"You're late!" The king's harsh words resounded through the Council Hall, filling every corner and crevice with their reproachful echo.

Andor kept his head high, meeting the king's gaze, cold and calculating even from the distance of his ornate seat. Xanthos sat at the far end of the oval shaped table, which stood prominently in the middle of the hall, all council members assembled around it. But Andor's defiance lasted only a mere moment and then he lowered his eyes to the ground, bowing low as it was expected of all subjects in the presence of their monarch.

"Your majesty, please forgive me." Andor fixed his eyes on the rectangular stone tiles before him. Bringing up an excuse would only fuel the king's anger, so he refrained from doing so and waited in silence. He only hoped that Xanthos was not in one of his moods today. Unfortunately for Andor, he was.

"You have the audacity to make me wait," the king drawled. "I could have thrown you into my dungeon."

Xanthos's words hung in the air like a storm cloud, a chilling frost settling around Andor. He stared at his toes, trying to ignore the cold creeping into his feet from the cream coloured stone beneath. He knew very well that this was no empty threat. There had been poor souls cast into the darkest dungeons for lesser crimes than being late.

"Is there nothing that you have to say for yourself?" Xanthos broke the unsettling silence, while Andor pieced together a response that would not get him into even more trouble.

"Your majesty," he said, his voice steady despite his nervousness, "I am afraid that there is no excuse for my tardiness, so I will not present you with one, but I can assure you that you have not been waiting in vain. And shouldn't the realm's safety merit a few moments of your time?"

It was a bold statement, quite likely even foolish, the longer he thought about it, but it was too late to stir a different course. Andor might have been more than a little frightened, but there was one thing he despised even more than the king's foul temper, and that was to grovel before him. He was in the king's service, but he was not one of his courtiers, and once he had this gotten over with, he would be free again to leave all this behind, his forest home awaiting him.

"You have a quick tongue, Andor, son of Olear, and are certainly more sure of yourself than what many might consider wise." Andor could sense Xanthos's shrewd gaze assessing him as the king paused for effect. "But I quite like your boldness and considering today's auspicious occasion I shall be forbearing with you and temper justice with mercy."

The tension in Andor's shoulders lessened as he slowly raised his head.

"You may approach!" Xanthos urged Andor to step forward with a careless flick of his hand that seemed nearly too frail to hold the impressive collection of heavy rings adorning it.

The Council Hall lay in all its grand, but slightly oppressive atmosphere before him. Even the high vaulted ceiling with a multitude of elaborate chandeliers could not conceal the fact that this was a place of grave decisions and unpleasant discourses. With a sinking feeling in his stomach Andor steeled himself for the fact that besides the Council, he would be facing the king himself. Not only had he angered him already by his tardiness, but Andor could tell by the way Xanthos lounged in his chair, that he must have downed a cup too many before the meeting.

His coal black eyes were slightly glazed over, his sallow skin appearing like paper stretched too thin over his prominent cheekbones. The golden crown rested heavily atop his head, a tad askew, his grim face framed by thin strands of greyish brown hair. Draped around his shoulders he wore a thick dark brown cloak with a trimming of fur along the edges, hiding whatever illustrious piece of clothing he might wear beneath. His long and bony fingers were tightly wrapped around a silver-chased goblet, encrusted with sparkling emeralds and sapphires, all vying for attention in the flickering candlelight.

There was no doubt about it, Xanthos was a monarch to be feared and a force to be reckoned with, although Andor thought that he distantly resembled a vulture, perched in his grand wooden chair, ever vigilant and ready to strike. He had been their king for as long as Andor could remember and apparently planned on keeping it that way. Never had he taken a wife and therefore there were no heirs to compete for the throne. Of course, as an elf he was blessed with immortality, so perhaps Xanthos was simply counting on the fact that he would be able to remain in power for an indefinite amount of time.

None of this really mattered at this very moment. Andor stood at the opposite end of the large table, willing his face into an expression of calmness, he did not quite feel, and then his eyes went to the striking woman standing by the king's side and overlooking the hall with an innate sense of authority that made her appear more regal than Xanthos in all his kingly attire.

Serande was her name and not only was she the king's confidante, but being a gifted Seer, the Council often consulted her in matters of great importance, valuing her wisdom and prescience. She was a lady of ageless beauty, with skin of ebony, eyes of deepest brown, her full lips and her eyelids heavily painted with gold. She wore a headdress fashioned of golden beads as well as a flowing gown in gold, all of it complementing the dark complexion of her skin, a stunning symphony of black and gold. Though she seemed to gaze at Andor with benevolence, her face betrayed no emotion. From her observant eyes nothing could be hidden, so Andor reminded himself to be on his guard, lest his innermost secrets might be exposed.

Despite the Council's meeting being a matter of grave importance, the sight of the Elders around the table was indeed a colourful one as the emissaries of all six regions of Elysse were present. Only two of them were elves, namely the representative of the Forest of Ilaros, Lessindra, a kind woman with fiery red hair, bouncing in abundant locks around her heart-shaped face. Her moss coloured gown enveloped her curvy body in the most becoming way. She flashed Andor a quick smile and a twinkle of her hazel eyes.

Eldoran was sitting beside her, representing the city of Valantes. His facial features were sharp like those of a hawk, sleek steel grey hair and a simple black tunic accenting his stern appearance. He eyed Andor with an expression of polite indifference. Being Drakon's older brother, Andor had not expected anything more friendly from him, but at least he did not see any open hostility on display.

The ancestors of two of the other members might have once been related to the elves of Ilaros, their pointed ears and humanoid features suggesting a faraway kinship, but whatever ties they could have had, were now long forgotten. One of them was Marante, the emissary from the Plains of Ardan, her lithe body with long limbs as flexible as the blades of grass of her homeland. Even the colour of her skin seemed to have a viridescent sheen to blend perfectly into the sea of green. She was of slightly shorter stature than the elves, wearing a colourful pastiche of clothes, adorned with what appeared to be trophies of her hunt.

Marante's thick black hair was tied at the nape of her neck with a leather ribbon and her long pointed ears tapered to a delicate furry tip. Her people excelled in the art of stealth, which made them the embodiment of hunters, their rows of razor sharp teeth only emphasising the air of danger.

Rakhis beside her appeared quite unfazed by Marante's slightly intimidating appearance and even seemed to have been pulled from an animated conversation with her when Andor arrived. He was the emissary who had come all the long way from the coastal regions of the Emerald Sea. His shiny mahogany skin contrasted pleasantly with his tufty short hair that was as white as sea-foam, his eyes of deepest turquoise being the most striking feature of his handsome face.

He wore a sparkling tunic that shimmered like the ocean beneath the summer sky. There was a graceful elegance to his fluid motions and, despite his alleged age of more than a few millennia, he conducted himself with a kind of swagger that women seemed to find quite irresistible. What distinguished him and his people from the elves was the fact that they had webbed fingers and toes as well as gills in their necks, which enabled them to breathe and move underwater just like above ground.

Opposite him sat Nuala, who could not have been any more different from Rakhis's beautiful and elegant appearance. She was as old and withered as the Mountains of Kendar from which she hailed. Bent with age and a wrinkled skin that appeared grey and cracked like the weatherbeaten peaks, Nuala seemed much like an ancient rock who had come alive at the dawn of time. But her gaze was keen and alert and one was well advised not to underestimate her powers, which could strike like a sudden thunderstorm. She might be ponderous in movement, but her mind was as quick and nimble as a sparrow and her wrath could be terrible.

Beside her sat the last council member, Velos from the Marshes of Tharûn, a thin and ghostly figure, his completely bald head reminding Andor vaguely of an oversized variant of the well polished dragon egg he had once spotted at the market years ago. Notwithstanding this peculiarity there wasn't really anything comical about his appearance. His skin was nearly transparent, shifting its colour from sand to greenish brown or even a pale yellow. The most unsettling part though were his misted eyes that appeared to be veiled by a constant fog and made them difficult, if not impossible to read. Just like Nuala, he did not speak much and if her voice was raspy like two stones grinding against each other, then his resembled a wheezy breath of someone being slowly strangled to death. Both were none too pleasant sounds, so Andor was rather grateful for them being mostly silent listeners.

Andor directed his gaze back to Xanthos, but apparently it was Serande who was going to conduct the procedure, as Xanthos only signalled to her with an idle wave of his finger to commence. Serande nodded and opened her arms in a welcoming gesture, the eyes of everyone turning towards her, except for Xanthos, who kept his focus on the goblet, pensively turning it around in his hand.

"Today marks an important day for all of us here in Elysse, for we have been granted yet another forty years of peace," she began, her mellow voice somehow evoking the comfort of a crackling fire on a cold winter's eve. "We have put our trust in this young and valiant elf and he has proven himself worthy. Only a few possess the strength this task demands from them and Andor has fulfilled his duty as was expected from him."

She tilted her head in acknowledgement, her golden earrings jingling, flecks of bright light dancing against her ebony skin. With her gaze resting on the council members she continued. "Our people may once again live in safety, undisturbed by the atrocities of the human world. All living beings, the trees, the flowers and the creatures that live within the forest of Ilaros and beyond its borders may grow and dwell in peace until the next sacrifice shall be demanded."

Andor listened quietly and it seemed to him that she must surely be speaking of someone else, a brave and fearless hero, not someone like him, whose guilt was slowly beginning to eat away at his conscience.

"But now let us not delay, for the enchantment must be sealed tonight," Serande concluded her speech and walked from her place beside the king towards a small alcove along the side wall of the hall. In its midst stood a small and slender stone column hewn out of limestone rock, fashioned to resemble a tree, its top opening up like entwined branches to embrace a shallow basin of polished silver. It remained usually empty, but Serande now poured a crystal clear liquid into it from a silver carafe. With a small nod she bade Andor to come towards her. He could feel the eyes of everyone seated at the table boring into his back, but his own eyes were on the basin and the unperturbed mirror of liquid silver glittering within it.

For a moment Serande gazed silently at the basin, then extended her hand towards him. "The phial, please."

Andor pulled out the small glass bottle from his pocket and placed it carefully in Serande's outstretched hand, a sudden feeling of emptiness overcoming him. He had not realised that he had been holding on to it so tightly, as if letting go meant, losing everything he still had of Rose. Not that it mattered, or at least he tried to convince himself that it did not matter.

He watched Serande with apprehension as she opened the phial, her gaze keen and observant as she did so. Softly spoken words accompanied her every motion, her voice never rising beyond a whisper. She dropped the open bottle into the stone basin, the glass quickly sinking towards the bottom of the crystal clear liquid. Serande placed her flat hands on top of the liquid and Andor couldn't help but stare as the hazy outline of a face began to appear like dense mist, slowly taking on the unmistakable features of the girl he had sought to banish from his mind, before she would take root in his heart.

"Her name?" Serande asked, her fingers trailing an elegant pattern across the liquid's surface. "You must give it to me now."

"Rose," he said after a moment of hesitation. He felt like he was being stripped of the last bond that still tied him to her.

"Rose," Serande repeated after him. The instant the name had left her mouth the image in the basin became crystal clear. Andor felt a sharp stab in his chest when he saw Rose's sky blue eyes widened in terror and her mouth opened in a silent plea, unheard by anyone, but Serande, whose eyes remained fixed on the image until it began to blur and a bright flash of light illuminated the basin. Serande's face glowed while she kept repeating her incantation and her gaze seemed far away, as if she were observing everything that had happened earlier in the glade.

Andor had to fight the urge to look away, as he did not wish to witness his deed another time, but he knew that now was not the moment to show weakness, so he kept his eyes on the basin until the light faded and only the image of a singular white flower remained. Serande's eyes focussed on the small bud, petals still tightly folded into a tiny orb.

"Rose," she called loud enough for everyone in the hall to hear, her finger gently prodding the liquid's surface, "unfurl your petals and bloom, so your soul might join the others in your eternal bed of flowers."

The tiny flower obediently unfolded its petals, as if kissed awake by an invisible sunrise.

"May the spirit of the Ancient One bless this sacrifice, a name willingly given and a soul forcefully taken."

Serande quickly closed one hand around the tiny flower and with other she held up the phial. "Rest now forever at the Heart of the Forest, Rose," she said, plucking the flower's image from the liquid and letting it glide slowly into the phial. Rose's name appeared in small letters on the glass the moment Serande sealed the bottle. She turned towards the table, the phial raised high over her head, facing all the council members and the king.

"It is done. The deed is done." A smile dawned on her face, exposing a row of pearly white teeth and slowly, one after the other, the council members began to applaud, first Eldoran, his stern features having not shifted in the least, then Lessindra beside him, seeming a bit reserved about clapping too loudly. Marante did not hesitate in showing her approval, a devious smile exposing the tips of her sharp teeth, while Rakhis beside her raked his hand through his hair, obviously relieved that this procedure had now come to an end, his applauding a mere display of politeness.

Nuala on the opposite side had resorted to knocking on the table instead, the irregular rhythm echoing loudly through the Council Hall. Velos leaned forward in his seat, his ghostly skin more translucent than ever, an unreadable gleam in his foggy eyes. Finally Xanthos rose his hand, instantly silencing everyone in the hall. He gave Serande a wordless nod and she proceeded to walk with the phial towards the back of the hall to a portion that remained obscured from Andor's view.

Andor loosened a long breath he hadn't even realised he had been holding. He had gotten through this, had made it to the end without showing any weakness. He buried his hands in his pockets to hide the slight tremble in his fingers, the only indication of the inner turmoil that still raged within him.