Platold Ore

The High Elf toppled to the ground, his battle axe slipping from his grip. He attempted to stand, but with no strength left, he collapsed. “Why have you done this?” he asked, his voice strained.

Pa’tom towered over his opponent, staring into the elf’s cold green eyes, his sword hovering just beyond his throat. “For the platold ore.”

The High Elf shook his head weakly. “Stupid human, it’s not what you think.”

Pa’tom ignored the threat, driving the tip of his steel blade deep into the elf's neck, green blood pouring out from both ends.

The High Elf was dead; his kingdom eradicated.

“I can’t believe we did it,” the Grand Wizard said, bringing his staff down slowly to his side.

“Nothing a simple math calculation couldn’t predict,” Pa’tom replied calmly, stepping over the corpse to the only known opening to the platold mine—a rare mineral closely guarded by the Elf Kingdom.

The wooden door creaked open as the bright green rocks reflected in Pa’tom’s eyes, his lips curling upward with satisfaction. “The King will be pleased.”

“I had my doubts,” the Grand Wizard said, “but you managed to pull it off.”

Two months ago, when Pa’tom requested a campaign into the Elf Kingdom, there was hesitation from the council. The humans and elves had been living in peace for centuries, but Pa’tom encouraged the betrayal for the longevity of the kingdom, promising prosperity and stability.

With much unease after the outcry from the townsfolk, the King reluctantly agreed.

The volunteer villagers cheered as they carried the sacred element from the underground, filling the carts as full as the horses would allow, the wood cracking under the excessive weight. Platold was heavier than iron ore and harder than diamonds.

“We can always come back for more,” Pa’tom told the crew confidently. “We own the mine now.”

When they returned home, celebration erupted in the streets as Pa’tom sat tall on his horse, holding the glowing rock above his head. He was not surprised; after all, he was the one who told everyone how valuable it was.

The Kingdom of Kr’lynn had always relied on the magic of its mages, their craft used for everything from healing to construction. There had been growing concern over the last few decades as the College of Mages struggled to produce new members.

Mages weren’t born with magic; it was bestowed by the highest member of the academy. Only once you proved you could be trusted with infinite power would the initiation be performed. The Dean turning stone to liquid, empowering the apprentices through ritual consumption.

Leaa’ter was the only known mineral capable of such a feat—a black stone found deep underground. Miners produced it slowly, and many believed the reserves had been depleted.

Pa’tom took it upon himself to devote his studies to the subject. He knew he would never pass as a mage, so this was the only way he could contribute to the kingdom, permanently chiseling his name into the stone of his ancestors.

For twenty years, he read everything he could find. Many called him a fool and mocked his theories. He experimented with herbs, minerals, and oils—all with failed results. One day, he found a small piece of platold at the local market, and after performing tests on the strange green stone, he noted it reacted similarly to Leaa’ter.

That was all the proof he needed.

And now he had done it. He had secured enough to power the mages for a thousand years.

The Dean stood at the entrance of the College of Mages, his red and orange ceremonial robe hanging loose from his shoulders. “So the prophets are true,” he said, outstretching his arms.

Pa’tom threw a rock at him, which the Dean caught with ease. “When are you going to prepare the new graduates?”

“Right now,” he grinned. “We have fifty eager and ready.”

Pa’tom hopped off his horse as a stable boy guided it past the gate. Since Pa’tom was not a member of the academy, he was not allowed access to the ritual.

The Grand Wizard slapped Pa’tom on the back. “Everyone is heading to T’eo Tavern. You coming for an ale?”

Pa’tom let out an involuntary yawn. “No, I’m exhausted after that battle. I’m going to get a good night’s sleep.”

“Tomorrow will be a brighter day for the Kingdom of Kr’lynn. And everyone knows it’s thanks to you.”

Pa’tom didn’t respond, only smiling as he walked by, his head held high.

When Pa’tom woke the next morning, the sounds outside were not what he had expected. Instead of celebration, panicked cries echoed through his window.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Pa’tom’s front door rattled violently as the fist of a frantic Grand Wizard slammed against the wood repeatedly. “Pa’tom!” he shouted, terror in his voice. “Something has gone wrong.”

Pa’tom sprinted down the stairs, still in his nightwear. “What is the matter?” he asked urgently, throwing the door open.

The Grand Wizard’s eyes bulged in terror. “The platold is making everyone ill.”

“Impossible.” Pa’tom glanced into the courtyard to see mages vomiting a bright, glowing green substance. “It’s perfectly safe to consume.”

“How do you know it’s safe?”

“Because the math said so.”

The Grand Wizard dragged a hand across his sweaty face. “I’ve always trusted you, Pa’tom. But I had my doubts when you presented this. You reassured the council that you had taken all safety precautions.”

“I double-checked the numbers… three times,” Pa’tom insisted.

“Maybe we should hold off supplying the entire kingdom until we do further testing.”

Pa’tom shook his head firmly. “No. If we admit anything is wrong, the King won’t allow us a second chance.”

“It’s an unknown material.”

“The mineral is not the problem.”

“But no human has ever consumed platold before. How can you be so sure?”

“Because the math says so.”

“Then explain all the sickness.”

Pa’tom fell silent, his eyes catching glimpses of more mages keeling over in the streets, their bodies failing them.

“The King wants to speak with you,” the Grand Wizard continued.

An icy chill swept through Pa’tom. “Tell the King I’ll be there in one hour,” he said, closing the door and turning to his scholarly desk.

He shuffled through an endless mound of scrolls, parchments, and texts filled with diagrams and charts dating back to the beginning of man. “It makes no sense,” he muttered. “How could this be?”

He flipped open a large ledger, scanning desperately for an answer when he stopped short, his eyes locking onto a page of local herbs. “Of course!” he exclaimed. “It’s so simple.”

Still in his sleeping attire, he ran through the streets of Kr’lynn, leaping over unwell mages, their green eyes watching him in horror. “Have no fear!” he shouted. “I have a solution!”

The castle of Kr’lynn was in rough shape, with crumbling brick and rotting wooden doors. It would easily fall to any siege, and the King had been desperate to restore it. Pa’tom had assured him that the only thing preventing that was the Elf Kingdom and the platold mine.

The King sat at his table in the breakfast hall, his hands clutching a piece of stale bread. “Please tell me you have good news.”

“I do, Your Majesty.” Pa’tom kept his head down until instructed to rise.

The King gestured gravely. “We killed an entire race of hardworking elves for the survival of our kingdom. I would hate to know my decision was not just.”

“Jupitor leaves,” Pa’tom interjected quickly, trying to change the subject.

“How?”

“Have the mages place one jupitor leaf on their tongue during initiation. The sulphur will react, ionizing with the oxygen.”

The King rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “How do you know this?”

“The platold is more powerful than we anticipated. We need to counter the effects.”

The King glanced at the Grand Wizard, who reluctantly nodded. “Bring me jupitor leaves, one platold stone, the Dean, and the next mage.”

Pa’tom bowed his head. “I shall leave you.”

“Stop!” the King commanded sharply. “You will stay and watch.”

“But, sir, I’m not worthy to witness such an event.”

“And as your King, I grant it. You will stay—and witness your math.”

“As you wish.”

A small wooden door swung open, and a nervous young mage entered, followed by the Dean.

The Dean locked eyes with Pa’tom. “And you’re sure this will work?”

Pa’tom cleared his throat. “The math says it will.”

“Then begin.”

The Dean pulled a platold stone from his pocket. It glowed brighter than before, surprising Pa’tom. The mage stood frozen as the Dean raised the mineral above his head, squeezing it until the solid stone liquified through his fingers.

The mage’s hand trembled as he placed a jupitor leaf on his tongue, coughing at its bitterness.

“Hy-hy-hy Gr’jh!” the Dean chanted in the language of the mage's. “Jtui’g begh-nh type’m.”

Drops of glowing green liquid fell into the mage’s open mouth.

The mage closed his lips, lowering his head. Silence filled the hall.

“How do you feel?” the King asked.

“Very well,” the mage replied. “I can feel my power growing.”

His head twitched—then spasmed violently to the side. His brown eyes flickered, turning bright green.

“Is that part of the process?” Pa’tom asked.

“No,” the Dean said quietly.

The mage’s body contorted, his spine arching backward, green veins bulging across his face. Slime dripped from his mouth as he struggled to speak.

“Kill me!” he muttered, collapsing and convulsing.

The King gestured to a guard, who drove a spear into the mage’s chest, twisting it until the shaking stopped.

The King’s face darkened. “What have you done, Pa’tom?”

Pa’tom stepped back instinctively. “It was only a few mages. We can control it.”

The Dean shook his head. “They treated villagers last night. It’s spreading.”

“How bad is it?” the King asked.

The Dean’s voice softened. “This may be the end of Kr’lynn.”

“That’s impossible!” Pa’tom shouted. “The math says it’s fine!”

“Damn your math!” the king shouted. “Arrest him!”

“I can fix this!” Pa’tom fled, dodging the guard’s grasp.

The streets were chaos. Villagers staggered, their skin a toxic green. Livestock lay dead in olive-colored pools. Homes burned with pale green flames, and stone buildings dissolved as emerald liquid seeped from their walls.

“This is a nightmare,” Pa’tom whispered.

A lone horse, unharmed, stood with a saddle ready, its owner dead on the ground beside. Pa’tom threw a leg over. “Come on, boy,” he said. “We must return to The Kingdom of the Elves.”

The horse galloped away from Kr’lynn, the sounds of crying peasants drifting farther behind with every step. Pa’tom didn’t allow the horse to slow as he held the reins tight in his grip, his fingernails turning a dark green. He rode fast around the Lake of Tr’m, over the mountain of Don-ht’d, never resting until he reached the edge of the elves’ land.

Or what was left of it.

He dismounted his exhausted horse at the entrance, the smell of rotting flesh striking him. He swatted his hand through a hazy wall of black flies to see ravens perched on top of dead elves, turning their heads and squawking, only to return to their bottomless feast.

“Hello?” he called.

Silence returned.

Pa’tom kept an ear open for any sound that wasn’t that of an insect buzzing or a bird tearing at flesh as he walked through the streets of this once great nation.

“Is anyone alive?” he hollered again, louder this time.

Nothing.

The sound of a wicker basket being knocked over caught his attention. He ran to the side of a shop to see an elderly elf cowering behind it. “We have nothing else to offer you,” he pleaded. “Please leave.”

“You must help me,” Pa’tom said. “My kingdom has become sick.”

The elderly elf’s brow raised. “And?”

Pa’tom took a step back. “You must tell me how we can fix this.”

“Why would I do that?” the elf’s voice became firm. “You invade our land, kill our innocent, and steal our minerals. And when it doesn’t go as planned, you return asking us to fix it.”

“Yes.”

“And what makes you think we would help you?”

“Because we are The Kingdom of Kr’lynn.”

The elf smirked. “Stupid humans.”

“How dare you speak down to me, elf?”

“I will speak to you however I see fit. You are a naive group of settlers who have only existed for a few hundred years. The Kingdom of Elves has thrived for thousands,” the elderly elf said, standing tall, no longer afraid. “This is nothing more than a setback. We will recover and watch you fall, like so many before.”

Pa’tom stood paralyzed, unsure how to respond. His eyes moved around the town as more elves joined. None were afraid; their battle scars proudly displayed.

“Inscribe the events which have transpired over the last two days,” the elf continued. “As a warning to future humans.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Who are we kidding? We know humans never learn. You will always make the same mistake time and time again. You follow leaders with greed in their eyes until you lose everything.”

Pa’tom toppled to the ground, the heavy words of the elderly elf sinking deep within him. “I’m just a single man… how can one person possibly cause so much harm?” His eyes glanced up to the elf’s, desperate for any wisdom that might undo what he had done.

“One man is not dangerous,” the elf said. “But give him a blind belief—and a band of devoted followers—and he can become the beginning of a plague.”