Dark Elf Malekith Novels & Stories

Sharp angles, high cheekbones, features that echoed Valtherion's aristocratic lines but corrupted, hollowed, the skin stretched too tight over bones that had endured centuries of dark magic. His eyes burned steady red, fixed on the symbols at his feet. He wasn't alone. Behind him, rows of cultists knelt in silent worship. Beyond them, in the shadows of the cavern, shapes moved. Wolves, but wrong. Their eyes were vacant, their movements synchronized, puppets on invisible strings. "Two weeks," Malachar said. His voice resonated through the cavern, through the vision, through the blood connection that linked us despite every ward and wall I'd built.

The noises of fight were stilled down by the branches and the leaves. I came into a ravine between two hills, and fell by the edge of a stream. Malek sat down beside a tree, and drew his knees up. He was still trembling. “It's not the ones that fight back that they kill only, he whispered, looking at the water. They also kill the people who change too quickly, anyone that does not match their plan in terms of his capabilities." I sat down by him. How many years did you stay there? In the Citadel?"

Priest Malek arrived without fear. That alone made Elara uneasy. Most wolves had started reacting to her in one of two ways since the ceremony: fear or fascination. Malek carried neither. He stood in the receiving hall of Nightfall House with his hands folded neatly behind his back, dark ceremonial robes trimmed in silver thread. Older than Darius by at least twenty years, the Riverfang priest had sharp eyes that missed nothing. Especially not Elara. The moment she entered beside Darius, his attention settled fully onto her.

His face was handsome, charming, and utterly soulless. He held a staff tipped with a burning orange crystal. Behind him, a dozen warriors in heavy armor poured into the room, their weapons drawn. The Rogue King. Malakar. He looked around the room, his eyes landing on me. He smiled, revealing teeth that were just a little too sharp. "Princess Elara," Malakar said. His voice was smooth like velvet over gravel. "You look just like your mother. Only... angrier." He looked at the box in Drax’s hands.

“Then, do you know what would have happened to you if what you said were true?” “I would have become a fallen elf.” “Then, can you tell me what a fallen elf is? I assume you do not know, otherwise you would not have said such a lie.” “I am sorry Mother Lelyah.” “I see. I overestimated your ability to study by yourself.” She looked directly into my eyes. “A fallen elf is one who have lost Mother Jörð’s blessing. In other words, you lose your divine mana. Without it, you are nothing more than a mere beast, you cannot use any magic and you cannot cross the village’s barrier.”

Many of the men and women in the houses, looked distressed, realizing they had been hit with a serious battle. Getting to the boarder, everyone stopped and waited for the Nordic wolf and her group of wolfes to approach the borders. The tension in the air was unwavering, and I could sense fear from some soldiers, giving me more reason why I needed to use my power. “Where is the A****n?” I heard King Melchizedek voice and walked past many of the soldiers until I found him at the front. He looked different like his son and his attire was all painted in the shades of black, giving him the aura of a black knight.

​Standing beneath the pulsating beam of dark energy was Grand Archon Malakor-Prime. ​He was a terrifying sight: eight feet tall, clad in jagged armor forged from abyss-steel and void-crystal. His eyes were twin pools of endless black void, and in his right hand he held a massive, double-headed halberd that dripped with corrupted anti-mana. ​"So," Malakor-Prime rasped, his voice sounding like grinding stone. "The High Sovereign of Drakenhold and his calculating Empress have come to witness the end of their realm."

"Who is that?" ​"Malakor the Defiler. The primordial beast who ruled the continent before the Moon Goddess cursed him into the subterranean prison. The stories say he didn't just shift into a wolf—he was a monster twice the size of a castle, driven by nothing but an insatiable hunger to consume the souls of his own kind," Kaelor said, his jaw tightening into a rigid, defensive line. ​"The history books said he was dead. They said his line was completely erased." Lysander obsidian eyes flashing with dark realization.

His skin was the color of twilight, his hair a cascade of stark silver, and his eyes—a deep, piercing violet—swept across the room with a mixture of desperate hope and intense disbelief. It was Malakor, the King of the Dark Elves. Nalvath, who had been leaning quietly against the stone pillar near the back of the room, froze. For a man who had survived centuries of exile, torture, and shadow, the sight of the young king made his breath completely hitch in his chest.

They were something far worse. Creatures summoned by Malachar, the dark sorcerer in service to Lord Vortigern. Beings without names, made of smoke, coagulated blood, and pure malice. They had a vaguely humanoid shape, but their bodies were elongated and twisted, with limbs ending in crooked claws. Their mouths were slits filled with irregular teeth that never fully closed. The three red eyes — one in the center of the forehead, two smaller ones on the cheekbones — never blinked. They had seen everything.