The company for the wards' renewal rode all through the day toward the Sanctum of the Vale—a place once called the most spiritual in all of Dorta. Lucen and Galvin led the charge, riding ahead to watch for goblins and ogres. Behind them rode Archmage Corvell and Lord Daenor. In the middle, Elyndra rode beside Maeryn, and behind them came four more mages and six knights of the Morning Vale.
It was nightfall when the company finally came to a halt at the foot of the hill—the Sanctum of the Vale, a small sanctuary just on the outskirts of Varethia.
The night was alive with stars, and the wind sang softly through the trees. The sky above the tree line glowed faintly blue, and the air beneath it carried a calming presence.
Lucen and Galvin had already climbed the hill and were waiting at the Twelve Pillars.
Seeing this, Lord Daenor gave his orders to the Morning Vale.
"Ser Jaime," he called to the young human whom Elarion had entrusted with coordinating the formation. Jaime stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, cloak flapping gently in the night wind.
"Yes, my lord," he answered, his voice firm as stone.
"Take four men and hold position here. The rest of us will proceed uphill. The ritual is not to be disturbed once it begins."
"No one not of Caelvorn shall pass, my lord." Jaime struck his arm diagonally across his breastplate in salute.
The rest of the company began the climb. Maeryn trailed beside Elyndra, who was clad in a white dress with a veil over her face. Her hair was loose and neatly styled, her arms folded before her as she walked.
Maeryn leaned close and whispered, "Are you scared?"
"I'm nervous," she admitted through her teeth.
"You know," he whispered again, a teasing lilt to his tone, "I've heard how the last person died."
"That's very helpful, Maeryn," she frowned.
The small patch of woods encircling the Sanctum glowed blue, casting an ethereal shimmer on the ground below as they drew near. They reached an open clearing—solid ground with twelve stone pillars arranged in a circle. At the center, suspended in midair, floated a Heartstone, a crystalline spire that hummed faintly with ancient power—said to be a fragment of Aethrion's tears, a fallen star blessed by the gods.
The blue light from the Heartstone washed over Galvin's face as he stepped forward.
"Are we set?" Archmage Corvell asked.
Galvin nodded. "Yes, my lord."
"Then we proceed," Corvell said.
Maeryn and the four other mages stepped forward—each representing an element. They were Maltheas Vare, Solmar Ithor, Velcael Eryn, and Soranel Ae'Rael.
The five mages arranged themselves in a pentagram around the Heartstone, each standing at a point on the rune engraved into the stone beneath their feet.
The rune formed a perfect circle, carved deep and painted in black ink. Five lines stretched from one edge to another, each line representing an element. Along them, fine silver dust—the Salt of Yvren—had been poured, glimmering faintly in the dark.
Elyndra stood before the circle, watching as the Archmage stepped inside the rune. In his hands he carried a golden chalice filled with ashes of old wards and holy incense. The ashes served as continuity—linking the force of the new wards to the old. In his right hand, he held a runic dagger, forged of dragonbone and silver.
He raised both items toward the Heartstone, and the mages began to chant:
"By lightning that breaks the sky,
By wind that moves unseen,
By stone that never yields,
By flame that never dies,
By tide that ever returns—
Awaken, O Veil of Caelvorn!"
A low hum began to build. The Heartstone's faint light flared, and the sky above darkened, clouds swirling as streaks of lightning flashed across them. The wind howled through the trees.
The Archmage turned and held the chalice toward Elyndra. She stepped forward; the smell of ash and incense surrounded her. She exhaled sharply, calming her nerves, and stepped into the rune. Instantly, something stirred in her blood—an ancient energy that spread through her veins.
She held her palm over the chalice, bracing for the dagger. The Archmage drew a shallow line across her wrist.
The mages began to chant again:
"Blood of the old, blood of the new,
By will unbroken, by heart made true,
Flow and bind, awaken and renew."
Her blood flowed into the chalice, mixing with the ash and salt. The Archmage stirred the blend with the dagger's tip.
Then came the chant in Old Elven tongue:
"Vaelen thor, Aethrion d'shar,
Nareth ven elen ai'mar,
Veil thorin, naer valen,
Caelvorn endure… endure."
(By the old flame, Aethrion's light,
I call upon the stars of dawn.
Let the veil rise, let evil fall.)
With each word, the glow of the Heartstone deepened. Veins of light pulsed through the runes beneath her feet, racing outward like roots. The wind sang with a metallic hum.
The Archmage whispered softly, and an ethereal blue flame sprang to life atop the Heartstone—it burned cold and pure. He poured the chalice's contents—the mixture of Elyndra's blood, ash, and incense—onto the flame. It hissed, turning violet, and like water sinking into sand, it seeped into the Heartstone. The light spread outward—through the rune, across the hill, and down the valley.
For miles, the borderlines of Varethia shimmered with ethereal blue light, reaching the walls of Caelvorn and beyond.
Then a deep, resonant pulse shook the ground and the Twelve Pillars—as if the Veil itself had drawn breath.
The mages all knelt, foreheads touching the lines of the rune, palms spread wide as they chanted:
"We seal this ward in the name of Caelvorn.
May darkness break against its edge,
And the blood that gave it life never be forgotten."
As though it heard, the Heartstone flared bright once more—then dimmed, leaving only a steady halo of blue light.
"The ritual is complete," Archmage Corvell said, stepping back. He sheathed the dagger and turned to Lord Daenor.
"How long will it hold?" Daenor asked.
"I've never seen the Heartstone glow this bright," Corvell replied. "We've given Caelvorn the strength to withstand even a siege of one Thalen."
"The goblins will give up easily. The ogres are hardly siege material," Lord Daenor muttered.
"Our main threat lies with the werewolves," the Archmage added.
Daenor nodded. "Then let's put the future aside and celebrate this small victory."
They turned to Elyndra, laughing softly at something Maeryn had said.
"She has no idea what her powers can do," Corvell murmured.
"Mmh." Daenor's gaze darkened. "Until we're sure we can control her, she mustn't be made aware of it."
"My lords, we are ready for departure," Galvin announced, bowing slightly.
The company descended the hill and mounted their horses.
Elyndra still felt the power humming in her veins from the moment the runes lit up. It was as though something had drained her—her essence, her life—but when the light reached the walls of Caelvorn, she had felt the city in her bones: its tunnels, its halls, all wrapped in threads of blue fire.
She reined her horse, urging it into pace with the others—when her vision blurred. The world spun, and for a sickening instant, darkness swallowed her sight. The ground swayed beneath her, and the scent of wet grass filled her nose. Only then did she realize she had fallen from her horse.
Her limbs went numb. Her thoughts scattered. Breathing became labor. Her veins bulged and trembled violently. And just before she lost consciousness, she thought she heard Kaelith's voice whisper:
What have you done?
***
It was silent around the runes of the Sanctum. Even the moonlight seemed to look away.
Then the Heartstone pulsed—once—like the beat of a heart, glowing violet. A hairline crack spread across its surface, and from within, a green substance began to drip onto the stone floor.
Moments later, the runes themselves flickered to life again. The ground cracked open, and the green liquid seeped beneath the surface.
In the distance, a wolf howled—a long, mournful sound that rolled through the night like grief for a kindred soul.