Pythius

Faras stared at the golden plate.

It overflowed with exotic fruits he had not tasted since his earliest childhood. Since before he had become a Rescue. True elven food. Until a couple of months ago, their flavors had been nothing more than a foggy memory. Now, they sat right in front of him.

He knew his body would relish every bite, savor the aroma, absorb the nutrients, and soak up their energy. There would be the glow, an inner light radiating within him. He would be strong for days, his senses heightened, his magic powerful.

Disgusted, he pushed the plate away. Noisily, it scraped across the marble surface.

Nobody noticed.

A handful of elves sat scattered throughout the immense hall, each at a table large enough to fit dozens, calmly eating, lost in thought.

How Faras had loved it when he had first come to the Magical Council. He had been overwhelmed by its unimaginable scale, by its beauty, by the secrets it held. An otherworldly place, a long-lost dream come true, a destiny he had not known about, finally calling to him.

The size of a city block, almost twenty stories tall and another ten deep, the white monolith broached the next few layers below. It towered as one of the most impressive buildings in all of Empire City.

Yet despite its size, it served just a dozen elves.

The manufacturing workshops filled the ground floor, the only place accessible to the dwarves. Above stretched endless halls of libraries, private sleeping quarters, and dining rooms. One could wander for days without meeting a single soul.

This had impressed Faras more than anything.

Space was incredibly precious in the densely populated capital. The outrageous waste of it here was a public statement by Master Arlen, the Mage Superior, and it was not lost on Faras. For once, elves held the upper hand in the empire, the emperor at their mercy.

For weeks, Faras had admired the wonders this place offered, discovering new curiosities almost daily. Wood adorned everything. And not just any wood — the rare red kind. They had pearls, too, marvelous gemstones from the sea in both white and black, grown by animals. Who had ever heard of such a thing?

And the light! There were none of the sharp edges and shadows that filled the dwarven tunnels and towns; here, bright lights illuminated every corner of every hall, soft and pleasant, like the halls of his youth.

This was the proper way for elves to live.

Faras knew he had upset Anya and Eden, and he regretted all their arguments. But then, how could they possibly expect him to stay in that small, smelly inn when he could be here? If they knew, they would surely understand.

And Master Arlen. Now there was an elf to look up to. He had made sure Faras lacked for nothing. Faras had been draped in shimmering clothing of the finest thread, fed exceptional food, and been surrounded with pleasant scents. For once, he felt at home with other elves, with his people. It had been a long time since he had known this kind of belonging.

And yet...

Today, he had seen the price. And he could not unsee it.

In return for all this splendor, there was only one ask of him and the other elves. Create lanterns. Lots of lanterns. Endless rows of them, piled on the laboratory floor.

Every day, dwarves brought mountains of raw materials to the laboratories. They assembled the casings, cut the ethercrystals, and polished the glass. They handled everything except for the one thing that only the elves could do. Nobody else had the magical skills to manipulate the ethercrystals to burn brightly for centuries and change color throughout the day.

That was the bargain every elf struck with Master Arlen and the emperor. An elven world, an escape, a paradise, safely protected at the heart of the mountains, in return for six hours of excruciating magical labor every day.

Initially, Faras had been surprised to find that his productivity outpaced that of all the other elves. Eager to impress Master Arlen, he worked efficiently, consistently exceeding everyone else.

His only reward had been a smile from Master Arlen and a higher daily quota from the foreman.

So after that, Faras tempered his ambitions, working just hard enough to remain one of the top elves in the laboratory. To stay in Master Arlen's good graces.

But today, an elf had collapsed at the next station over. He had not been old, barely two hundred years, Faras guessed. He should have been in the prime of his life. Yet Faras had seen his condition — pale, eyes feverish, body twitching — before he passed out.

Faras's newly won sense of purpose had crumbled at that moment.

Two other elves had rushed over, picked up their collapsed colleague, and carried him away.

"I told you," one of them whispered as they passed Faras. "It's in the numbers. They don't lie..."

At the time, Faras had ignored the comment. Now, it struck him as odd. He glanced up. Two tables away sat the elf who had spoken. He was picking at his food while studying a paper.

Faras saw his chance and walked over.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," he said.

The elf looked up at him, surprised, a hand quickly covering the paper.

"Yes?"

"I'm Faras. I'm new here."

"I know who you are," the elf said. "You're the fresh one, the one who decided to show off, break the record, and increase quotas for all of us."

"I'm sorry about that... I didn't know."

The elf's face softened. "I'm Pythius," he said. "Don't worry. The quota will come back down. You're new. That's what happens with every newbie. Dazzled. Feel like they need to prove themselves..."

Faras nodded. "The elf today, the one who passed out — "

"Alinar? Yes, what a shame."

"I've never seen anything like it before. Will he be all right?"

"He'll be fine, if that's what you're asking. Probably back in the lab tomorrow."

"But... what happened?"

Pythius frowned. "The same thing that will happen to you and me and everyone else here. Better you figure that out now. Even all this... ambrosia," he waved his free hand over the golden plates, "it won't save you. It'll replenish you, but at some point, your body can't handle manipulating that much magic."

"Is that what you meant by the numbers?"

Pythius startled, then frowned. "I don't know what you're talking about." He got up, grabbed his papers, and walked off, leaving Faras confused.

It had taken Faras a week to recover, to somehow accept Alinar's collapse, the routine of the tiring work, the serene environment, and the heavenly food eventually calming his mind.

Then it happened again.

They had just returned from lunch, facing a new load of ethercrystals delivered by the dwarves, when another elf fainted. Again Pythius was first on the spot, gently lifting her, carrying her up the stairs. Faras stared after them. What if he was next? He had to find out.

That evening, he cornered Pythius in the library.

"I know I'm still new," he said, "but you need to talk to me, tell me what's happening. If I work here, I deserve to know."

Pythius looked Faras up and down, then glanced around the hall. They were alone.

"Might as well," he grunted and pulled up a chair. "Sit."

Faras obeyed.

"Be warned," Pythius said, "once you learn the truth, there's no going back. And beware, knowing won't change anything. Life would be a lot easier if you stayed ignorant."

Faras remained determined. "I want to know."

"Fine." Pythius sighed. "You'd work it out sooner or later anyway. It's called the Dark Claw. The sickness, I mean. It's a reaction to the overuse of magic."

"Yes, I figured out that much."

"It's because we aren't meant to be magical laborers." A faraway look crossed the elf's face. "We were once counselors to hundreds of kingdoms, human and dwarven alike, negotiating treaties, keeping the peace. We used magic rarely. And always in accordance with nature, always following our laws."

Faras nodded. He knew their history. For once he was grateful for Master Ulfan's rambling lectures. "Tell me more about the Dark Claw."

Pythius's eyes returned to Faras. "Magic is meant to be used carefully, like water shaping rocks over eons. What we do here — repetitive, forceful magic — it'll inevitably catch up with you. It has to. It's unnatural. After your first collapse, it will come more often."

"And then what?"

"Eventually, you lose your magical abilities... and your longevity."

Faras took in a sharp breath, but Pythius ignored him.

"Turns out, it's the magic that allows us to live as long as we do." He pulled a paper from his robes and held it up for Faras to see. Symbols and graphs covered it, edge to edge, none of which made any sense. "This is the other piece of the puzzle," he said. "What you asked for. The numbers that don't lie."

Faras looked over the sheet and shook his head. "What does it mean?"

"It means we're in deep trouble, and it'll only get worse. That's what it means." Pythius waved at the hall around them. "This is just a smokescreen. To hide the truth, to make us think everything is fine as long as we show up in the workshop every morning. I don't understand why I'm the only one who sees the numbers. They're as straightforward as can be." He paused. "To be honest, I think they're afraid. The other elves, I mean. They don't want to know. Not really. They prefer to play pretend. Until the Claw claims them."

"Pythius, what are you talking about?"

"The end of the elves!" Pythius cried, exasperated. "This city, the whole empire, has a big problem." He took a deep breath. "Look, there are only a dozen of us, and we can only make so many lanterns in a day. The rate of lantern production is therefore linear." He pointed to a graph on his paper. It showed a line. "However, thanks to the last forty years of peace, the empire is growing much faster than that." His finger moved to another graph, this one with a curve. "We can barely keep up with all the replacements, let alone new demand. Like that housing initiative. It sounds great, and it's necessary. Only one problem: we don't have the lanterns for it, not by a long shot. Even if the mappers manage to perform a miracle and reduce their needs, it's still far more than we can manufacture."

"But Master Arlen — "

"He knows. I showed him the numbers months ago. That sly bugger already knew even then. Saw it coming for years, I bet. I'm pretty sure the emperor knows, too. I heard they'll try to use the army to relocate more Rescues elves to the capital." Sadness crossed his eyes. "But with so few of us left, I doubt they'll find any. So, one way or another, they'll need to raise the quota again. By a lot."

Faras's eyes went wide. The new ten-hour shifts were already exhausting beyond belief. How could they possibly work more? "What do we do?"

"We? We can't do anything, young one. The only thing we can do is hope everything works out fine. Trust me. I've been thinking about it, and there's no easy solution. This is a problem much larger than you and me. But you're still young. If you eat the ambrosia and don't push yourself too hard in the workshops, you'll probably have years, maybe decades, before the Claw gets to you."

Pythius stood, folded his paper, and tucked it away.

"I don't envy Master Arlen for a moment," he said. "I can't begin to fathom how he does it. Worst post in the empire." He gave Faras a sad smile. "And now you know. Good luck with that."

He turned and walked away, leaving Faras alone in the hall.

He sat there for a long, long time.