Kaelith still slept.
The Archmage Corvell sought wisdom from the scrolls of Arcadia—ancient spells whispered to cheat death—yet the elven warrior lay silent. Elyndra clung to his bed like a child to her mother's, refusing food, rest, or reason. Kaelith was like a brother. They had played together, shared birthdays, trained beneath the dawn, sparred until the blood on their hands felt like proof of kinship. All she knew of swordplay had come from extra lessons with him. And now he slept, pale and still, while uncertainty hung above them like dark storm clouds waiting to break.
It was the peak of day. Sunlight spilled through the bullseye window, its golden fingers touching every stone. Elyndra tended to Kaelith's face, wiping the sweat from his brow with a damp cloth.
His torso was bandaged, but the wound beneath still burned faintly red. She cleaned his chest gently, and for a fleeting moment, she found herself admiring the smoothness of his skin—flawless, toned, a quiet monument of the man he had grown into. She smiled faintly through the ache in her chest.
Then came footsteps. The wooden door opened with a soft, tired whine.
"Lady Elyndra."
Myrathen Ae'lin strolled in, hands folded behind his back, his long robe whispering against the marble floor. His sandals made no sound. Perhaps it was the light—or her weary eyes—but he seemed taller than she remembered, his long blonde hair flowing like a quiet stream over his shoulders.
Elyndra rose quickly and bowed. "Elder Myrathen."
"You look weak, child." He took her hand gently, feeling her cold palms. She withdrew, returning to Kaelith's bedside.
"All this?" she said, gesturing at nothing—and everything. Her gaze met his, eyes glimmering with quiet desperation. "How have you lived so long with this around you?"
Myrathen's forehead creased when he smiled. He turned to the window, the light washing his frame in gold. "The secret," he said softly, "is to hold on to hope, however faint it may be." His gaze drifted beyond the glass, to the gardens below. His eyes narrowed as though to keep a painful memory from surfacing.
"Twelve of us escaped the dungeons of Tartarus. A pit no soul should see. We watched them tear our kin apart—for sport, for study—to see if our kind could heal."
The wind outside moaned faintly against the walls.
"They broke us one by one, until there was nothing left but rage. We were going to die anyway, so better to die trying to escape than like rats in a field." His laughter cracked—a sound more pain than mirth. "Only two still stand from the Twelve—Lord Daenor and I."
He turned, meeting her gaze. "What kept me through these bitter two centuries wasn't elven blood. Nor alliances. It was hope."
Elyndra's voice trembled. "I don't know if I can muster strength like that."
"No," Myrathen said gently. "What you don't know is how strong you already are."
Elyndra chuckled weakly. "Elarion sounds like you."
Myrathen laughed. "I groomed him. Your mother insisted. How could I refuse her?"
"You've always held the House of Vaerielle in esteem." Elyndra caught his tone and lowered her voice. "What was she like?"
He paused, eyes softening. "As beautiful as the moon, calm as a river—yet fierce as the noonday sun. But her greatest virtue was her heart. She loved all."
Elyndra looked away, her throat tightening. Words would not come—only feeling. Regret. Longing. She would have given anything to meet her.
"But you have your own grooming to do," Myrathen said, with a faint smile.
She frowned in confusion.
"The child Ezra. I have seen how he lingers by you."
"No one deserves to be abandoned like that."
"Perhaps," Myrathen said, strolling toward the door. "But you will one day hold the power to change the fate of thousands." His voice lingered even after the door closed behind him.
"Don't abandon me," she whispered, pressing Kaelith's limp hand between hers.
***
Elarion rode with a small company toward the outskirts of Varethia, near the shadowed ridges of Moria. The mages gathered herbs and roots for the warding rituals, while the three strongest members of the Morning Vale stood watch.
Lucen scanned the horizon for torches—goblins never traveled without fire. Maeryn thickened the wind with dust to hide their scent; even at night, wyverns could descend without warning.
Elarion stood at the ridge, cloak flapping softly in the chill air. Sleep had eluded him for two nights. Something was wrong—he felt it in his bones, in the restless pull of the wind. His eyes searched the black expanse toward Moria, where the darkness seemed to breathe. There was a presence there. Evil, patient, hungry.
"How long before you're done?" His tone was taut, the words edged with unease.
Lucen turned sharply, sensing it. "What is it?" he asked. He had only seen Elarion uneasy once—moments before they were swarmed by wyverns.
"I feel a presence," Elarion said.
Maeryn opened his mouth to speak—but then came the laughter.
A shrill, mad laughter that tore through the night like a blade.
The air erupted with a flurry of wings—hundreds of bats swirling out of nothing, screaming through the air. They shot past, then converged behind the company, twisting together, reforming into the shape of a man—tall, lean, pale, his eyes glowing faintly, fangs glinting like silvered knives.
He bowed with mock grace. "You must be the Beast Slayer," he said, lips curling to reveal those perfect fangs. "I am impressed. Few mortals have sensed my presence before I wish them to."
None of Elarion's men understood what they were seeing—only that cold crawled down their spines, locking breath and bone. Fear froze their fingers before they could draw their blades.
"Back—all of you!" Elarion roared.
The sound barely left his mouth before the creature vanished in a blink and struck. The blow hit his chest like a hammer, sending him flying backward into the dirt. He tumbled, the impact cracking his ribs before slamming into the cart—wood splintered, air fled his lungs.
Pain screamed through him. His breastplate had caved inward, blood glistening at his lips.
The creature bowed again, grinning. "My name is Vax Morran—but you may call me the Blood Whim."
Then he vanished.
The next instant, he appeared behind one of the mages. With beastlike hunger, he sank his fangs into her throat. Her scream tore through the night. When he let go, she collapsed, pale and empty—drained of life, of essence.
His lips shone red with blood. He pushed his silver hair back and inhaled deeply, drunk on the scent.
"Take them and go!" Elarion roared.
Lucen didn't hesitate. He seized the reins and fled, Maeryn and the two surviving mages close behind, their hooves tearing into the dark.
Vax laughed, a soft, eerie sound. His hands covered his face, shoulders trembling with amusement. "You would face me alone?"
Elarion said nothing. His breath came rough through gritted teeth. He raised his sword and, with the quiet elegance of a born warrior, drew it into the long-point stance—the blade whispering through the air.
Vax moaned in twisted delight. "Ah… brave fool."
He licked his lips. "Then I shall give you the honor of a warrior's death. Your head will adorn Lord Draven's hall, a token of my undying loyalty." His grin widened. "Tell me your name, Beast Slayer."
Elarion didn't answer. He stood unmoving, still as carved stone, the wind itself hesitant to disturb him.
"Fine," Vax hissed. "I shall pluck it from the lips of your dying men."
The world cracked open when he moved.
He blurred forward—speed beyond mortal sight—and his claws sliced through the air. Elarion veered aside, swinging instinctively, but his blade met only wind. Vax appeared before him, claws raised, and struck again. Steel met bone in a spark of violence. The impact drove Elarion backward, his boots gouging trenches in the dirt.
He released his sword, swung a fist, caught Vax in the jaw. The creature reeled for a heartbeat—long enough for Elarion to grip his blade and thrust.
But Vax vanished again—reappearing behind him with a kick that sent him crashing to the ground.
"Magnificent," Vax purred. "More."
Elarion charged. Their weapons clashed, each strike ringing like thunder. Vax moved like a shadow, his speed unnatural, his laughter echoing across the ridge. Elarion's armor splintered under his blows, each hit heavier, faster. The earth cracked where he landed.
One kick sent Elarion sprawling face-first. He rose again, his breath ragged, blood trickling down his temple. His chestplate had shattered; one more blow could pierce him clean through.
"Humans. Elves. Mages," Vax sneered. "All the same. Weak. Prideful. Pathetic."
Elarion steadied himself, vision blurring.
"A few hundred ogres slaughtered, and they call you hero," Vax said, voice like silk soaked in venom. "Where are they now, to see their mighty champion trembling before true power?"
He spread his arms wide. "Yet I admit, there is bravery in you. I see why they fear you."
Elarion laughed—a harsh, broken sound that startled even his foe. His silver hair fell wild across his face, eyes dark with defiance.
"You think you've seen me?" His voice rose like a growl. "You think I fight for glory? For songs?" His hands trembled, not with fear but conviction. "I fight for those who cannot. For those crushed by the cruelty of your kind."
He reached beneath his collar and pulled free an amulet, gripping it tight. His voice became a chant:
"Vael Eldrin, sîru en thal nara;
Kaer en ven'ra, ana kaer mor en Aethrion."
(Blood of the old, I call in this hour of need; burn in my veins that I may burn evil from Aethrion.)
Crimson light flared in his eyes, washing away their golden hue. The runes along his blade burned to life, glowing like molten steel. The wind rose to a scream.
Vax's grin widened. "Yes… show me!"
They moved at once.
The ground split where Elarion's foot struck. Wind cracked like thunder. He vanished—a blur of blinding light—and swung in a single, perfect arc. The impact exploded outward, scattering dust and flame.
When silence fell, Elarion stood still, sword dripping.
Behind him, Vax knelt—staring at the severed limb that lay in the dirt before him. Blood gushed, thick and red. His scream ripped through the air, echoing into the mountains.
He clutched the wound—but his healing failed. The bleeding didn't stop. Panic flickered in his crimson eyes.
He looked up, and saw Elarion—calm, resolute, blade raised for another strike.
Then Vax roared—and his eyes caught a glint of light at the horizon. Dawn.
Terror seized him. With a shriek that tore the sky, his body burst apart into a swarm of bats, scattering into the darkness of Moria.
The wind stilled. Elarion exhaled, lowering his blade.
The first light of morning crept over the ridge, bathing the bloodied ground in pale gold.