Half-Elf

Cold, damp air blew in from the north. The northern wind sounded winter's call across every corner of the Eastern Continent. Its deep, solemn howl rushed through the birch forest, setting the tall trees' leaves rustling in unison. Great drifts of withered leaves swept away on the wind. Several fat field mice busily carried wild wheat across the ground. Their round bellies were packed with fat, but it still wasn't enough to see them through the winter. They wanted more food, and before the first snowfall, they would seal their burrow entrances and settle comfortably beside their underground storehouses, feasting on the fruits of their labor.

A pair of clean deerskin boots trod over the withered grass. Their owner wasn't walking along the main road. These dirt paths were passable enough in summer, but the autumn rains had turned them into a muddy mess. Walk there, and damp, icy mud would easily seep through the holes in the deerskin boots and soak the warmth from your feet, giving you an early taste of winter. It was best to stick to the dead grass along the sides of the road.

The middle-aged man ahead of the boots' owner had no such concerns. A faint blue magical glow shimmered around his boots. The weeds could brush against his soles, but the icy mud could never touch him. It could only gaze up at his nostrils as the strange little procession slowly disappeared into the distance.

The owner of the deerskin boots was a young black-haired boy. He was an orphan, abandoned on the doorstep of an elderly farming couple in Fleck Village during a heavy snowfall. They had prayed to the Holy Light for a child for many years without success. Even an abandoned child was enough to fill them with joy, and they carried him inside and raised him with great care.

As time passed, the little fellow grew ever more handsome. Beneath his smooth black hair was a pair of strong brows. His small nose was like a healthy pumpkin from the fields, a sight one never tired of. His lips were thin, so he often bit down on them until they turned bright red. Most striking of all were his dark eyes, tranquil as a lake at midnight. They seemed so fragile that even the slightest discourtesy might disturb them. One look into those eyes put people at ease. Everyone felt too embarrassed to speak loudly around him. Who would deliberately toss a stone into a lake at midnight? Only when he blinked did the moonlight seem to ripple across the water, making the adorable little fellow even more lovable.

As for his only flaw—or perhaps it was better to call it a difference—he had a pair of ears unlike a human's: pointed ears. Until now, only Sir Fleck knew what they meant. He watched the child playing with human children his own age, troubled. He had even considered turning the boy away after the old couple died, but each time, for some reason, his heart softened. Worse still, he had been bewitched into bringing him to his estate and teaching him the knightly arts, reading, and writing as if he were his own child. Oh, Fleck, you fool. This little fellow will still be alive when your grandson dies. Why get involved with him?

Now that the mage had arrived, everyone in the village knew what pointed ears meant. The little fellow was a half-elf. Perhaps his mother or father had abandoned him to protect their reputation, but what did that matter? Little Lister had grown up here. In everyone's eyes, he was one of Fleck Village's own, a child belonging to them all. Why worry about those two irresponsible people?

Even Lister himself felt nothing for his parents. The memories that had grown clearest over the past few years were the smiles of the old farming couple, Sir Fleck's stern instruction, and Aunt Sasha's warm, fragrant bread—not parents far away. Yet it was his elven blood that had led the mage to take him in. Sir Fleck had been prepared for this. He had seen elves before; they were the darlings of magic, and anyone with elven blood was a natural candidate for becoming a mage. All he could do was have his wife bring out the clothes and hat they had prepared long ago, dress little Lister up smartly, and send him away with the mage, bound for a completely unfamiliar world. It was for the boy's sake.

And for his own.

The children following behind Lister weren't all from Fleck Village. Some came from Park Village to the east, while others were from Greenwood Town to the west. The only ones in the group he knew were the siblings Little Fleck, whom he saw every day. The older sister had inherited Mrs. Fleck's golden hair and emerald eyes, while her younger brother had gotten their father's sturdy build. He and Lister were both eight years old, but he was five centimeters taller than Lister and seemed to be a size larger.

The middle-aged mage was watching Lister too, though not directly with his eyes. He observed the boy through the elements, with the eyes of his soul. The little fellow had obediently stuffed his chubby hands into his pockets, and the fur hat on his head bobbed with every step like a proud soldier. The mage couldn't help the corners of his mouth from lifting.

The middle-aged mage was a broad-shouldered man with shoulder-length hair, his robes stretched taut across his sturdy frame. Beneath his slightly tousled yellow-brown hair was a pair of deep blue eyes. His chiseled face was as stern as a stone sculpture, inspiring fear—much like his high-bridged nose.

He's only a child. He'll like Dalaran. The middle-aged mage recalled his own pilgrimage to Dalaran. He had been just like these little ones, wide-eyed and excited. After arriving, he hadn't been able to sleep for days. Good heavens, just think of the floating towers, the countless strange elements, and the bizarre creatures from every corner of the world and even the outer planes. All kinds of strange and wondrous things filled Dalaran. Who wouldn't be overwhelmed upon first encountering them?

In truth, being an apprentice in Dalaran was grueling. They had to shoulder a heavy workload, and if they failed to complete it within the allotted time, they were expelled. They also had to serve as their teachers' assistants, helping handle complex and dangerous magical materials, and were required to assist the academy in investigating magical incidents around the world. Some particularly cruel teachers even used apprentices as experimental subjects. Of course, they never did so openly. They simply had the apprentices sign all kinds of agreements, luring ignorant, impoverished students into "assisting with research." If anything went wrong, well, the apprentices could only blame their own carelessness in the experiments!

Octas sighed. There was no way around it. The deeper one delved into magic, the more one's humanity faded. Compared with the boundless world of magic, human life was so short and insignificant. Over the course of humanity's 6,800 years of magical study, many mages had their right to wield the elements stripped away each year for breaking taboos. Among the dangerous creatures held in Dalaran's underground prison were humans—mages, in particular.

But what could be done? This was both the tragedy and the greatness of humanity. These fledglings would soon understand. Octas drew in a breath of icy air. The wind couldn't touch him at all. Behind him, the little fellows had used their slingshots to catch a few unlucky field mice. They were skewering them on sticks and chatting as they walked, apparently planning to have them for dinner.

Well, perhaps I'm worrying too much. These little fellows are tough.