For those who looked from afar, Solendora was a continent of endless sand dunes and arid lands stretching beneath a scorching sun. But this was only half the truth.
Valtherion Dravakar ran his finger over the maps spread across his flagship's cabin. The maps called this continent Solendora, the "Golden Desert"; a name Valtherion knew to be nothing more than an arrogant lie. His eyes followed two blue lines originating from the Golden Mountains in the south and extending to the sea in the north: the Nechal Kdush and the Tudert. These were not mere rivers; they were the continent's lifebloods, lifelines that had to be conquered. And where those lines met the sea, there were twelve glittering points, strung together like a necklace: the merchant cities of the Sunlight Coast. Rich, yes. But twelve divided and weakened jewels, sharpening their teeth against one another ever since the protective shadow of the dragon lords had lifted.
When the first glimmers of those jewels appeared on the horizon, Valtherion went out onto the deck. He could see the greedy impatience on the faces of his allies. In a cold voice, he gave the order: "Course west. We will proceed until we are beyond the sight of the westernmost city." As the murmurs began, he spoke without looking at them. His voice was like the rumble of a storm cloud. "An exhausted sword will break even at its sharpest. Our army will rest, acclimate to the land, and strike with knowledge of the enemy." These words ended the discussion instantly.
The orderly and defensible camp established on the shore was a reflection of Valtherion's character: methodical, patient, and deadly. While the army rested, his true war had already begun. His army of shadows, his spies, had already infiltrated the crowded marketplaces and noisy taverns of the eastern cities. Valtherion waited. As weeks passed, the soldiers' impatience grew, but he remained in his tent, carving his plan with the patience of a sculptor. He knew that the path to victory was paved with knowledge more than with steel.
Finally, the shadows returned. At midnight, in the privacy of his tent, he listened to their reports. The first piece of information was not surprising: Humans. They were the overwhelming majority on the continent. However, a detail written on the parchment the spy handed him made Valtherion pause. The people, especially in the western merchant cities and the southern desert, were dark-skinned; brown, even black. This contradicted the history he knew. The epics of the Divine Punishment War told to him as a child spoke of pale-skinned warriors painted red with blood dyes. This unexpected difference created a disturbing dissonance in his mind.
He reached for the other report on the table. This one was more important. "A settlement not on the map," the spy whispered. "To our southwest, on the slope of a mountain. Fortified. Inhabited by dwarves." Valtherion's eyes narrowed. Dwarves? The spy had described them as "short and stout people," a description that reflected the typical arrogance of an elf. But to Valtherion, this description was insignificant. What mattered was this: a fortified castle, not on his maps. An unknown he could not leave behind.
Valtherion remained alone in his tent after dismissing the spies. The skin color of the humans was a puzzle, but it held no strategic importance. Whatever their color, they were no different from a swarm of vermin that needed to be 'cleansed'.
The real problem was that shadow on the edge of the map. That dwarven city. His greatest rule as a commander was to never leave an unknown enemy at his back. Now, two paths stretched before his mind: should he pounce on the rich but known prey to the east? Or should he change his course to crush the head of that unknown, potential serpent in the south from the very beginning?
Valtherion clenched his fists as he looked at the map under the flickering light of the smoky lamp in his tent. He knew of his allies' impatience, that they were burning with the dream of the rich coastal cities. Ambition... what a dangerous counselor it was. The intoxication of glory and fame could blind even the most experienced commanders. He would not succumb to that intoxication. Victory came from the surest path, not the most brilliant one.
But the path to certainty was not always forged with a sword. Sometimes the sharpest weapon was a word, correctly spoken. Before crushing the serpent's head, one had to find out if it was venomous.
He had made his decision.
When he stepped out of his tent, the night's chill caressed his face. He immediately summoned his commanders and the leaders of the allied houses. When they gathered, the anticipation and impatience on their faces were plain to see. A young lord, before Valtherion could even begin to speak, interjected: "Lord Dravakar, I hope your orders are to march east. The soldiers are beginning to take root on this beach."
Valtherion's gaze swept over the speaking lord like ice, silencing him instantly. "No," he said in a clear voice. "We are not marching east. Not yet. First, we will send a delegation of envoys south, to that nameless dwarven city."
A stunned silence filled the tent, followed by a buzz. "Envoys?" grumbled another lord. "To creatures not even on the map? Why talk when we can simply march over them with our army?"
Valtherion's eyes scanned the chamber. "Because a victory won in haste is a gift of fortune. I do not trust in gifts," he said, his voice as hard as steel. "I trust in knowledge. The envoys I send will be my eyes and ears. They will measure the strength, intentions, weaknesses, and the price of those dwarves. Why should we spill a single drop of elven blood when a conversation might prevent a war... or tell us the easiest way to win it?"
When he finished speaking, no one dared to object. Valtherion dismissed the council and called one of his most trusted captains to his side. He ordered him to take a small but experienced unit, to carry the banner of peace of House Dravakar, and to learn the intentions of the people in that mountain.
A few hours later, a small party of ten elven warriors set off into the uncertainty of the south with the first light of dawn. The massive elven army watched them from the camp.
Valtherion returned to his tent, to his maps. He had advanced a pawn in the chess game he had to play. Now, he would wait for his opponent's move.