Author's Note: Ferosia's technological level can be broadly described as Iron Age. This information is provided for clarity. Also, keep in mind that technology is not uniform across the planet.
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(The Age of Sky Gods - Year 31)
The years following the obliteration of the Dragon Lords from Ferosia had plunged the world into political fragmentation. The continent had become a vast chessboard of countless small kingdoms, city-states, and fiefdoms, each guarding its own interests. On the surface, a fragile peace seemed to reign, disturbed only by minor territorial disputes; yet, this was no different from the deceptive calm before a storm. Every petty state watched for its neighbor's weakest moment, lying in wait to exploit the slightest power vacuum.
In the midst of this tense geography, the city of Traethfaen on the coast of Ethralis was an oasis of prosperity and stability. It was a hardworking mouse-folk city where the salty smell of the sea mingled with the scent of freshly baked bread and stored grain. The city's lord, the experienced and wise Aled Tŷ'r Môr, knew the value of peace well after a life spent under the shadow of swords. Through astute treaties and alliances with neighboring mouse-folk and halfling cities, he had secured the majority of his borders. Its partially protected harbor had become a transit center for goods from the continent's interior, and this trade had elevated Aled Tŷ'r Môr's domain to a wealthy status. With a population approaching ten thousand, Traethfaen was a self-sufficient, proud city.
Lord Aled understood the cost of protecting this wealth and his people. Thus, his army of over a thousand soldiers—unlike the hastily assembled militias of most of Ethralis—consisted of permanent, professional fighters dedicated to the sword and shield. The armor and equipment of these soldiers, befitting the wealth of their lands, were expertly forged from gleaming iron. The sun reflecting off them as they patrolled the harbor with discipline offered assurance to friends and dread to foes.
The city was surrounded by two thick but not particularly tall stone walls, reflecting the mouse-folk's modest but practical nature. The true line of defense, however, was the citadel that rose on a hill directly overlooking the harbor and the city. Though small and unostentatious from the outside, this castle was the home of Lord Aled Tŷ'r Môr and his family. But the fortress's real strength lay beneath the earth: it housed an extensive subterranean network of provision stores, secret passages, and fortified chambers capable of withstanding a siege for months.
Sitting in his study atop the Traethfaen Citadel tower, Lord Aled Tŷ'r Môr gazed at the sunset painting a view between the masts of the ships in the harbor. He was old, and the sorrow of losing his beloved wife years ago still resided in his heart, but he looked to the future with hope when he saw his son Cadfael and daughter Carys. He enjoyed the sweet peace that came with knowing the future of his lineage and his folk was secure.
Yet, beyond that tranquil sunset, on the horizon, a danger Lord Aled was unaware of was rapidly approaching.
Elandor Veythakar stood at the prow of his ship, examining the very same coastline on a map. He did not see a peaceful folk or a wealthy trade harbor in these lands. He saw the perfect beachhead for the conquest of Ethralis, a strategic target to land his army and establish his main base. And that target was Traethfaen.
The peaceful sunset of the previous day had given way to a blood-red dawn. And with that dawn, death descended upon Traethfaen. Elandor's twenty-ship fleet appeared at the mouth of the harbor with a ghostly silence, and as the day's first light danced on the waves, four thousand Elven warriors breached the shore. By the time the high-pitched, alien sound of war horns echoed through the city's sleepy streets, it was already too late.
The attack was so sudden and unexpected that the soldiers and populace were caught completely off guard. The guards in the harbor were the first victims of the giant warriors descending from the graceful but lethal ships. Panic spread like fire across dry tinder. The Traethfaen soldiers rushing out of their barracks could not organize themselves against the enemy they faced—a foe much taller, swifter, and more ruthless than themselves. Panic led to mistakes, and mistakes to utter chaos. The Elves streamed into the streets like a river, slaying every mouse-folk they encountered—be it soldier, merchant, woman, or child—with cold, practiced skill. This savagery only fueled the panic further.
A fraction of the populace managed to run desperately toward their only refuge, Lord Aled's citadel. Along with them, nearly a thousand soldiers who had managed to rally after the initial shock sought shelter behind the castle's massive gates. The rest were left to their fate. Some were hunted like prey in the city's labyrinthine streets and perished by Elven blades, some hid trembling in their home cellars, and others tried to escape into the fields by leaping from the city's low walls.
By the time the sun set and gave way to twilight, the city of Traethfaen had fallen completely. Fires smoldered in every street, and Elven patrols roamed every corner. The only thing still standing was the Lord's castle, rising on the hill like a monument to grief.
Cadfael rallied the soldiers and proposed a sortie after sunset to attack the Elves, creating an opportunity for the populace and the city lord to escape. Lord Aled begged his son not to risk his life. Cadfael saw the despair on his father's face and, with a heavy heart, told the soldiers beside him that his father no longer met the requirements for leadership, and that he himself was now the City Lord. The soldiers looked at their old lord and saw the hopelessness in his expression. Bowing to Cadfael's words, they assigned a few guards to forcefully escort the former lord away with the populace.
The Elves attempted to assault the citadel. Although they had sensed mana centuries before the other races, their magic was still in its infancy. Even their strongest so-called sorcerers could do little more than produce a weak glimmer in their hands and conjure a feeble flame a mere half-meter away. This only managed to put a few nicks in the castle's thick wooden gate. They finally managed to break the gate with brute force and battering rams. But their victory instantly turned to disappointment. The castle, like most other structures in the city, was built to the dimensions of the mouse-folk.
For an Elf, whose average height was nearly two meters, the meter-and-a-half ceilings and narrow corridors were a death trap. The interior of the castle consisted of complex passages, low ceilings, and sharp turns that seemed like a labyrinth to a foreigner. The first wave of Elven warriors to attack tried to move through the corridors by crouching and reaching their enemies inside. But they could neither swing their long swords nor move swiftly in those cramped spaces. For the mouse-folk soldiers, however, this was their home. Short swords and spears lunging from dark corners easily found the weakest points in the armor of the stooping giants. The Elves who died in the first wave blocked the corridors with their corpses, forming a wall of flesh and metal that impeded their own comrades' advance.
Yet, things were not well for the mouse-folk inside the castle either. They were encountering for the first time a race they had only heard of in legends—a race that could cast magic (outside of the Dragon Lords), a race so much larger and so much more ruthless than themselves. This shock had broken their courage. The proud soldiers of Traethfaen now trembled with fear, and the populace, consumed by despair, waited silently for their end, believing all hope was lost. Lord Aled Tŷ'r Môr, seated on his throne, searched for a way to escape, but despair had wrapped around him like a poisonous vine, paralyzing his mind and will. His eyes, which once shone with wisdom and intelligence, now only stared into the void.
But there was another pair of eyes that did not stare into the void. Lord Aled's son, Cadfael Tŷ'r Môr, had not yet lost hope. In his father's slumped shoulders, he saw not the end of his people, but a cause he must fight for. And in his mind, he held a desperate plan to save at least his father, sister, and the remaining survivors: a surprise night sortie.
Cadfael gathered the officers and soldiers under his command. "We will rush out the gates and attack those barbarians after the sun has completely set," he said, his voice resolute. "We will catch them off guard and create chaos. In that turmoil, my father, my sister, and the folk in the sanctuary will find a window to escape."
Hearing the plan, Lord Aled weakly objected from his throne. "Stop, my son," he said, his voice almost a plea. "Don't... Don't risk your life so easily. We have no strength left to resist. At least we can hold out here until our friends come to our aid."
Cadfael met his father's final flicker of hope with a bitter smile. "What friends, father?" he asked, his voice sharp. "Our neighbors who are waiting for us to lose our power at any moment? They wish for our fall, for these barbarians to weaken us, more than we wish for aid. They won't lift a finger to help us. And even if they did come," Cadfael continued, looking straight into his father's eyes, "who can guarantee they wouldn't raise their own banners over our citadel after saving this city? The ones you call our friends are no different than vultures waiting to feast on the carcass we leave behind."
In that moment, Cadfael understood that his father had lost not only the will to fight but also the grasp of political reality. His heart ached, but his decision was final. He turned to the soldiers beside him and spoke with a painful, firm voice: "My father, Lord Aled, no longer meets what is required to lead us. Despair is a burden a leader cannot bear. From this moment forth, I am the Lord of Traethfaen."
A deathly silence fell over the hall. The soldiers looked at their old lord, whom they had served all their lives. They saw the desperation, the exhaustion on his face. Then they turned their eyes to Cadfael; fear was there, yes, but not hopelessness. There was fire. After a moment of hesitation, a seasoned captain stepped forward and knelt before Cadfael. Others followed him. The decision was made. By Cadfael's command, a few guards approached Lord Aled respectfully but resolutely. They were tasked with escorting him, forcefully if necessary, to the secret passages to escape with the populace. It was the most cruel and most loving coup of a son to save his father.
Night descended upon Traethfaen like a shroud. Clouds, thick enough to drown the moonlight but bringing no rain, covered the sky. For the Elven warriors patrolling the ruined city, this was just a dark night that delayed their rest. The fatigue from days of sea travel and the day-long battle was etched into their bones. Complacency, brought by victory, had caused them to lower their guard. The moment was exactly when they least expected it.
Shadows that had seeped from the castle's secret tunnels and the broken main gate suddenly sprang to life. The mouse-folk soldiers, led by Cadfael Tŷ'r Môr, attacked the Elven camp like a silent wave of death, utilizing the advantage of knowing every street and every corner of their own city by heart. Caught unprepared and still unrested, the Elves were struck by a great shock from this sudden and fierce assault. Tents were set ablaze, sentries were struck from behind, and the dark streets instantly turned into a hellscape where steel clashed with steel, echoing with cries of astonishment and pain.
That night's desperate battle lasted until the first rays of the sun appeared on the horizon. While the Elves' entire attention was focused on this unexpected rebellion, a group managed to slip out through the secret passages beneath the citadel. Carys Tŷ'r Môr and the surviving civilians used those dark moments, purchased for them by her brother and the city's loyal soldiers, to flee the city under the cover of the clouds and vanish into the night.
The former Lord Aled Tŷ'r Môr, who was supposed to flee with them, pushed past his guards at the last moment and stopped. Watching his folk escape, he could not bear the thought that his son was still fighting in the middle of that hell. Throwing his torch to the ground, he grasped his sword with his aged hands and roared, "I cannot leave my son alone!" He broke past his guards and plunged into the heart of the battle. He was no longer a lord, but merely a father searching for his son. He shouted Cadfael's name over the din of the battle, delivering still-lethal blows against the Elves he encountered, even though his sword was rusted from years of disuse. But before he could learn whether his son was alive or already dead, an Elven arrow shot from the darkness found a gap in his armor and pierced his chest. Whispering his son's name, the old Lord Aled collapsed lifelessly onto the muddy street.
His son, the new Lord Cadfael Tŷ'r Môr, fought on without taking a single step back. At one point, he was separated from his soldiers, surrounded by three Elven warriors. In that narrow street, he entered his final duel without a moment's hesitation. His sword, swung with desperate rage, found the throat of the first Elf. He parried the spear of the second and brought him down as well. But his strength was exhausted when the third Elf's sword pierced his armor. As he fell to the ground, he made a final sweep with his sword, wounding the third Elf in the leg. Cadfael breathed his last, finding peace in the knowledge that he had secured the escape of his father and sister.
When dawn broke and the curtain of that bloody night was drawn, the battle was over. Elandor Veythakar looked down from the battlements of the citadel onto the city that was now entirely his. He had achieved what he wanted, yes. He had established the first beachhead on Ethralis. But the taste of victory was no better than ash. The city's streets were littered not just with the bodies of the mouse-folk, but also with the corpses of his own blue-armored, proud warriors. Nearly half of his four thousand soldiers had perished in the streets of this small harbor city.
His ambition had brought him victory, yes, but it had also brought him to his knees. Further advance with such heavy losses was impossible. With a mixture of anger and humiliation on his face, he summoned his most trusted warrior. He ordered him to return to Qualar and report to the council that he urgently required reinforcement. Elandor's grand and swift conquest had been forced to halt, paying a bloody price at the very first step.