To escape the haunting silence of her chambers, Elyndra slipped into the corners of the city. She kept to the alleys, avoiding the stationed guards — once noticed, she would be hauled back to her gilded prison.
She tried cakes from the market stalls, eating as many as she could until her stomach ached and her laughter spilled freely for the first time in moons. Then she wondered, had Draven ever tasted sweets? Since his enclave lived wild, far from such delicacies, she bought more — intending to share them with him.
By sunset, she had grown weary of wandering and returned to the balcony of her chambers. Yet she did not return alone. For fear of boredom, she brought with her the boy she had rescued — and made him wash in the bath before dressing him in a clean tunic borrowed from one of the maids.
They sat together under the fading light. The boy, Ezra, leaned close and asked her to read him a story.
He frowned when she offered to teach him history instead.
"That sounds boring," Ezra protested, folding his arms.
Elyndra arched a brow. "I learned history when I was your age, not stories."
Ezra countered, "Aren't stories histories?"
The question caught her — the child was right. She pressed her lips together, conceding softly. "Histories are stories, yes."
"Fine," Ezra sighed, pretending to surrender, though disappointment curled his mouth.
"Don't make that face," Elyndra said, her voice turning playful. "I'm about to tell you the best story you'll ever hear."
His small face brightened, his eyes wide with waiting wonder. She smiled faintly, cleared her throat, and began.
***
In the beginning of time, the gods made two realms.
Aethrion — the Realm of Light, as the old tongues called it — a land of beauty and wonder divided into two kingdoms: Ardane, the kingdom of men and were-beings, whose cities stood like giants and whose fields yielded harvests in multitudes; and Dorta, the kingdom of elves and mages, where forests whispered with ancient spirits, and rivers sang songs of the soul.
For an age, the realm thrived.
But beyond these lands existed a Vael—the Eldrin Vael— a wall of primeval magic raised by the first mages. It was no mere barrier, but a living boundary between Aethrion and the Realm of Kaer'Thal — a world of bloodthirsty beasts and creatures born of shadow, ruled by a Dragon King whose power could shatter the sky and pull the stars from their course.
The two realms were never meant to cross.
But fate had other plans.
The hearts of men, elves, and mages grew greedy. They sought power beyond their measure. And when it was whispered that the blood of dragons could bestow immortality, they tore down the Vael in search of the Dragon King.
What they found was not divinity, but ruin.
From Kaer'Thal came the beasts — goblins that feasted on living flesh, ogres whose arms could break a man in two, wyverns that carried off children and devoured flocks — and, above them all, the three Dragons, whose fires burned for a century, turning Aethrion to ash.
What remained was blood, ruin, and regret.
The gods turned away in anger, blaming Aethrion's greed. Yet when the cries of the innocent filled the heavens, they offered a final promise:
That in the darkest hour, a child of three bloods would rise — human, elf, and dragon — a hybrid heir to restore what was lost, or end it forever.
***
"Is the hybrid child born yet?" Ezra's voice cut through the quiet almost as soon as the story ended.
The question caught Elyndra off guard; a shiver coursed through her before she could answer.
"I don't know," she murmured, her gaze drifting toward the pale horizon. "Maybe our darkest hour hasn't come yet."
Ezra hesitated, his small voice lowering to a whisper.
"Is that a good thing… or a bad thing?"
Elyndra narrowed her eyes slightly, the question lingering like mist in her thoughts. The child — that accursed, blessed promise — what if she was not salvation at all, but sorrow waiting to bloom? What if the hope their people clung to would one day break them? What if she failed them?
She reached out, her fingers soft against the boy's tangled hair, and forced a smile that did not reach her eyes.
"The most important thing," she said gently, "is that we still have each other to lean on."
Then the horns shattered the morning calm.
A deep, rolling blast that rippled through the marble streets of Caelvorn — a sound that meant only one thing.
The scouts had returned.
Elyndra rose in a single motion, her cloak sweeping behind her as she raced down the steps, heart pounding with dread and relief intertwined.
***
When the city of Caelvorn rose before them, a hush of awe rippled through the weary line. The exhausted men exhaled as though the sight alone might save them, while the enclave behind cheered through cracked lips and trembling hands. Yet Elarion felt no joy — only the cold stone of worry pressing against his chest. Kaelith had not stirred since the battle; though cleansed and carried upon a stretcher, he lingered in a slumber too deep for comfort.
The horns sounded their return.
A low, sonorous call that rolled across the ramparts and echoed through the mountain air. The vast gates of Caelvorn groaned open, their runes glimmering faintly in the morning light, and the company marched through in solemn procession.
The people gathered in the streets — elves and men alike — showering them with garlands of woven bloom and silken cheers, gifts of relief for those who had faced the night. Crowns of flowers were cast upon them like blessings, yet none among the Morning Vale smiled. Their triumph had been bought too dearly.
At last they reached the Great Hall.
Within, the Council of Elders was already assembled — their voices sharp with indignation, the air trembling with accusation. Myrathen Ae'lin stood at the center of it, his composure unbroken though the tide of blame pressed heavily upon him.
Then the great doors swung open once more.
Elyndra entered just as the Morning Vale crossed the threshold.
The uproar stilled.
The fury that had filled the chamber ebbed into silence. Every gaze turned toward them — toward the young lord and his wounded kin. The warriors' faces were drawn and pale, stripped of the radiant light that usually followed their return. And as the council looked closer, they saw why.
Silence.
***
The High Halls of Caelvorn blazed with a pale, golden light. Pillars of moonstone held the vaulted ceiling aloft, and banners of every realm — elf, man, and mage — hung motionless in the still air.
But within that stillness, fury seethed.
The Council had gathered — seven seats around the half-moon dais.
Elarion marched to the center, dust still clinging to his cloak, his armor marked by ash and blood. Behind him, his company — the Morning Vale — lingered near the door, faces hollow from sleepless nights and loss.
On the stretcher between them lay Kaelith, motionless but breathing, his body wrapped in linen soaked through with crimson.
When Elyndra rushed forward, the hall fell silent. Her cry echoed like a wound reopening.
"Kaelith!"
She fell beside him, trembling hands brushing his face.
When she felt warmth beneath his skin, she gasped softly — half relief, half terror.
"What happened?" she asked, though the words trembled from her lips more like a prayer than a question.
It was Maeryn who answered, kneeling beside her.
"We were ambushed, my lady. Kaelith fought bravely, but the attack came from beneath the old ruins. We did not see it coming."
Elyndra's gaze lifted to her brother. He did not speak. His eyes were dim with exhaustion and something deeper — guilt, perhaps, or the quiet rage of failure— but she had seen that look before, when their parents were murdered.
From the high seat, Tharion Vale, elder of men, rose. His voice carried the weight of command sharpened by bitterness.
"Lord Elarion," he said, "you will tell this council what happened. And you will tell it truthfully."
Elarion stood tall, though his heart felt as though it hung by a thread.
"We were sent to the borders of Dorta," he began. "To track the goblins that had moved too close to Moria. Myrathen Ae'lin gave the order himself. We followed their trail across the ruins of Vaer'Nocth. We succeeded — the enclave is safe within these walls"
"Safe?" Tharion's tone cut through the air. "And at what cost?"
Elarion's jaw tightened. "Kaelith was struck by the enemy. Had Maeryn not shielded him, he would be dead."
A loud gasp fell when he said that.
Corvell, the Archmage, rose from his seat. His beard shimmered faintly with silver dust, his eyes old and knowing.
"The wards along the western ridge were not renewed," he said, voice grave. "Did you know this, Lord Elarion? That the old magics were gone?"
"I knew," Elarion said quietly. "But I did not turn back. The goblins would have reached the enclave within days."
A murmur ran through the gathered council. Faerlen, an elf of the old court, struck his staff against the floor.
"And so you gambled your men's lives against a cause that was already lost?"
Elarion's voice darkened. "No cause is lost while we still draw breath."
Tharion leaned forward, the firelight dancing in his eyes. "Your arrogance is what kills us, boy. You lead men as though they were legends, not flesh. You think courage is a shield? Ask Kaelith if courage saved him."
At this, Elyndra flinched but said nothing.
Daenor, another elf, raised a calming hand. "Enough, Tharion. The young commander fought where others would have fled."
"Fought? Or defied?" snapped Marcell, a human noble seated beside Tharion. "I have heard whispers that Elarion disobeyed orders to return after the second night. That he pressed forward, against command."
All eyes turned to him.
Elarion met their gaze without flinching. "I did. Because I was not raised to abandon the helpless."
"Helpless?" Corvell murmured. "Or prideful?"
Silence fell. The accusation hung like a blade.
It was Myrathen Ae'lin who finally rose. His robes shimmered faintly in the lamplight, the air around him heavy with quiet authority. His face bore lines deeper than age — the weight of choices long regretted.
"If there is blame," Myrathen said softly, "then it is mine."
Tharion scoffed. "You? You ordered him, yes, but you did not wield his sword."
"I ordered him," Myrathen continued, voice unwavering, "to ride beyond the wards. To protect the enclave. I sent him knowing full well the dangers. Elarion did not defy command — he fulfilled it."
Corvell frowned. "You knew the wards were dead, yet you sent them?"
"I knew," Myrathen replied. "But what choice did I have? The beasts press from the west. If we wait, the walls of this place falls. If we act, we bleed. It is a cruel arithmetic, but one we must face."
Faerlen sighed. "So you admit you risked the commander's life."
"I risked all their lives," Myrathen said simply. "Because that is what this war demands of us. And Elarion — brave fool that he is — did what was right."
The hall grew still.
Tharion leaned back in his chair, his anger dimmed to weary disdain.
"You speak like the gods themselves have cornered you, Myrathen. Perhaps they have. But if we lose the morning vale, we lose our hope."
Myrathen turned to Elarion. "Hope is not lost. Not while we still have those willing to walk where others will not."
For a moment, no one spoke. The torches hissed softly.
Then Corvell said, "Let the record show that Myrathen Ae'lin accepts responsibility for this mission and its losses. The Council will deliberate further."
Elarion bowed stiffly, though his jaw was still set.
As he turned to leave, Elyndra rose beside Kaelith, her voice small but steady.
"What will happen to him?" she asked.
Elarion looked at her kindly. "That depends, on whether the next dawn brings war… or peace."
Elarion's gaze lingered on the council — on Tharion's scowl, Corvell's thoughtfulness, and Myrathen's quiet sorrow.
Then he looked to his sister.
And for a fleeting heartbeat, she saw not a commander nor a hero — but a man haunted by every name lost to the wind.
***
The winds howled violently that night.
They whistled a song of death, carrying dust and ash across the ruined city. In their mournful cry, the echoes of the slain still lingered, and the birds of the dark feasted, plucking eyes from the fallen beneath the watchful moon.
Amidst the ruin stood a creature of the night. His long coat whipped with the wind, and his pale skin shimmered like porcelain beneath the silver light.
Vax Morran — the Blood Whim.
He stepped over the bodies strewn in the wake of the Morning Vale's battle, the scent of death thick around him.
A low chuckle broke from his lips, dark and amused.
Men — no more than twenty — had felled an entire horde of goblins and ogres. A sight worth his admiration.
Then it came — the scent that made his veins stir and his hunger roar. His nostrils flared; desire coiled in his chest like fire. He dropped to one knee beside a rock stained crimson. Dipping a finger into the still-wet blood, he brought it to his tongue.
"Ah…" He moaned softly, eyes fluttering shut. "The euphoria of elven blood."
Visions flared behind his eyes — flashes of battle, blades, and screams. He saw it all, clear as memory — and a name rose from the echoing haze.
"Kaelith."
He whispered it first — then again, louder, savoring it like wine. "So that's your name…"
His grin widened, and madness took his voice. He spread his arms to the moon and bellowed,
"Kaelith! I must have more of your blood!"
His laughter broke the silence — wild, unhinged, echoing through the broken city like a hymn to the damned.
Then he heard it — a low, ragged sound. A dying breath.
"Goblins," he sneered. "You vile beasts never die quietly."
His gaze found one — mangled, gasping, clawing at the dirt. He knelt beside it, his presence enough to still the creature's trembling.
"Are you… one of them?" the goblin rasped.
"One of who?" Vax murmured, stroking its head with a mockery of tenderness.
"The… beast slayers…"
"What happened here?" Vax's tone was calm, though his eyes burned red. He already knew, of course — he only wanted to hear it from the dying beast's mouth.
"We… ambushed them," it wheezed, coughing up black blood. "But they overpowered us… puny humans…"
"Shh…" Vax cooed. His nail lengthened, curving into a talon — and with a single smooth motion, he drove it through the goblin's skull. The creature stilled.
He rose slowly, the wind tearing through his coat once more. Then came the laughter — sharp, manic, exultant.
"Yes… yes! Elven blood lies ahead of me!"
His eyes blazed crimson as his body burst apart into a swarm of shrieking bats. They scattered into the night, vanishing toward the black forests of Vaer'Nocth, their wings carrying the echo of his laughter.