It was twilight.
The last light of the sun sank beyond the horizon, and the walls of Caelvorn began to glow with their ancient runes — a faint silver radiance that marked the city's living pulse. At the great stone gates, a crowd had gathered. They stood shoulder to shoulder, faces lifted in reverence as the Morning Vale readied their steeds for departure.
Eighteen riders — fifteen seasoned knights in gleaming silver armor and three mages robed in flowing silk — waited as the banners stirred against the dying light.
When Elarion emerged from the Hall's high doors, the people broke into thunderous cheer. Flowers rained upon the cobbled square, and the scent of lavender filled the air. Yet Elarion did not bask in their praise. Glory was fleeting; duty was eternal. His cloak trailed behind him like a shadow of discipline, and his hand never left the hilt of his sword.
Behind him walked Kaelith, his ever-loyal brother-in-arms, and beside Elyndra stood Myrathen Ae'lin, silent and watchful, as though reading the omen of their departure in her eyes.
Elarion mounted his black stallion with the grace of a born warrior. The Morning Vale was to ride for the border of Dorta — an enclave had called for aid, claiming survivors still lingered among the ruins. The order had come directly from Myrathen Ae'lin himself.
As the gates began to groan open, Elyndra stepped forward, hesitating near his horse. The torches cast golden light on her silver hair, and Elarion paused, softening for only a heartbeat.
"What is it?" he asked gently.
She looked up, her eyes bright as dawn. "Be careful," she said simply.
He breathed out sharply. "You can't come. It's dangerous."
Elyndra nodded, lowering her gaze.
He lingered on her for a heartbeat longer — and then spurred his steed.
The company rode out like thunder.
They crossed the vale fast and fierce, the cold air biting at their cloaks. On the fourth day, they made camp at the edge of Moria, beneath towering pines where sunlight broke through in pale fragments. From there, Elarion gazed down upon what once was Eldrath, second jewel of the Elven Holds — now only a wasteland of fallen statues, breached walls, and fountains long turned to dust.
The wind whispered through the ruins like ghosts recalling their names.
Kaelith approached, his eyes wide with wonder. "This must have been a great land," he murmured.
Elarion nodded slowly. "It was. My mother used to say the walls were white as salt, and the gardens planted by the gods themselves."
Kaelith arched a brow. "You believe the gods built gardens?"
Elarion's lips curved faintly. "No. But I believed my mother."
They stood there for a while, watching the light fade from the valley. Then Kaelith asked, almost in a whisper, "Do you think Caelvorn will hold?"
He was younger — barely half Elarion's age — yet his eyes carried the weight of one born in shadow. Elarion turned to him; his own gaze was grave, touched by sorrow. Kaelith was like a younger brother.
"Caelvorn will fall," he said quietly. "Even now, evil crawls within its walls. Treachery is closer than we think."
Then his tone softened. "But so long as we stand together, we shall not err."
The elves passed around bread and poured dark wine. No meat was roasted — the scent would betray them to the ogres. The flicker of sunlight through the dense canopy of the leaves above them—cast shifting silver across their faces, a fragile peace before night fell.
Elarion motioned to Kaelith. "Come, eat. I'll need your strength."
The younger elf nodded and joined the circle, laughter briefly breaking through the day's silence.
By the seventh night, they reached the forest of Vaer'Nocth — a dense, sacred wood that once burned to ash during the First Blood War. Now it stood renewed, its trees silver-veined and alive with faint whispers of magic.
Beneath the moon's cold watch, Elarion ordered silence. He lifted a polished mirror, catching the moonlight. He turned it in brief, deliberate flickers — a signal to the survivors in the distance. Moments later, a faint glimmer answered from beyond the horizon. The men exhaled in relief, some cheering quietly.
But Elarion's instincts stirred. The wind was wrong — heavy with rot and the faint scent of iron.
He raised a hand, signaling his men forward.
They entered through a breach in the southern wall — a wound carved by some ancient siege. The city of Vaer'Nocth lay still, too still, its streets veiled in mist and memory. Faded banners clung to cracked towers. The marble of old fountains was smeared with moss, and in the silence, it felt as if the dead were watching.
Kaelith's voice broke the hush. "This used to be the King's courtyard."
Lucen, a broad knight with scars along his jaw, spat beside a fallen slab. "Savage beings," he muttered, running his thumb along the cold stone where the fountain once sang.
"Where are they?" asked Maeryn Kaelthorn, one of the three mages. His blue robe rippled like liquid light as he moved. Sparks of static clung to his fingertips — the air itself seemed to hum in his presence.
Then Elarion froze. He raised a fist.
Every sword was drawn in silence.
From the far shadows came a low, rolling laugh.
And then a voice — guttural, monstrous.
"Slay them all."
Torches flared alive across the ruins. The horde descended — ogres and goblins, their shrieks cutting the night open. Their numbers swelled like a tide of filth.
"Formation!" Elarion's voice thundered.
The Morning Vale locked shields and blades, forming a living wall.
Kaelith stood back to back with Elarion — their blades gleamed like twin moons.
The clash was deafening. Steel rang, flesh tore, and the ground trembled under the charge. Kaelith moved like wind incarnate, his sword singing through the air — one clean sweep, and a goblin's head spun into the dust.
Elarion fought like something born of wrath and divine purpose, his strikes deliberate, merciless. Around him, men fell and rose, blood splattering across their armor.
Lightning cracked — Maeryn Kaelthorn unleashed his fury, summoning a storm that split the sky. Wind and thunder raged; goblins were hurled through the air like burning leaves. For a moment, hope returned — the beasts faltered, half their ranks cut down.
But victory is never without a price.
Kaelith had just slain a charging ogre when a long, jagged fork tore through his back. His scream was raw, shattering through the din. He turned, blood spilling from his lips, and with a final cry swung his blade — decapitating his attacker. The corpse fell beside him, and Kaelith collapsed.
"Kaelith!" Elarion caught him before he hit the ground. His voice broke through the chaos. "Still, Kaelith — still!"
He tore away the armor, pressing against the wound. It was deep — fatal, though clean. The mages gathered quickly, their hands glowing as they tried to staunch the bleeding, but Kaelith's breaths came shallow, trembling.
Elarion's gaze hardened. "Three men, and you — stay with him until we return," he ordered, pointing to one of the mages. The rest mounted their horses.
As he turned away, the moonlight caught his face — pale, grief carved into every line.
Then, with a cry that shook the ruins, Elarion led the charge, pursuing the retreating beasts into the night.
And above them all, the moon hung vast and watching — cold witness to the blood that fed the earth once more.