A year had allowed the Black Elves to firmly establish themselves on Plumua, building up their new colony. Solar and Lunar Elves worked together to construct a new life for themselves in freedom. The new capital, Culus Taber, was coming along nicely. Sacri ruled his colony of Elves from there, wearing the half cloak and crown that he had taken from the throne room, both of which had transformed to obsidian in his possession. Only a hint of silver ran through the fabric of the cloak to disrupt the dark hue. Ocutus stood by his side as adviser and general.

Skirmishes between them and the Light Elves had been infrequent over the past year, but when they had occurred, much life was lost. Bitter enmity existed between the two factions, a hatred that Sacri saw no end to. The peace his parents had worked so hard to craft, to protect, had been shattered ruthlessly by both him and his brother.

His occasional thoughts on that subject brought fleeting sorrow to his mind as he sat upon his solitary throne in the middle of the night, staring into the darkness and rubbing his forehead with his fingers. Feli's win couldn't secure peace, for instead of division by caste, there was now division by magic use.

The castes would be united while Sacri drew breath, he knew that. He was a threat to their tradition, to their comfort. Lunar and Solar would stand together behind Feli to ensure Sacri didn't poison their minds, the minds of their children or of the poor. But when he died, when he was no longer a threat, the alliance would fall apart as it did after each and every single threat faded away.

"We are the worst parts of the human breed multiplied by one thousand," he told Ocutus once, after one such night of pondering. "We crave war and blood and power in amounts humans can't even comprehend."

Ocutus had just given him a nod and a bit of a worried look.

And now, as Sacri stood on a hill overlooking his city, the birth of the Black Elf colony, the beginnings of his kingdom, he thought of the twin thrones his parents had ruled from, sharing the cloak and the crown. When they were not on their thrones or serving in an official capacity, the cloak and crown were united. But other than that, they would split, so as to be worn by both of them, displaying their equality of power and their unity. He knew, now, that they had meant for both he and Feli to rule. And he knew that their idea of Riko's monarchy had been destroyed by him and his brother.

What Sacri didn't know was if there would ever be another chance for peace, for real and enduring peace, for Riko.

Õ

Feli stood on his dais, his gold half cloak hanging from his left shoulder, the silver circlet balancing on his blonde hair. For the past year he had been king of Riko, working to repair the damage his brother had done and to strengthen their coastline defenses in an effort to keep Sacri and his Black Elf marauders out.

Most of his efforts had been going very well. Cyren had been placed in charge of leading a new assembly of Elves to protect the country against Plumua, the Shielding Forces. The group helped to establish peace in the land and root out any Black Elfish infiltrators, burning them at the stake when caught.

The castes were also working together to protect themselves from the heresies of the Black Elves and to restore some sense of order to their land after Sacri's rule. But Feli sensed that it wouldn't last. It simply couldn't. Elves were primal beings, too focused on power and the subsequent war that came with it to be content with anything other than a temporary truce. Their thirst for it made humans seem cooperative and pacifistic. He had a feeling, however, that his parents' dream hadn't been only a dream, that it could, somehow, become a reality.

He just didn't know how.

Because the one thing he could not strengthen, could not fix?

It was the peace.

The kingdom was broken.