The island of Serelune, far from the turmoil of the Ethralis mainland, was a land immersed in its own silence. An island where cold winds whistled through the taigas, and a small population sheltered at the foot of rocky hills, it seemed to hold its breath when it saw the massive elven fleet. Although the island was quite large, it was not rich enough to be contested between the cat-folk and wolf-folk tribes. Therefore, the low population density had given rise to a distant respect between the tribes, rather than bloody conflicts.
The island had once been ruled by a single dragon lord. Since his departure, a strange and causeless peace had reigned over Serelune, warding off the chaos of other continents. Until that day.
When the elven fleet, bearing the name "Myrindel's Chess," reached the shores of Serelune, the island's natives watched these strange visitors silently from the depths of the taigas. They were confused when they saw the first tall, elegant, yet metal-armored beings stepping ashore. The forty-ship armada, stretching across the horizon, was a harbinger that this new people was not a passing storm, but a permanent winter.
For the first time in decades, all seventeen tribes of the island gathered. The meeting of the chiefs around the fire was brief and clear: These newcomers were not guests, but invaders. And the invaders had to leave.
All the tribes sought refuge in the wisdom of Fenrir Vargsson, the old chief of the Stormvarg tribe. Fenrir was a leader respected throughout the island, his experience etched into every wrinkle on his face. The other chiefs decided to set aside their egos and listen to his words. Amidst the crackling of the fire, Fenrir explained his plan.
"We do not know the enemy's numbers," he said in his deep voice. "Forty ships could mean thousands of warriors. But we know one thing: The sea tires even the strongest soldier. It takes the strength of the land from them. We will not let them rest, will not let them take root."
Fenrir's plan was simple, brutal, and logical: The moment the enemy landed, before they could even catch their breath, they would be attacked and driven back into the sea they came from.
The 17 tribes, large and small, living on the island, answered this call with all their strength. Nearly 3,500 warriors; every spear, every axe the island could muster, gathered behind that hill.
When the fateful day arrived, as dawn painted the sky a pale gray, the first elven ships approached the shore. They landed on a narrow strip of beach, hidden between the cliffs. The first elves to set foot on land, suspicious of this new land's silence, sent out scouts. The beach they had landed on was just below a hill where the island's dense taiga forests began. However, these scouts were silently hunted in the shadows of the taigas by native warriors who knew the geography like the back of their hands and watched their every step. None returned.
When half of the elven ships had neared the shore and begun to unload hundreds of warriors onto that narrow beach, Fenrir Vargsson gave the signal.
The combined tribal army burst from the taigas with a single roar, charging down the hill like an avalanche.
The elves, stunned by what was happening, still reeling from sea-sickness, were met by this furious wave rushing upon them. They scrambled for their weapons in panic, trying to fight back. That narrow stretch of beach instantly turned into a slaughterhouse. Blood flowed, spears shattered, swords sang, and shields broke. The ships that had not yet reached the shore, seeing their allies being massacred, tried to beach themselves at full speed, to bring fresh forces into the battle.
Watching the situation from his ship, Thalindel Myrindel could not bear to watch the massacre any longer. He donned his armor, grasped his sword, and moved to go ashore. His guards tried to stop him. "My lord, it's too dangerous! Your duty is to command from here!"
Thalindel angrily pushed his guard away. "Our kin are over there, dying in our name, while I hide here like a coward! I will not!" he shouted and leaped into the midst of the battle.
At the same time, Fenrir Vargsson was also watching the battle from the hill. Seeing that the enemy was more numerous than expected and that more soldiers were landing, he gripped the massive war axe inherited from his father. His son tried to stop him. "Let me go in your place, old man. You don't have much time left anyway," he said, with a cocky chuckle born of youth.
Fenrir laughed, his voice resembling a bear's growl. "Since I don't have much time left," he said, slinging the axe over his shoulder. "Then why should I stand here and fear death? When I can go with glory."
Both leaders shone among their own warriors like machines of death. Thalindel, with elven grace and training; Fenrir, with the raw and brutal strength of the wolf-folk... And the inevitable happened; in the chaos of battle, these two storms met.
Fenrir swung his axe with a roar. Thalindel, with the agility of a dancer, slipped under the axe's blade and tried to thrust his sword. Fenrir deflected the attack by hitting the elf's sword with the long handle of his axe, then immediately tried to strike again with the axe. Thalindel, trying to avoid the blow, lost his balance and fell onto the sand. Fenrir did not miss this opportunity and lunged to finish his downed opponent. With a final move, Thalindel grabbed a handful of sand, threw it in Fenrir's face, and scrambled to his feet.
"You cur!" roared Fenrir, rubbing his eyes in a blind rage. Thalindel lunged, seeking to exploit his opponent's momentary weakness. Fenrir, despite his burning eyes and blurred vision, heard the sound of the approaching sword and parried the attack with an instinctive movement. "I can defeat you even if I can't see properly," he laughed. "We'll see about that, old man!" said Thalindel.
They both lunged at each other one last time. Fenrir gathered all his strength and swung his axe in a deadly arc. Thalindel took an incredible risk and stepped toward death; he moved in close to his opponent, to the point where the axe's power diminished. He caught Fenrir's axe by the handle, but the cold tip of the metal had opened a deep wound in his shoulder. Ignoring the pain, Thalindel moved to plunge his sword into Fenrir's stomach. As Fenrir dodged aside, the sword grazed his skin, and he landed a hard punch on Thalindel's face.
The blow stunned Thalindel. He let go of the axe and staggered backward. His shoulder was bleeding profusely, and he had lost his balance. Fenrir saw his opponent's guard drop. He surged forward to finish the job and land the final blow, swinging his axe toward Thalindel's neck, aiming for his head.
With his last ounce of strength, Thalindel ducked forward. The axe passed by his ear with a whoosh. And with that ducking motion, he put all his weight into thrusting his sword upward, directly into Fenrir's chest. The sword pierced Fenrir's old chainmail and lodged where his heart was.
Fenrir's eyes widened in shock. His axe slipped from his hand and fell to the sand. He stood for a few seconds, then slowly sank to his knees. As he breathed his last, his eyes searched for his son in the chaos of the battle. He saw him. Lying on the ground, in a pool of blood, motionless. He had been so engrossed in this duel that he had not noticed his son's death, nor that his allies had already broken and begun to flee toward the forest.
In his final moments, he understood that he had lost the war. His spirit, from the fire of battle he had felt just seconds before, sank into an icy sorrow, grief, and an endless void.
Thalindel, barely able to stand, saw that soulless look, that exhaustion, in his opponent's eyes. He pulled his sword from Fenrir's heart and offered him the mercy a warrior deserved. He ended his pain and grief by cutting off his head in a single stroke.
Only then was he able to look around. The few remaining tribal warriors on the beach were fleeing toward the forest. The small stretch of shore had turned completely red. Elven corpses were intertwined with the corpses of the wolf-folk and cat-folk. One of his captains came to his side, a weary but victorious smile on his face. "My lord, we've won! Victory is ours!" he said cheerfully.
Thalindel turned his gaze to the captain's face. His voice was cold, soulless, and empty. "I wouldn't exactly call this a victory," he said. At that moment, he had begun to question why he was fighting, after so much death. He remembered the excitement of leaving Qualar; a smile on his face, the pure joy of embarking on a new adventure, of exploring places no elf had gone before. The true face of war had struck that joy like a dirty slap. He thought of the warriors he had joked and laughed with on the ship just a few hours ago. Now they all lay lifeless on that bloody beach. Gone forever.
He continued in the same cold and soulless tone. "Tell the others to start collecting our dead. We've taken too many losses. There will be no celebration tonight. Send a ship to Qualar, tell them we urgently need reinforcements. And... have them set up a fortified camp. We need to rest." He paused, as if his breath caught. "I... I need to be alone for a while," he said, and began to walk slowly toward his ship, each step heavier than the last.
His captain called after him: "My lord! What about your arm?"
"Send someone," Thalindel said, continuing to walk without looking back.
As the sun set, Thalindel sat alone in his cabin, staring at the now meaningless map on his table. His ancestors were great heroes who had taken part in the Divine Punishment War. He had grown up with their stories; listening to how heroically they fought, how honorable they were. But no one had told him about this face of war, this stench, this meaninglessness.
He remembered that council in Qualar. How eagerly he had stepped forward to represent his house, that fire for adventure... Now he felt like a fool. He thought everything he had done was a mistake. He decided to write a letter to his family, but he couldn't tell them he was scared or disheartened.
A question struck him at that moment: Why had no one told the subsequent generations about the losses in war, about this pain?
He picked up his quill. He wrote the letter not to his family, but to the last survivor in House Myrindel who had seen that legendary Divine Punishment War: his grandfather. He sealed the letter and gave it to the first ship returning to Qualar.
Thalindel watched from the deck as the ship carrying the letter grew smaller on the cold sea and disappeared over the horizon.
Then, in the now even quieter, cold lands of Serelune, he began to wait, as if atoning for his own "victory." He was no longer a young noble seeking adventure, his eyes shining; he was the commander of a makeshift outpost built upon a bloody beach, waiting with a deep wound in his shoulder and in his soul.
And what he waited for was not just fresh soldiers from Qualar, but also an answer from the past, from his grandfather. An answer that would explain why war was such a cruel and meaningless thing.