Elarion and the rest of the Morning Vale chased the goblins and ogres past the ruins of Vaer'Nocth, beyond the thick forests and into the wastelands. By morning they reined their horses beneath the trees and took shelter under the crumbling shadow of an old temple.
The knights paced between walls of ancient stone — walls heavy with dust and memory. Some spoke in hushed tones, others fretted over Kaelith's wound, their voices laced with dread. Elarion could sense it— the growing fear of the unknown. Never had the Morning Vale ridden so far from Caelvorn. They were deep in uncharted lands, low on supplies, weary in body and spirit.
He left them and walked alone through the silent halls. The ceilings loomed too tall, as if built for gods.
The mage Maeryn followed, his boots whispering against the grit of fallen years.
Elarion reached a circular chamber where all halls met. The roof had long since been torn open, sunlight spilling through the gash like a wound that refused to close. Broken slabs and shattered idols littered the floor — a monument to time and ruin.
War was evil, he used to think. But seeing this — the wreckage of beauty, the slow rot of once-sacred things — he found no words for the ugliness of it.
"War is ugly," Maeryn said quietly from the pillar's shadow as though he had read his thoughts.
Elarion knelt by a cracked altar where light fell through the roof. "War is a reflection of the mind," he murmured. "A battle not first fought within will always be lost without."
Maeryn tilted his head, faintly smiling. "Anyone ever told you you're starting to sound like Myrathen Ae'lin?"
Elarion chuckled under his breath. "The elders are right, sometimes."
"Not about all things."
"Mmh." Elarion looked up through the ruin of the ceiling. "Perhaps." softly.
For a while they stood in silence, and the wind carried through the empty halls like the breath of ghosts.
"We've come this far for their sake," Elarion said at last.
"We should move soon," Maeryn replied. "Death's crawling on my skin — and I can't say I like that."
He turned and left, his robes brushing the dust, leaving Elarion alone beneath the wounded sky.
He was calculating, tracing the goblins' path in his mind, but he knew Maeryn was right. Dusk would find them soon, and dusk was a hungry thing in these lands. He turned to leave — and that was when he heard the cry.
"Wyverns!"
It was Lucen's voice — sharp, terrified, echoing through the halls.
Knights threw their cloaks over shining armor and dove behind broken pillars. Elarion slipped beneath a mound of rubble as a shadow passed overhead.
The air split with a thunderous screech. Three great wyverns circled above — serpentine wings slicing the clouds, talons glinting like drawn blades. One descended, landing on the roof with a quake. The beast sniffed the air, its throat rumbling.
The mages worked swiftly — hands outstretched, words whispered through clenched teeth — bending the wind away, masking their scent.
The wyvern's tongue flicked in the air, then with one thunderous flap, it lifted off and vanished into the sky.
"They know we're here," Lucen said grimly, sliding from behind a pillar. He wiped sweat from his brow.
"I never want to see one up close again," muttered Galbin, the group's archer. His hands trembled slightly as he checked his bowstring.
When Elarion joined them again, Maeryn approached. "My lord, I can give us a cover of dust — a veil strong enough to hide our movement. If we reach the trees, we'll be safe beneath the canopy."
Elarion looked at his men. Their faces said everything. He nodded.
"We must move quickly," he said. "The wind's against us." A veil of dust moving in an opposite direction would draw the wyverns, they were vile yet intelligent creatures.
The Morning Vale gathered close. Maeryn stood at the front, his eyes closed, palm raised to the air. He exhaled sharply, then began to chant:
"Vareth sol'uun,
Myrr ka'thal ven'dra,
Let the dust remember the wind —
And the wind forget my name."
The earth shivered. From the dry soil and crumbled stone, motes of dust rose — slow at first, then faster — swirling into a furious spiral. The wind caught and screamed through them like a living thing.
A shroud of storm burst forth, cloaking the company in a tempest of ash and sand. Within heartbeats, sight was lost, sound muffled — a wall of living dust that devoured all shape and light.
The Veil of the Dying Gale. Born from the old winds of Aethrion, it could hide an army in plain sight — or swallow a thousand arrows before they found their mark.
Through that storm, the Morning Vale advanced, their silhouettes fading and reappearing like ghosts across the scorched earth.
Then — a cry split the sky. A wyvern's shriek, wild and merciless.
"They've seen us!" Lucen shouted.
"Keep moving!" Elarion bellowed back.
The group surged forwards, swift on their feet.
The air tore apart. The wyverns descended like thunderbolts, wings folded tight, talons flashing. One struck, claws raking the air where men had stood seconds before. The Morning Vale dove beneath the trees, blades drawn, breath held — but the beasts only circled, unwilling to breach the canopy.
Elarion scanned his men — tired, frightened, but unbroken. He felt the weight of every life in his hands. Duty, he told himself, not fear. There was an enclave beyond these lands — families, children — and they needed him.
"We advance on foot," he ordered, untying his horse. "By nightfall, we ride."
No one questioned. It wasn't fear that held their tongues, but trust — deep as blood and earned by deeds.
When the moon rose high, they rode like wraiths through the night. At the borders of Dorta they found their enemy — tired, scattered, half-starved — encamped in the open.
The Morning Vale struck with fury. The goblins fell first, their lines breaking under the weight of steel and wrath. Ogres roared, but Elarion's blade cut through them like light through smoke. His men fought like echoes of legend.
When it ended, the plain was fire and ruin. The air stank of blood and burnt flesh.
"My lord!" Lucen called, pointing toward the hill's edge. At first, all braced for another attack — but then, a flicker: once, twice — the glint of a mirror.
Elarion's chest eased. He raised his own mirror in return. Hope answered across the dark.
The enclave emerged — thirty souls, gaunt but alive, men, women, children. Survivors.
As his men gathered them for the journey home, Elarion climbed the ridge and looked down over the silent fields. The lands of men — broken, desecrated, crawling with the ghosts of their own bravery. Evil clung to the air like smoke. His heart ached. Why did darkness always prevail?
Lucen joined him, breathless and wide-eyed. "By the gods… this would have been glory."
Elarion's gaze lingered on the ruins. "The lands of men fell first. They fought to the last, and none came to their aid." His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.
Lucen watched him quietly, then said with a faint smile, "Perhaps we've been given a second chance."
Elarion turned to him, eyes softening. "Perhaps," he echoed.
Lucen grinned. "The others might not say it, but me — a lowborn human — I'm honored to fight beside you."
Elarion chuckled. "Titles mean nothing, Lucen."
"That's the other thing," Lucen said, already walking down the ridge. "Sometimes I hate how humble you are. Come, let's ride out of this pit and back to where I can sleep with both eyes closed — and eat something that isn't elven bread."
Elarion smiled, one last glance over the forsaken plain. Then he turned and followed, the Morning Vale at his back, their hearts set toward home
But in the distance behind them, an evil was approaching.