I knew it was the elven ruins even before I saw the crumbling stonework.

A little wooden sign in defiance of the forest, its surface clear and legible even as everything around it was encased in a veil of forest moss.

 

NOTICE TO ALL VISITORS.

Elevated structures, loose stonework and hidden sinkholes are present throughout the vicinity of these ruins. For your safety, please keep to the designated path. Appropriate footwear is required to complete the Trail Of Ten Thousand Steps. 

There are no rest points until the exit. Please do not sit as this may damage the area.

Loerstadt Tourism Commission.

 

I was appalled.

On one hand, it was invigorating to know that even as the elves sought to evade all tax responsibilities for their loitering, my diligent officials still sought ways to monetise their fallen kingdom.

But on the other–

“What … What is the Trail Of Ten Thousand Steps … ?”

I stared at the neatly etched scribble. It did little to alleviate my sudden anxiety. 

Ten thousand steps … ?

Surely … that was just a name?

“The Trail Of Ten Thousand Steps is a trail consisting of ten thousand steps,” said Coppelia, not knowing the pain ahead. “Elves, huh? They love their scenic routes. Up, down, all around and a magic maze which resets you to square one. It’s not enough to take in the sights. You have to savour it like the very last cinnamon roll.”

“That’s absurd,” I replied, horrified at the amount of walking she’d have to do while carrying me. “If I wished to enjoy the scenic route, I’d have chosen a scenic location. This–”

I gestured before us.

“–is not it.”

A crumbling ruin of once gilded stone.

Here and there, hints of majesty could be spied from the shallow gashes in the still intricate stonework. Wounds left to fester as recesses above archways and within pillars were now filled with cobwebs and the things which mimicked spiders behind them. 

Once adorned with precious jewels and leaves of gold. Now it was a mosaic of devastation.

The remains of an elven holding, tucked away deep in the forest. Yet despite the spiralling tower covered in ivy and the walls as tall as any city gate, this was no palace. It was a mere retreat, built in the days where all dwellings beyond the Fae Realm were but travelling lodges and souvenir stops. 

Now, it was populated by fading memories … and those who wished to keep them alive.

Peering from behind a cedar, I spied silhouettes flittering like thieves in the night, patrolling the crumbling battlements with bows in hand. With them, a pair of ballistas had been reconstructed from the ruins of their shells, their bolts turned towards the broken path towards the gate. 

No flags hung upon the battlements, yet the banner of war was as clear as the lack of welcome in the air. A garrison risen from the chapters of history to defend their former abode, their loyalty as clear as the glint of arrowheads shining amidst the dusk.

Seeing such a formidable defence before me, I swiftly came to a conclusion.

That right now, at this very moment–

Someone, somewhere, was robbing a tomb belonging to my ancestors instead.

I let out a groan as the dire images filled my mind.

A legion of moronic adventurers and opportunists, each racing to cast aside all manner of decency as they sought to headbutt my family’s buried vaults. 

Indeed, against such an obvious deterrence as armed elves, it was clear that the brigands of the world would instead leap to the next target of least resistance. 

And that was terrible. 

Why … even from atop my bedroom tower, I could always hear the horrified screams as my great-grandfather hacked at them with his new ghostly sword! 

It didn’t matter where I was. I knew I’d be receiving no sleep tonight.

“Coppelia, the situation is even worse than I’d feared.”

“Because of the ten thousand steps?”

“Yes. But also because the ruins are well guarded.”

“Really?” Coppelia peered between the battlements and myself, hand to her brows. “Because I feel like I’ve seen worse. Way worse. All the time.”

“Nothing is worse than seeing elven ruins reinhabited. That isn’t why we permit these hovels to still mar our forests.”

“Eh? You mean it’s not because it takes a huge amount of time, effort and money to tear these things down when it’s really not necessary?”

“Of course not. Any foreign architecture is a blot on our land. Granted, their carcasses serve as a fitting example to those who wish to evade building permits in my kingdom. But that isn’t why they remain. Elven ruins serve one purpose and one purpose only. And that’s to distract idiotic looters, adventurers and common tourists from clogging up my ancestors’ tombs.”

Coppelia raised her arm.

“Question!”

“Go ahead.”

“Do you keep valuables in your ancestors’ tombs?”

I placed my hand to my chest and nodded proudly.

“Naturally. As royalty, it’s only right that those who have diligently worked their whole lives to progressively remove every hint of damp from the Royal Villa’s ceiling be buried with full honours. My ancestors are laid to rest with all their personal wealth, ample jewellery, precious gemstones, gold crowns and a selection of armaments from the Royal Treasury.”

Coppelia clicked her fingers and beamed.

“Okay! I feel like I know the issue.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“Everything. Burying all that stuff only draws the looters, adventurers and tourists like fruit slimes to a rotten apple.”

“I see. ” I tilted my head in puzzlement. “Do you have a recommendation, then?”

“Sure! What if, say, you don’t bury a dragon’s hoard worth of stuff each time someone kicks the bucket. Maybe, I dunno, one sword, maximum? Then the problem sorts itself out, right?”

I blinked at Coppelia.

Then, I uncharacteristically found myself offering a girlish laugh.

“Ohoho … truly, your jests are becoming quite humorous. Very well, I admit I enjoyed that one.”

Coppelia looked mildly aghast. 

I hardly saw why. She should be proud at having made me laugh in a way which didn’t involve me looking down at them.

Something this … Elven King was not going to experience.

“Sadly, there will be little humour waiting ahead of us. I can already tell my coming meeting with the leader of these vagabonds will result in a yawn so wide I’ll need you to step before me to cover it. Please be ready.” 

“You should look forward to the meeting. The guy in the wig said the Elven King is an archdruid.”

“And why should I look forward to that? I can’t even request gardening advice. Their knowledge is in magic, not horticulture. Why, it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s never pruned a bluebell in his life!”

“Mmh … but an archdruid! You don’t see many of them around. And a king? I bet he’s old. And that means his skin is both wrinkly and smooth at the same time. Old elves are the weirdest sight. I’m gonna ask if I can touch his wrinkles.”

Hmmmm.

Inappropriate and insulting. 

… Very well! Acceptable.

“You should prepare to be disappointed,” I informed her. “As far as my happily limited knowledge of elven politics is aware, the position of Elven King is currently unoccupied. This means he’s an upstart. I expect a 50% chance he will be deposed before dinner time.”

“Oh, are we doing guesses? Okay! I’m guessing the other 50% he’s an undead ancestor come to enjoy another reign.”

“... Does that happen?”

“Oh yeah. All the time. It gets really awkward. Especially if the funeral is still going on.”

For a moment, I almost thought she was telling another jest.

But then … Ouzelia.

I instinctively shuddered.

“Yes, well … whatever unwelcome abomination of wrinkled skin and bones he is, I expect nothing but the dullest reception. Just look at these ruins. Crumbling stonework is no excuse to not even attempt to use curtains. This is the reason their kingdom fell. What good is having the finest architecture if you’re not willing to decorate it?”

“I think their kingdom fell because they lost a war with the fae.”

“And if I were the fae, I too would take insult at their lack of upholstery. Now, let’s be off and swiftly evict this ruffian from our doorstep–but not without imposing the maximum fine for his transgressions. His mischief in my kingdom will not go unpaid.”

“Ooh! What’s the maximum fine?”

“Think of an impossible number. Then double it.”

Coppelia beamed as she clapped her hands together. A fine look to wear when it came to demanding payment in question. Nothing spurred compliance like utter amusement as empathy.

“You know, I don’t think anyone has enough crowns to repay that.”

“.... My, who said the fine has to be in money?”

With a beautiful smile, I brushed down my skirt before heading off. 

Not towards the Trail of Ten Thousand Steps, though … and not because I had a feeling Coppelia wasn’t willing to carry me all the way. After all, I was certain I could convince her given enough of our apple strudel rations as bribes.

No … I simply wasn’t here as a tourist. 

I was here as the proprietor. My kingdom’s collective blindness towards the elves’ illegal residency was an arrangement that had run its course. I believed in tax exemptions no more than I did robbing myself each morning. And it was time to have our due.

“Come! There’ll be a hidden entrance. Whatever this king of vagrants hopes to achieve, we shall fashionably disturb him via the very same corridors he’d hope to flee through. There shall be no escaping the reach of authority!”

“Yay~ we’re gonna shake down the elderly for crowns! Legal extortion!”

I gave a satisfied nod, then led the way.

With my royal senses for points of clandestine meetings unmatched, I skirted the treeline as I searched for routes most favourable for a secret rendezvous with an illicit lover. Elves or not, anywhere with a wall would also have a postern door. And that meant avoiding whatever ridiculous magical obstructions elven ruins still boasted even after centuries of neglect.

A problem, as it turned out.

Because as I stomped my way through the telltale underbrush of creeping buttercups allowed to grow far beyond their permitted allowance, I was rewarded by a thin stretch of wall unattended by any battlements above.

Instead, what greeted me was a simple wooden door, carved not at all like the intricate arches of most elven entries. Unashamedly rectangular and unvarnished, it was more akin to the door of a farmer’s barn than a secret postern fit for royalty. 

And yet … it couldn’t be anything else.

It was written right there.

The Royal Entrance.

Etched upon a brass plaque, it was embedded into the woodwork without any additional flourishes.

Hardly a fitting entry for servants, let alone royalty. 

But at least it came with a guard.

Itself.

“My warmest greetings, my dearest darlings,” said the door, its voice laced with the feminine sultriness of a drunken baroness. “I bid you a humble welcome to the Royal Entrance.”

Suddenly, its unpolished façade lit up like a lantern. 

Innumerable dots like the black singes of a candle’s flame appeared across its surface, before crawling together to paint a pattern.

And what came together–

Was a smile belonging to a demon.