The Denerim Alienage was more than just a prison; it was a festering wound on the grand city, a place where the elves were trapped and forgotten. Surrounded by high wooden palisades and iron-barred gates, the Alienage served as a reminder that, for all their supposed progress, humans still held elves in chains. No shackles were needed when the walls themselves kept the elves penned in like livestock.
The air in the Alienage was thick with the stench of decay, a nauseating mix of rotting food, sweat, and refuse. The streets were little more than open sewers, the mud caked with waste. Cramped, dilapidated houses leaned against each other as if they might collapse at any moment. Wooden beams sagged with rot, roofs leaked when it rained, and what few windows remained unbroken were clouded with filth.
Elion had lived his entire seven years in this squalor, and to him, it was simply the world. He had never known anything else. The tall palisades, the constant watch of the city guards, the way the other elves moved like shadows, keeping their heads down and their voices low—it was all he had ever seen. His mother, Ilari, had taught him to be silent, to avoid drawing attention to himself, to avoid the humans at all costs. They were dangerous, she told him. More dangerous than anything else in this world.
Ilari was a quiet woman, her voice soft and soothing despite the hard lines etched into her face from years of toil. She had once been beautiful, or so Elion had been told by the other elves, but the years had worn her down, leaving her with a weary, haunted look. Her hands were calloused from long hours of work, and her once-bright eyes had grown dull with exhaustion. Yet, when she looked at her children—Elion and his older sister, Syriel—there was still warmth in her gaze.
Elion's world was small, confined to the narrow alleys and crooked streets of the Alienage. He had never seen the world beyond the walls, never walked the grand streets of Denerim that lay just outside the gates. To him, the Alienage was the only reality. The tall wooden palisades were as much a part of his life as the sky above, ever-present and unyielding.
But there were moments, rare though they were, when Ilari would sit with her children by the fire at night and tell them stories of the time before. She spoke of a world that seemed like a distant dream, a world where elves had been free, where they had lived in grand cities of their own, and where magic had flowed through their veins like blood. She spoke of the old gods—the Creators—who had once walked among the elves and guided them with wisdom and power. Elion would listen with wide eyes, captivated by the images she painted in his mind.
"The Dalish still live free," she would say softly, her voice barely above a whisper, as if she feared the walls themselves might betray her words. "They roam the forests, untouched by human hands. They carry with them the old ways, the stories of our people, and the magic of the Creators. One day, perhaps, you will find them."
Elion had never seen the Dalish, had never seen a forest, for that matter. But in his mind, he could almost picture it: towering trees with branches that reached up to the sky, their leaves shimmering in the light of the moon. He could almost hear the sound of elven voices raised in song, could almost see the glow of magic as it danced through the air.
But those moments of fantasy never lasted long. Reality always returned with the harshness of a cold wind, reminding him of the walls that surrounded them, of the guards who watched them with contempt in their eyes, of the human lords and ladies who passed through the gates only to take what they wanted and leave behind nothing but pain.
Syriel, Elion's older sister, had inherited their mother's quiet strength, but she had also been born with a fire that Ilari lacked. At thirteen, Syriel was tall and lean, her dark hair tied back in a rough braid that trailed down her back. Her eyes were sharp, always watching, always alert, and she had a defiance in her that Elion both admired and feared. Where Ilari spoke of survival, of enduring the hardships of their lives in silence, Syriel spoke of rebellion.
"We don't have to stay here," she would whisper to Elion when they lay in the small cot they shared. "One day, we'll leave. We'll find the Dalish, and we'll be free. They can't keep us here forever."
Elion believed her, even though he didn't fully understand how they could escape. The walls of the Alienage were tall, the gates always locked, and the guards always watching. How could they ever break free?
Still, Syriel's belief was enough for him. As long as she believed, so did he.
Syriel was fiercely protective of Elion. She had never hesitated to stand up for him, even when it meant risking a beating from the city guards. More than once, she had taken the brunt of their cruelty in his place, shielding him from blows that would have left him bruised and broken. Elion looked up to her, idolized her, and followed her wherever she went.
Together, they would roam the narrow streets of the Alienage, dodging the stares of the guards and the other elves, who kept to themselves and avoided drawing attention. Syriel would often tell him stories of the Dalish, those elves who still roamed free beyond the cities. In her mind, the Dalish were not just free—they were warriors, fierce and proud, untouched by the cruelty of men.
"They don't bow to humans," Syriel would say, her voice full of conviction. "They live by their own rules. They remember who we were, before all this."
Elion would listen, wide-eyed, as his sister described the Dalish as noble, strong, and unyielding. They were everything he wanted to be, everything he wished the elves of the Alienage could be.
But as much as Syriel believed in the Dalish, Elion knew that their lives were confined to the walls of the Alienage. For all their dreams, for all their hopes, they were trapped, just like everyone else. The guards watched them constantly, their sneers full of contempt, and the humans who passed through the gates treated the elves as little more than property, to be used and discarded at will.
The day everything changed was one of those sweltering afternoons when the air hung heavy with heat, and the stench of the Alienage was thick enough to choke on. Elion and Syriel had been playing in the streets, their bare feet caked with mud as they chased each other through the narrow alleys. They had been pretending to be Dalish hunters, tracking wild animals through the forest. For a brief moment, they had forgotten the walls that surrounded them, had forgotten the guards who watched them with cold eyes, had forgotten the reality of their lives.
But then the sound of hooves shattered the illusion.
Elion froze mid-step, his heart pounding in his chest as the clattering of horses' hooves echoed through the narrow streets. He turned to see a procession of mounted soldiers pushing their way through the gates, their armor gleaming in the harsh sunlight. At their head was a man Elion recognized instantly, though he had never seen him up close before: Lord Borvarl.
Borvarl was a man of power and cruelty, a noble whose family crest—a golden lion's head—was emblazoned on his crimson tunic. His visits to the Alienage were rare, but they were always a cause for fear. Borvarl had a reputation for taking what he wanted, and what he wanted was often the bodies of young elven women and girls. His presence in the Alienage meant suffering for someone, and the elves knew it.
Elion's stomach twisted with fear as Borvarl's cold blue eyes swept over the gathered elves. Syriel grabbed his wrist, pulling him back into the shadows of a nearby alley. Her eyes were wide with alarm, her voice a low whisper in his ear. "Stay close to me, Elion. Don't let them see you."
But it was too late. Borvarl's eyes had already fallen on them.
With a twisted smile, the noble dismounted from his horse, his gaze lingering on Syriel with a hungry gleam that made Elion's blood run cold. He knew that look. He had seen it before, on the faces of other human nobles who passed through the Alienage. It was a look that meant danger, a look that meant someone would suffer.
The other elves quickly scattered, retreating into their homes or ducking behind corners, unwilling to draw the attention of Borvarl or his men. No one dared to intervene. No one dared to speak up. They all knew what happened to elves who stood in the way of human nobles.
Elion's mother, Ilari, appeared from their small hovel just as Borvarl reached them. Her face was pale, her hands trembling as she stepped between the noble and her children. She dropped to her knees before him, her voice shaking with barely restrained terror. "Please, my lord," she begged, her eyes wide with fear. "They're just children. Spare them."
Borvarl's smile widened, his teeth gleaming like a predator's. He stepped closer, his shadow falling over Ilari as she knelt at his feet. With a flick of his hand, he gestured to his men. "Take them," he said.
Two of the guards stepped forward, their armored hands grabbing Ilari by the arms and dragging her to her feet. She struggled, her voice rising in desperation, but the guards were too strong. Syriel fought back, lashing out with her fists and feet, but she was no match for them. Within moments, they had her restrained, her hands pinned behind her back as she struggled to break free.
Elion was frozen in place, his heart pounding in his chest as he watched helplessly. He wanted to scream, to fight, to do something, but his legs wouldn't move. He was too small, too weak. All he could do was watch as his mother and sister were dragged away from him, their cries echoing in his ears long after they had disappeared from sight.
He ran after them, but one of the guards caught him by the arm and threw him to the ground. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, and for a moment, the world spun around him. By the time he regained his senses, his mother and sister were gone.
The hours that followed were a blur. Elion wandered the streets of the Alienage aimlessly, his mind a storm of confusion and fear. The other elves avoided him, their faces turned away in shame or pity. No one dared speak to him. No one dared to help. He was alone.
His mind raced with images of his mother and sister being dragged away, of Borvarl's cruel smile, of the terror in Ilari's eyes as she was pulled away from him. He couldn't stop replaying the moment in his head, couldn't stop hearing their screams. It was as if the entire world had been reduced to that single, horrifying memory.
By the time the sun began to set, Elion was back at the edge of the Alienage, staring blankly at the gate. He had no idea what to do, no idea where to go. He was just a child, after all. What could he possibly do against the might of a nobleman like Borvarl?
But then the sound of hooves drew his attention once more, and he turned to see Borvarl and his men riding back through the gate. His heart leapt into his throat, hope flickering to life for just a moment. Maybe his mother and sister were with them, maybe they were still alive.
But then he saw the bodies.
They were dumped unceremoniously into the street, their lifeless forms crumpling in the mud like discarded rags. Elion's breath caught in his throat as he stumbled forward, his vision blurring with tears. He fell to his knees beside them, his small hands reaching out to touch his mother's cold skin, to smooth his sister's matted hair.
They were gone.
His mother's eyes, once so full of warmth and love, stared blankly up at the darkening sky. Syriel, who had always been so fierce, so full of life, lay broken and still at his side. There was no light left in her, no fire. Only the remnants of a battle she could never have won.
Elion sobbed, his body wracked with grief as he clung to their lifeless forms. He wanted to scream, to wail at the injustice of it all, but the sound wouldn't come. His throat was too tight, his chest too heavy with the weight of his sorrow.
The cold, numb feeling had settled deep in Elion's bones, a sense of hollowness that seemed to stretch on forever. Days passed without him noticing, a blur of muted sounds and shadowy figures moving around him. He slept little and ate even less, his body growing weaker with each passing hour, though he barely felt it.
The other elves in the Alienage whispered about him—about the poor boy who had lost everything. They watched him with pity in their eyes, but none dared to approach. Perhaps they feared that the grief and anger that swirled around him were contagious, that getting too close to him would bring tragedy into their own lives. Or perhaps they simply didn't know what to say.
Elion didn't care. He barely registered their presence. All that mattered to him was the memory of his mother's and sister's lifeless bodies lying in the mud, the cold weight of their hands as he had tried to pull them back from the abyss, and the cruelty of the humans who had taken them.
But even through the fog of his grief, something was beginning to stir within him. It started as a small ember, faint and almost imperceptible, buried beneath the overwhelming sorrow and pain. But as the days wore on, that ember grew hotter, fueled by the memories of his mother's pleading voice, his sister's defiance, and the twisted smile on Lord Borvarl's face.
He began to hear their voices in his mind, whispering to him in the stillness of the night. His mother's soft, comforting words. Syriel's fiery promises of rebellion. They echoed in his thoughts, mixing with the growing flame of his rage until they became one and the same—a constant, driving force that gnawed at him from the inside.
One night, as the Alienage lay in near-total silence, Elion slipped out of the hovel where he had been staying—an old woman's home, one of the few who had offered him a place after the death of his family. He didn't know why he left; he only knew that he couldn't stand the feeling of being trapped within the four walls any longer.
The streets were dark, the air cool against his skin. The sky above was thick with clouds, hiding the stars from view. The only light came from the dim glow of a few scattered torches that flickered in the distance, near the gates.
Elion's feet carried him toward the graveyard just outside the Alienage, where his mother and sister had been buried. He had not visited their graves since the day they had been laid to rest, unable to bear the sight of the freshly turned earth that marked their final resting place. But tonight, something drew him there—something deeper than his grief, something darker.
The graveyard was empty when he arrived, save for the low rustle of the wind through the trees and the soft creak of old, weathered tombstones. Elion stood at the edge of the burial ground, staring at the mounds of dirt that covered his mother's and sister's bodies. The sight of the graves brought a fresh wave of pain crashing over him, but this time, it didn't paralyze him as it had before.
Instead, the pain sharpened his focus, honing it like a blade.
He fell to his knees beside their graves, his fingers digging into the loose earth as if he could somehow reach them, pull them back from the dead. The tears came again, hot and bitter, but they did nothing to quench the fire that was burning inside him.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice shaking. "I'm so sorry…"
He had failed them. He had been too weak, too small to protect them. He had stood by, helpless, as Borvarl had taken them away, and now they were gone forever. The guilt weighed heavily on him, threatening to crush him under its weight.
But beneath that guilt, something else was growing—a need for justice. No, not justice. Revenge.
Elion's fists clenched in the dirt, his nails scraping against the ground as he gritted his teeth. The image of Borvarl's sneering face flashed in his mind, and the fire within him flared brighter. He could feel it spreading through his veins, consuming the numbness that had held him captive for so long.
He wouldn't let them get away with this. He couldn't. The humans had taken everything from him, had treated his family like they were nothing more than playthings to be used and discarded. And they had done so without fear of consequences, without a second thought.
They needed to pay for what they had done. All of them.
Elion stayed by the graves for what felt like hours, the fire inside him growing hotter with every passing moment. By the time he finally stood up, his body felt different—stronger, more alive than it had in days. The cold emptiness that had plagued him since his mother and sister's deaths was gone, replaced by a searing determination that burned in his chest.
He would not let their deaths be in vain.
As he walked back through the streets of the Alienage, his mind was racing with thoughts of what needed to be done. He didn't have a plan yet, didn't know how he would strike back against the humans who had wronged him and his people. But he knew that he couldn't wait any longer. The fire inside him wouldn't allow it.
The other elves barely glanced at him as he passed by. They were used to seeing him wandering the streets at odd hours, lost in his grief. But they didn't see what had changed within him. They couldn't see the flame that now burned brightly behind his eyes.
As Elion reached the center of the Alienage, he paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the small community that had been his home for as long as he could remember. The faces of the elves around him were etched with fear and hopelessness, their eyes dull and lifeless. They had grown accustomed to their chains, to the constant threat of violence and degradation at the hands of the humans.
But Elion couldn't accept that anymore. He wouldn't.
He could still hear Syriel's voice in his head, whispering to him of freedom, of rebellion. Her words echoed through his thoughts like a distant melody, growing louder with each step he took.
"We don't have to stay here," she had said. "We can fight. We can be free."
Elion stopped in his tracks, the fire in his chest burning hotter than ever. His sister's words filled him with a newfound sense of purpose, a resolve that felt unbreakable. He knew what he had to do now.
He would start small—gather information, learn the weaknesses of their enemies. He would find others who still had the strength to fight, who hadn't yet been broken by the endless oppression. And when the time came, he would strike.
He would not be powerless again. He would not stand by and watch as his people were torn apart. He would fight for them, for his mother, for Syriel.
And he would bring the humans to their knees.