left to rot in the sun for a hundred years
Properties:
The First Cut Is Painless – A nick so gentle it might have been a caress. The victim smiles. They think they've been spared.
The Slow Unraveling – Hours later, their veins begin to glow—a soft, golden light beneath the skin. It's beautiful, they murmur, before the screaming starts.
A Message in the Mess – The venom leaves patterns in the blood—words in a language only the dying can read. Most see "I told you so."
Usage: The elven court reserves it for traitors. They want you to understand what you've done.
*Flip*
The Ashen Tooth
"A knife that burns as it cuts."
Origin: Forged in the Pit of Embermourn, where the lava flows backward and the fire is older than time. The smiths worked naked, their skin blistering, as they folded hatred into steel. When the blade was born, it didn't cool. It sulked.
Properties:
The Wound That Never Sleeps – The cuts it leaves smolder eternally. Bandages catch fire. Healing magic sizzles away. Even amputating the limb just spreads the burn.
A Hunger for Names – The knife grows hotter when it hears its victim's true name spoken aloud. Some say it's trying to remember who it's killed.
The Final Jest – The last smith to touch it burst into flames. His laughter echoed in the smoke.
Usage: Locked in a vault lined with the scales of ice drakes. The elves would rather face an ogre horde than see it drawn again.
This. This was what she'd been looking for.
Not the flowery, elegant nonsense of elven combat. Not the "honor" or the "grace."
Just the blade.
The cut.
The kill.
She leaned forward, her earlier irritation forgotten, her whole world narrowing to the pages in front of her.
"Now we're talking."
And for the first time since she'd arrived in the Silver Grove, Sera Elvida smiled.