Rebirth of a Fey Lord

The courtyard echoed with the clashing sounds of swords as Eogan struggled to wield his weapon under the watchful eye of Lord Dubhan. Even though the blade was made of wood, the way it struck the stone beneath his feet made Lorcan wince. The impact resonated through him, a strange unease settling deep inside.

Eogan's stance was stiff, and his grip too tight. He swung the practice sword in a wide arc, but Lord Dubhan—imposing even in exhaustion—was quick to counter. His movements were precise and effortless.

Lorcan stood off to the side, trying to focus on the lesson, but his gaze drifted to the collection of metal weapons lining the far wall of the courtyard. They gleamed in the morning light, their sharp edges reflecting the sun's rays. Each blade seemed to hum with an energy he couldn't fully grasp—a vibration that unsettled him.

It wasn't simple discomfort. Lorcan couldn't get rid of the feeling that something was fundamentally wrong. The cold, unyielding metal stood out in stark contrast to the natural surroundings. The trees swayed in the breeze, the grass lush and green, and the flowers by the stone path reached toward the sun. Yet the swords—those sleek, unnatural objects—looked almost out of place. Their very presence felt like an affront to the peaceful harmony around them.

For a moment, Lorcan felt a strange pull toward the weapons. But the sensation intensified as his gaze lingered on the blades. A wave of discomfort swept over him, and he instinctively stepped back, feeling the urge to distance himself from them.

What is it about these things? He thought. His eyes flickered down to the imp, now nestled in the leather pouch at his waist. The baby imp, usually calm and content, was unusually still, its tiny form pressed against his side. Lorcan reached down, feeling the creature's softness through the leather. The warmth was a familiar comfort, but today, it felt unusual.

The bond between them, though still new, had grown more intuitive recently. Now, standing near the metal, Lorcan felt the creature shift inside the pouch—its tiny body stirring restlessly. This wasn't the typical affectionate movement; there was something profound and primal about the imp's unease.

Lorcan frowned, trying to ignore the sensation. He'd never been affected by metal before, but everything felt wrong. It was like the air had changed, charged with a strange energy that made his skin prickle. It felt ancient, primal as if his instincts were trying to tell him something he couldn't yet understand.

"You noticed, didn't you?" Dilis speaks and interrupts his thoughts.

Lorcan turned to her, startled. She watched him closely, her eyes following his as he stared at the metal weapons. Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile, though it had a touch of sadness. "The fey despises those things," she said, her voice low and thoughtful. "They feel it disrupts the balance. It poisons the earth's magic."

Lorcan blinked, taken aback. The fey? He'd heard stories of them—mysterious, nature-bound creatures who lived deep in the forests—but he hadn't connected them to metal.

Dilis's gaze remained fixed on the blades. "The fey have always hated metal," she continued. "It's not just about the material. It's the way it disrupts the flow of nature's energy. Metal is cold and unnatural. It doesn't belong in the world of magic and growth. To them, it's a corruption. A poison."

Lorcan swallowed, a sense of recognition tugging at him, but it was fleeting. He couldn't quite place why this knowledge stirred something inside him.

"It doesn't surprise me," Dilis added. "Imps are distant relatives of the fey. They share a common ancestor. That's why they're sensitive to the same things."

Lorcan's heart skipped a beat. The imp? A relative of the fey? He had always known there was something special about the creature, but this revelation was beyond his understanding. The imp's peculiar behavior around metal wasn't just instinctual—it was tied to something much older.

A sudden realization hit him like a jolt of electricity. The baby imp's agitation, whenever they were near metal, wasn't just a response to its instincts—it was a deep-rooted fear, a recoil as if the metal physically repelled it. And now, Lorcan understood that this wasn't just the imp's reaction—it was also something inside him. A bond he hadn't fully grasped until now.

Dilis watched him, her gaze softening as she read his expression. "The imps remember," she said quietly. "They remember when the fey ruled the land when magic flowed freely. Before man's rise and their iron and steel tools."

Lorcan instinctively pressed his hand against the pouch, feeling the imp stir inside. It was as though the creature was trying to warn and tell him something he couldn't quite understand. Why did it recoil from the metal so violently? And why did it feel so significant?

But then, Dilis's following words caught him off guard. "I know about the imp," she admitted, her voice dropping to a whisper. "When I saw you with Eogan last night, I could sense something unusual about the bond between you two. It was... unnatural, even for one so young. A connection, a magic I hadn't felt in years." She paused, studying his face. "I didn't say anything then. I thought you might share it with me when you were ready."

Lorcan froze, his heart pounding. He hadn't thought anyone had noticed. "How... how did you know?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Dilis smiled knowingly. "I saw the little one last night," she said softly. "When I checked on Eogan, you were there with him. You had the imp with you, though you tried to keep it hidden. I could feel the magic in the air. Subtle but unmistakable. I didn't want to bring it up. I wanted you to reveal it to me in your own time."

Lorcan blinked, processing her words. The night before… when Eogan had been recovering from his late-night escapades, sitting quietly with the young lord. The imp had been curled up close to him. Lorcan had been too tired to think much of it then, but now he realized Dilis had seen. She had sensed it.

A twinge of panic surged in Lorcan's chest. He'd been so careful to keep the imp a secret, yet somehow, Dilis had seen right through him. She had felt the connection.

Dilis gave him a reassuring smile, her voice soft. "Don't worry, Lorcan. I won't say anything. I simply wanted you to know that I understand. And you're not alone in this."

Her words eased his tension, but the weight of her knowledge lingered. He didn't know what the future held with the imp at his side, but one thing was becoming clear: things were far more complicated than he'd ever imagined.

Eogan's shout broke through his thoughts. The young lord was still struggling with the sword, and Lord Dubhan's voice rang out with sharp command.

"Again, Eogan," he instructed, his tone firm yet patient. "Focus. Let the weapon become an extension of yourself. You must move with it, not against it."

The sound of metal clashing against stone filled the air again, and Lorcan flinched. The noise reverberated too loudly, too harshly, deep in his chest. The weight of it seemed to press down on him.

"Come, Lorcan," Dilis said, gently pulling him from his thoughts. "Let's continue the tour before the young master wears his father's patience too thin. There's more to this place than just the sword."

Lorcan nodded, though his mind was still racing. As he followed Dilis, his gaze shifted back to Eogan and his father. The sight of the young lord struggling with the sword seemed insignificant now compared to the unsettling knowledge he had gained.

For the first time, Lorcan understood why the imp was so restless. It wasn't just instinct. It was a deep connection to something older—a shared history with the fey, a world scarred by the rise of man and their unnatural creations.

The courtyard echoed with the clashing sounds of swords as Eogan struggled to wield his weapon under the watchful eye of Lord Dubhan. Though the blade was made of wood, the way it struck the stone beneath his feet made Lorcan wince. The impact resonated through him, settling an uneasy feeling deep inside.

Eogan's stance was stiff, and his grip too tight. He swung the practice sword in a wide arc, but Lord Dubhan—imposing even in exhaustion—was quick to counter. His movements were precise and effortless.

Lorcan stood off to the side, trying to focus on the lesson, but his gaze drifted to the collection of metal weapons lining the far wall of the courtyard. They gleamed in the morning light, their sharp edges reflecting the sun's rays. Each blade seemed to hum with an energy he couldn't fully grasp—a vibration that unsettled him.

This wasn't simple discomfort. Lorcan couldn't shake the feeling that something was fundamentally wrong. The cold, unyielding metal stood out in stark contrast to the natural surroundings. The trees swayed in the breeze, the grass was lush and green, and the flowers by the stone path reached towards the sun. Yet the swords—those sleek, unnatural objects—looked almost out of place. Their very presence felt like an affront to the peaceful harmony around them.

Lorcan felt a strange pull toward the weapons for a moment, but the sensation intensified as his gaze lingered on the blades. A wave of discomfort swept over him, and he instinctively stepped back, feeling an urge to distance himself from them.

What is it about these things? He thought. He glanced down at the imp, nestled in the leather pouch at his waist. The baby imp, usually calm and content, was unusually still, its tiny form pressed against his side. Lorcan reached down, feeling the creature's softness through the leather. The warmth was familiar, but today, it felt different.

The bond between them, though still new, had grown more intuitive recently. Now, standing near the metal, Lorcan felt the creature shift inside the pouch—its tiny body stirring restlessly. This wasn't the typical affectionate movement; there was something profound and primal about the imp's unease.

Lorcan frowned, trying to ignore the sensation. He had never been affected by metal before, but everything felt wrong. The air seemed charged with a strange energy that made his skin prickle. It felt ancient and primal as if his instincts were trying to tell him something he couldn't yet understand.

"You noticed, didn't you?" Dilis's voice interrupted his thoughts.

Lorcan turned to her, startled. She watched him closely, her eyes following his as he stared at the metal weapons. Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile tinged with sadness. "The fey despises those things," she said, her voice low and thoughtful. "They feel it disrupts the balance. It poisons the earth's magic."

Lorcan blinked, taken aback. The fey? He had heard stories of them—mysterious, nature-bound creatures who lived deep in the forests—but he hadn't connected them to metal.

Dilis's gaze remained fixed on the blades. "The fey have always hated metal," she continued. "It's not just about the material. It's the way it disrupts the flow of nature's energy. Metal is cold and unnatural. It doesn't belong in the world of magic and growth. To them, it's a corruption. A poison."

Lorcan swallowed, a sense of recognition tugging at him, but it was fleeting. He couldn't quite place why this knowledge stirred something inside him.

"It doesn't surprise me," Dilis added. "Imps are distant relatives of the fey. They share a common ancestor. That's why they're sensitive to the same things."

Lorcan's heart skipped a beat. The imp? A relative of the fey? He had always known there was something special about the creature, but this revelation was beyond his understanding. The imp's peculiar behavior around metal wasn't just instinctual—it was tied to something much older.

A sudden realization hit him like a jolt of electricity. The baby imp's agitation, whenever they were near metal, wasn't just a response to its instincts—it was a deep-rooted fear, a recoil as if the metal physically repelled it. And now, Lorcan understood that this wasn't just the imp's reaction—it was also something inside him. A bond he hadn't fully grasped until now.

Dilis watched him, her gaze softening as she read his expression. "The imps remember," she said quietly. "They remember when the fey ruled the land, when magic flowed freely, before man's rise and their iron and steel tools."

Lorcan instinctively pressed his hand against the pouch, feeling the imp stir inside. It was as though the creature was trying to warn him, telling him something he couldn't quite understand. Why did it recoil from the metal so violently? And why did it feel so significant?

But then, Dilis's following words caught him off guard. "I know about the imp," she admitted, her voice dropping to a whisper. "When I saw you with Eogan last night, I could sense something unusual about the bond between you two."

As Lorcan walked away from the weapons, he couldn't help but wonder: How deep did this connection go? And what would it mean for the path he was about to take?