The Curator
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Chapter 8
🕑 Added 2025-07-12 05:23:10 +0000 UTC“Hey, what exactly are you trying to prove up there? Those elves probably have spells that let them breathe underwater or shield themselves,” Rafael called up to me from the plaza, his voice echoing faintly through the submerged ruins.
I glanced down at him, a sharp grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. “I’m ancient and you really think I didn’t consider that? Watch closely — let’s see how this one handles the pressure.”
With a casual flick of my wrist, I grabbed the limp elf by the leg. His body was slowly sinking, twitching only slightly, as though his muscles were still trying to remember life. I yanked him back beneath the fragile shimmer of the protective barrier.
“There. No trace of magic shielding. See? He—”
The words died on my tongue. Blood was trickling in lazy spirals from the elf’s mouth, ears, and eyes. His pupils were wide, distended, and his eyeballs looked as if they might burst from their sockets at any moment.
Ah. Of course. I had completely overlooked the water pressure.
His soul still clung to the tattered vessel of his body, which meant there was time — if I cared to heal him. I didn’t.
“Uh... from down here, he doesn’t look too great,” Rafael called, squinting upward, his tone hovering somewhere between concern and indifference.
“He didn’t make it. Must’ve been allergic to water,” I replied innocently, giving the corpse a lazy shrug before tossing the elf’s body back into the dark sea, letting the waves claim what was left. I teleported down to Rafael’s side, the weight of the situation barely brushing against my thoughts.
Rafael didn’t seem all too bothered. His gaze lingered on the shimmering water above, where faint beams of light danced just out of reach.
“Well? What are you waiting for? Swim up. I can’t teleport you back to your ship from this distance,” I said, gesturing toward the faint silhouettes of the vessels overhead.
Silence stretched between us. Rafael didn’t move, his face tense, unreadable.
“I can’t swim upward,” he finally muttered. “Mike cast the spell before. Without it, I can’t...”
Right. I had forgotten. The boy couldn’t wield magic, couldn’t even sense the aether, let alone manipulate it. That little inconvenience might complicate things. My gaze flicked toward the drifting corpses, each one a treasure chest of enchanted trinkets and runes.
Turning on my heel, I moved toward the nearest dead elf, plucking a ruby from the ornate armor strapped to its breastplate. The gem glinted, still humming faintly with residual enchantment. It wouldn’t take much to reshape its purpose.
A rune etched here, another mirrored on the opposite side, and a whisper of power infused between the layers. Done.
Satisfied with my craftwork, I teleported back to Rafael and tossed the ruby toward him. His eyes widened — for the first time, he seemed to notice the sheer amount of wealth scattered around him, glinting in the murky light. The ruby danced in his palm, catching every stray glimmer like a spark of blood-red fire.
After a heartbeat of stunned silence, the boy turned, and greed overrode hesitation. One by one, he began looting the dead elves, prying gemstones from armor, sliding daggers and rapiers free from stiff, cold hands, and fastening swords to his belt until the weight threatened to pull him back down.
Undercover work would be hilarious with that much steel rattling under his cloak.
I leaned against the invisible wall of the barrier, amused by the thought of how fast the king would plaster wanted posters across every city square once word got out. But for now, the sun awaited me. I longed to see its light cut through this cursed gloom.
“So... how does this ruby work?” Rafael asked at last, turning the gemstone in his fingers, examining the runes I’d carved into its polished surface.
“Since your talent for aether manipulation is, let’s say, nonexistent, I installed a little self-activation charm. The moment you hit open water, the gem will create an air bubble around you and shoot you straight to the surface. Simple, really.” I smirked. “Unless you’d prefer I craft you some water wings too?”
The mental image almost made me laugh. It wouldn’t even be hard to cobble together something crude — skin an elf, inflate the hide, stitch the seams. Grim, but effective. Not something I was eager to attempt, though.
Rafael only huffed, brushing off the insult. He stepped to the edge of the barrier, drew in one deep breath, and leapt through the wavering membrane. As his body slipped into the open water, the rune flared to life — the bubble wrapped around him, and he shot toward the surface like an arrow loosed from a bow.
I allowed myself to dissolve, the familiar pull of the amulet reclaiming me. From within its cold, polished prison, I watched the scene unfold, a smile tugging at my lips. The great sea serpent that lingered below turned its ancient, lidless eyes upward in disbelief as Rafael zipped past, encased in his bubble of air.
The surface broke open in the distance, revealing two ships still afloat. The water wasn’t stained red — a promising sign. The elves, it seemed, hadn’t slaughtered every soul aboard.
When I drifted close enough, I shaped my form back into existence atop the crow’s nest of the human vessel. A sailor crouched there, trembling, clutching his knees to his chest. His wide, tear-glazed eyes locked onto me the moment I appeared.
“Ha. So they haven’t found you yet,” I said casually, glancing down at the deck below, where the elves strutted about, fully absorbed in lecturing the shackled humans on elven superiority.
The elf in charge paced slowly along the sun-bleached planks, his silver-chased boots clicking with precise, arrogant rhythm. His gaze swept across the huddled sailors, studying them the way a scholar might study pinned insects beneath glass.
His lip curled. Not from anger — no, from quiet, self-satisfied amusement at their squalor.
“Oh, do stop thrashing,” the elf drawled, his voice dripping with mockery. “Those shackles are forged from mithril — your fragile little human bones would snap long before the chains give way. Really, you should feel honored. We don’t even bother restraining goblins; they at least have the decency to die quickly.”
He paced lazily, silver-chased boots tapping against the sun-bleached deck as he looked the prisoners over like a noble at a cattle auction.
“You didn’t seriously try to outrun us in that floating coffin you dared to call a ‘vessel,’ did you? How... adorable.” His lips curled, more amused than angry. “We’ve seen driftwood with better navigation. Our ships glide on enchantments older than your gods, while yours rely on — ah, yes — ‘Row harder!’ How quaint.”
The elf’s sharp gaze flicked across the weary faces of the bound crew, taking in every defeated expression.
“Don’t worry, you’ll serve us now. Not as slaves, of course — don’t flatter yourselves. Even our gardening gloves have more worth. No, you’ll be entertainment. A lesson in mortality for our young. They’ll watch you wither, age decades, while their naming days pass like idle clouds.”
He turned on his heel, the silver glint of his boots catching the light as he gave his final command.
“Take them below. Feed them... whatever it is humans eat. Rotting meat? Mush? Actually, give them half rations. Watching them starve will be far more... educational.”
‘Charming fellow,’ I mused. His idea of entertainment sounded like a lesson in boredom to me. Watching humans age like overripe fruit — where was the fun in that? Now, real entertainment required a little creativity.
With a flick of thought, I reached into the Aether, seizing control of the ropes dangling from the rigging. Like snakes awakened from slumber, the cords slithered toward the elf’s polished boots, coiling tightly around his legs and tying themselves into a knot that would’ve made any sailor beam with pride.
One moment, the elf strutted behind the chain-bound humans, chest puffed and chin held so high it could scrape the sky. The next, his feet vanished beneath him, and he toppled forward like a felled statue, smacking face-first against the deck with a sharp, satisfying crack.
It’s a rare sight to witness an elf fall. Rarer still to see one plant their face so perfectly into the planks. Truth be told, I might have nudged the timing along — a subtle telekinetic tug just before gravity claimed him.
The deck echoed with the crisp sound of broken cartilage, and as much as I enjoyed the elf’s flattened expression, the sailor biting back laughter nearby might’ve been the real highlight.
“By the royal mistress! Who dares?” the elf sputtered, rage boiling away his earlier smugness. He struggled upright, only to be yanked back down as I gave the rope another sharp pull. His freshly broken nose kissed the deck once more, a pained yelp escaping his throat.
Eyes blazing, he rolled onto his back and finally spotted the line tangled around his boots. With the grace of a flustered child, he reached down to untie the knot, only to tighten it further. A few more gentle nudges on my end, and the elf’s limbs shifted just right for the next part.
The rope lifted, pulling him skyward like a marionette, and began to spin. Faster and faster it whirled, until the elf dangled like a hapless calf at the end of a cowboy’s lasso. His shrieks rose in pitch, more piglet than warrior now, each spin stoking his panic.
And then I let go.
All eyes — human and elven alike — watched in mute disbelief as their once-proud officer traced a grand arc through the sky, flipping head over heels until he vanished beneath the ocean with a distant, satisfying splash. The elves exchanged bewildered glances, mouths hanging open, while the humans barely stifled their grins.
Before anyone could react, another sound shattered the silence — a splash from behind. Rafael broke through the waves, gasping, hair plastered to his forehead, still clutching the enchanted ruby.
“Damn, what a ride... Holding that thing made me dizzy,” he called out, his voice cutting through the stunned quiet.
Dozens of heads swiveled toward him. Elves stared, slack-jawed. Humans blinked, uncertain whether to laugh or cheer.
“Now that,” I murmured to the young sailor trembling beside me in the crow’s nest, clapping him on the shoulder with the ease of old comrades, “is what I call entertainment.”
I vanished before the boy could stammer a reply, my voice lingering long enough to leave him standing tall — and very, very visible. As heads turned, all attention snapped to him, painting him as the perfect scapegoat for the chaos.
The scene unfolding was nearly perfect. Confusion reigned on deck, the elves still fumbling for an explanation, Rafael treading water below, blinking up at them like a lost puppy.
I reappeared behind the helmsman — an elf now gripping the wheel, still too dazed to register the new threat. A tap on his shoulder. He turned, eyes glassy, and before surprise could sharpen his reflexes, my fist met his jaw, sending him sprawling across the deck like a rag doll.
I shifted through the Aether again, materializing near two more elves. Grabbing them by the collars, I unleashed a burst of raw force — a shockwave that flung them backward like leaves caught in a gale, until they collided with the railing, hard enough to rattle the timbers.
At that exact moment, the first elf, the one I’d punched earlier, crashed back onto the deck, a heavy, ungraceful thud marking his return.
Three down.
Of course, that still left twenty-two elves aboard this ship, and a dozen more scattered across their sister vessel. The two ships hadn’t even bothered to lash themselves together, as one would expect for a boarding party. No, the elves had likely strolled over the open sea as if walking on glass, carried by the Aether's unseen currents.
And so, the real dance was only beginning.
"Who are you?" one of the elves managed to stammer, his voice trembling as his wide eyes locked onto me standing calmly in the middle of the bloodstained deck. A fair question, though I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment — not at the inquiry, but at the fact that none of them seemed to recognize me. My uniform, once a symbol feared across oceans and continents, was clearly lost on them. If my attire had faded from memory, chances were my name hadn’t fared any better. A tragedy, really.
I made a mental note to commission someone — preferably a gifted artist with a flair for dramatics — to capture me in a painting grand enough to outlive even the most stubborn of histories. But such things would have to wait. First, I had a performance to deliver. My audience, both mortal and otherwise, expected nothing less than style, and style... well, that could’ve been my middle name.
The first elf in reach, standing barely two paces away, had his hand halfway to his sword when I moved. Before his fingers could curl around the hilt, I had already plucked the weapon from its sheath with a smoothness that bordered on laziness. The elf’s hand closed on empty air, and his expression shifted from focus to wide-eyed confusion in the blink of an eye.
For a moment, I studied the blade. Ornate patterns were carved into the steel, a soft pulse of magic humming beneath the surface — not enough to concern me, but enough to appreciate. I raised the sword, casually moving it side to side, noting how the elf's head twitched, his gaze locked onto it like a starving dog eyeing a bone. With an amused smirk, I flipped the blade high over his head, sending it spinning through the air before it vanished into the ocean with a distant splash.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the elf leaped after it — just as a mutt would, chasing a stick thrown into a lake.
The wind shifted behind me, and instinct whispered before thought could. Another elf lunged forward, his spear aimed squarely for my heart. I didn’t bother turning. A simple wave of my hand and the world obeyed — an unnatural gust howled through the previously still air, slamming into the ship’s open sails.
The deck lurched violently as the entire vessel surged forward, propelled by the sudden wind. Elves and humans alike were thrown off their feet, sprawling across the planks in a mess of limbs and curses. The would-be spearman, caught mid-stride, stumbled as though the earth had abandoned him.
I stepped forward, planting my boot down hard. The timber beneath splintered and cracked, and with a swipe of an aether-forged blade, I carved a clean line about a meter and a half from where I stood. The plank loosened with a creak, and I lifted it free — perfect. The game of “hit the mole” was about to begin.
Teleportation whisked me behind the dazed elf, the one still clutching his spear with all the rigid discipline of a soldier on parade. His uniform, I noticed, was impeccable — almost too clean for someone standing on a battlefield. Shame. Clean uniforms and bare heads were a dangerous combination.
I let the wooden plank drop with force. It connected squarely with the elf’s skull, producing the most satisfying "bonk" I’d heard all day. The poor fool slumped to the deck, his eyes rolling back before his body even hit the wood.
Of course, the remaining twenty elves were far less amused by the display. They came at me in unison, weapons drawn, expressions tight with fury. A fair fight, perhaps — but fairness wasn’t exactly on my agenda. Style, after all, rarely played well with brute force.
With another flick of will, I vanished from sight, reappearing on the stern. From there I watched, amused, as the elves closed in on the spot where I’d stood mere seconds before. Confused voices barked orders, heads spun wildly, and questions filled the air, but I remained unseen, a silent spectator to their growing panic.
Among the shouts, another voice reached my ears — familiar, exasperated, and wet. Rafael, still treading water, called out between gasps.
“Hey! Can’t you stop the damn boat? I can’t walk on water, you know!”
I leaned over the railing and called back with a grin, “Why are you swimming to this wreck, anyway? This tub’s barely afloat. We're borrowing the elves' ship, haven’t you noticed all the gilded runes and golden trimmings? Clearly the better ride.”
Rafael’s answer was drowned out by another wave crashing against the hull, but the moment was enough to pull me back to the task at hand.
Ah, yes. Where was I? Right — twenty elves still standing, and a reputation to uphold. Maximum style demanded maximum attention, and I fully intended to give them a show worth remembering.
