Regisfall

The sun hung low on the horizon, casting a warm, golden light over the small cottage nestled at the edge of the village. Inside, the air was filled with the comforting scent of herbal tea and freshly baked bread. Tharion Stonewind sat at the simple wooden table, his large, calloused hands cradling a steaming cup of tea. Across from him, Mariel Elrian moved with a slow, deliberate grace, setting down a plate of roasted vegetables and a loaf of bread between them.

"It's not much, but I thought you'd appreciate a home-cooked meal before you set off," Mariel said, her voice carrying the softness of age yet still strong with the kindness that had always defined her.

Tharion smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "It’s perfect, Mariel. Your cooking always brings back memories of simpler times, when I was just a young warrior learning the ways of the world."

Mariel chuckled softly, her eyes twinkling with the light of old memories. "I remember those days well. You were a bit more brash back then, always eager to prove yourself."

Tharion’s smile widened as he took a sip of tea, savoring the warmth that spread through him. "I suppose I was. And you were just a child, wide-eyed and full of questions."

"I remember the stories you used to tell me, about Arandor, the great forests, and the mountains. You made it sound like a place of endless wonder," Mariel said, her gaze distant as she recalled those tales.

"It is a place of wonder," Tharion replied, his voice tinged with a touch of melancholy. "But it is also a place of duty. A duty I cannot ignore."

Mariel looked at him, her expression softening. "I know why you must go, Tharion. But that doesn’t make it any easier, does it?"

Tharion let out a deep sigh, his thoughts heavy as he considered the days ahead. "No, it doesn’t. I’ve fought many battles, faced countless foes, but leaving here… leaving you and Eirwen… it’s a battle of a different kind."

Mariel reached across the table, placing her frail hand on top of his. "You’ve given so much to Kelt, to this family. Eirwen knows how much you care for her. But Arandor needs you now, just as we needed you all those years ago." Her expression changed. "Are you testing Rhys tomorrow?" She couldn't hide a smile as the sometimes-brooding hill elf nodded. Mariel wiped at her eyes a bit. "I wish you could be here to give her away when they wed, but she understands, as do I." Tharion arched an eyebrow at that, letting out an uncharacteristic grumble. "You are assuming he will survive tomorrow." Mariel's lighthearted laughter erased the tension in the room. "We both know you will not break him. You would break Eirwen's heart along with him." He took a sip of his tea, suddenly finding himself wishing for something more bitter.

Tharion’s gaze drifted to the small window, where the last rays of sunlight filtered through the trees. "I can’t help but wonder what will happen to Eirwen. She’s strong, yes, but the world can be a cruel place. I’ve tried to prepare her, to teach her what I know, but…"

Mariel squeezed his hand gently, interrupting his thoughts. "Eirwen is more than capable, Tharion. She has her father's strength, her mother's kindness, and your wisdom. And she has this village, these people who will look out for her. You’ve done your part, and now it’s time for her to stand on her own."

Tharion nodded slowly, though his heart still ached at the thought of leaving. "You’re right, of course. She’s a remarkable young woman, and she’ll find her way. But I will miss her… and you, Mariel."

Mariel smiled warmly, her eyes reflecting the depth of their shared history. "And we will miss you, Tharion. But you will never be truly gone from our hearts. You’ve left a mark on this family that will last for generations."

They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Tharion took another sip of tea, savoring the moment, knowing it was one of the last he would share with Mariel before his departure.

"Do you remember the day you first met me?" Mariel asked suddenly, a playful note in her voice.

Tharion chuckled, nodding. "How could I forget? You were no more than eight years old, hiding behind your mother’s skirts, too shy to speak."

"And you," Mariel said with a laugh, "were trying so hard to be serious and proper, but you couldn’t hide the kindness in your eyes. I knew then that you were someone special."

Tharion’s expression softened as he recalled the memory. "You were a bright spot in those difficult times, Mariel. You reminded me that even in the midst of war, there is still innocence, still hope."

Mariel’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a look of understanding. "And now you carry that hope back to Arandor, where it’s needed most."

Tharion nodded, his heart heavy but resolute. "Yes. But I will carry all of you with me, in my heart. You, Eldrin, Lyra, Cael and Eirwen, this village… you are as much a part of me as Arandor ever was."

Mariel reached for her tea, lifting the cup in a quiet toast. "To safe travels, Tharion. And to the day when you may return, not as a warrior, but as an old friend."

Tharion raised his cup in return, a small smile playing on his lips. "To that day, Mariel. And may it come sooner than we expect."

They drank in silence, savoring the moment, the bond between them unspoken but understood. The fire crackled softly, filling the cottage with warmth as the night settled in. Outside, the world continued on, but inside that small, humble home, time seemed to stand still—if only for a while longer.

As the evening wore on and the first stars appeared in the sky, Tharion knew that his departure was inevitable. But he also knew that he was leaving a part of himself behind, a part that would always be with Mariel, with Eirwen, and with the land of Kelt.

For now, though, he was content to sit a little longer, to enjoy the warmth of the fire and the company of an old friend, before the dawn called him away once more.



-----




The dawn broke over the rolling hills of Kelt, bathing the land in a soft, golden light. The village stirred awake with the sounds of morning: the clatter of pots, the low murmur of conversation, and the distant call of birds. But for Tharion Stonewind, today was no ordinary day.

He stood at the edge of the training grounds, his spear in one hand, his shield strapped securely to the other arm. The familiar weight of his weapons brought him a sense of comfort, though today they were tools not just of war, but of judgment. Before him stood Rhys Aldamar, a promising warrior with broad shoulders and a determined gaze. Rhys had requested this meeting—a chance to prove himself worthy of Eirwen Elrian's hand in marriage. Tharion had known this day would come, yet as he looked at the young man, he felt a pang of something deeper than mere duty. It was the protective instinct of a mentor, a guardian, and a friend.

The soldiers of the village, who had trained under Tharion's watchful eye for years, gathered at the edges of the field. They whispered among themselves, curious and expectant. For years, Tharion had been their teacher, their guide in the art of combat. But they had never seen him truly fight. They had seen glimpses of his skill, moments of controlled power, but never the full measure of the strength he carried within him—strength that was not entirely his own, but a gift from the celestial Vala, Fanyarnir.

Eirwen and her grandmother, Mariel Elrian, stood quietly to one side, watching the proceedings with calm, steady gazes. They were the only ones among the onlookers who did not seem surprised by the gravity of the situation. They had seen Tharion's true power before, in a moment that had changed their lives forever.

It had been years ago, when marauders had descended upon the village, bringing death and destruction in their wake. Cael Elrian, Eirwen’s father, had been among those who had stood to defend their home. He had fought bravely, but in the end, he had fallen, cut down by the savage invaders. It was in that dark hour that Tharion had revealed the full extent of his strength, invoking the power of Fanyarnir. The light that had burst forth from him had been blinding, a radiant force that swept across the battlefield, annihilating the marauders in an instant. When it was over, the village was safe, but the cost had been great. The memory of that day was etched deeply into the hearts of Eirwen and Mariel, and they had never looked at Tharion the same way again.

Now, as Tharion stood ready to test Rhys, Eirwen and Mariel knew what was to come. They did not fear it, but they respected the power that Tharion wielded, understanding both its necessity and its burden.

Rhys stood ready, his sword gripped tightly in his hand, his expression resolute. He was skilled, Tharion knew, but skill alone was not enough. There was something deeper, something Rhys needed to understand before he could be entrusted with Eirwen's future.

"Are you prepared, Rhys?" Tharion asked, his voice steady, carrying the weight of years and battles fought.

Rhys nodded, his jaw set. "I am, Tharion. I will prove myself to you, and to Eirwen."

Tharion inclined his head, acknowledging the young man's determination. "Very well. But understand this, Rhys—today is not just about proving your strength. It is about understanding the world beyond this village, beyond the battles you have fought. There is always something greater, something more powerful, and sometimes, more terrible."

With those words, Tharion raised his spear and took a defensive stance, his shield angled just so. The soldiers watching from the sidelines fell silent, sensing the shift in the air.

Tharion advanced slowly, his steps measured, his gaze never leaving Rhys. The young man raised his sword in a defensive stance, ready to meet Tharion's challenge. They circled each other, the tension thick in the air, and then Tharion struck.

His movements were swift, precise—a blur of spear and shield that forced Rhys to react quickly. The clash of steel rang out across the field, and Rhys met Tharion's attacks with skill and determination. But as the duel continued, it became clear that Tharion was holding back, testing Rhys's resolve, his endurance.

Rhys fought with all his might, pushing himself to his limits. He was good—better than most his age—but Tharion was not just any opponent. With a sudden, powerful thrust, Tharion's spear knocked Rhys off balance, sending him sprawling to the ground. The young man quickly scrambled to his feet, panting but undeterred.

"Again," Tharion commanded, his voice calm.

Rhys charged forward, but Tharion was ready. With a deft maneuver, he blocked Rhys's strike with his shield and followed up with a quick strike of his spear, disarming the young man and sending his sword flying across the field. Rhys stood there, unarmed and vulnerable, his chest heaving with exertion.

"Is this the limit of your strength, Rhys?" Tharion asked, his tone even, but with an edge that carried the weight of the lesson he was about to impart.

Rhys clenched his fists, frustration flashing in his eyes. "I… I can do more. I won't give up."

Tharion nodded slowly. "Good. But now, you must see the world as it truly is."

He raised his spear high, and the air around him seemed to shimmer with a faint, ethereal light. The soldiers watching gasped in awe and fear, for they had never seen this side of Tharion before. The power of Fanyarnir, the celestial Vala, flowed through him, and for the first time, he allowed it to manifest fully.

The light intensified, enveloping Tharion in a radiant aura. His eyes glowed with an otherworldly brilliance, and his presence seemed to expand, becoming something greater, something more. The ground beneath his feet trembled, and a gust of wind whipped through the field, as if the very elements bowed to his will.

Rhys stumbled back, eyes wide with shock and awe. The sheer force of Tharion's power was overwhelming, and for a moment, he felt utterly insignificant in the face of it.

Eirwen and Mariel remained still, their expressions calm, unshaken by the display of power. They had seen it before, when Tharion had wiped out the marauders who had taken Cael, Eirwen's father, from them. They knew the extent of his strength, and they understood the lesson he was imparting to Rhys now. Power like Tharion’s was both a gift and a curse, a force that could protect but also destroy.

"Remember this, Rhys," Tharion's voice echoed with a resonance that seemed to come from beyond the mortal realm. "There are forces in this world far greater than any one man, any one elf, no matter how skilled or determined. You may be strong, but never forget that there is always something stronger. To protect those you love, you must understand the weight of that truth."

Tharion lowered his spear, and the light slowly faded, the earth calming as the power of Fanyarnir receded. The soldiers around them were silent, their faces pale with the realization of what they had just witnessed. Rhys stood motionless, breathing heavily, as he processed the enormity of what had just occurred.

Tharion stepped closer to Rhys, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You have proven your courage, Rhys, and your willingness to fight for Eirwen. But the world is vast, and there are battles that will test you in ways you cannot yet imagine. Remember what you have seen here today. Let it guide you, temper you, and prepare you for the challenges ahead."

Rhys looked up at Tharion, his expression a mixture of awe and respect. "I understand, Tharion. I… I will not forget this. Thank you for showing me."

Tharion nodded, satisfied that the lesson had been understood. He turned to the soldiers, who were still in a state of stunned silence. "Let this be a reminder to all of you," he said, his voice carrying across the field. "The world is wide, and there are forces beyond our understanding. Train hard, fight with honor, but never let pride blind you to the greater truths."

As Tharion sheathed his spear and began to walk away, he caught Eirwen’s eye. She gave him a small, understanding nod, the bond between them unspoken but strong. Mariel placed a comforting hand on her granddaughter's arm, both of them aware that Tharion was preparing for his departure. They had seen him at his most powerful, and they knew he carried the weight of that power with a heavy heart.

The world was vast, indeed, and filled with both beauty and terror. Tharion had seen much of it, but he knew there was still more to come. And as he prepared to return to Arandor, he carried with him the knowledge that he had done all he could to prepare those he left behind, even as he moved forward to face the challenges that awaited him in the homeland that called him home.

The sun was setting as Tharion Stonewind and Arannis Dornthal approached the town nestled in the valley below. From a distance, it appeared normal smoke rose from chimneys, and the faint sound of voices carried on the evening breeze. But something felt off, a nagging sense of wrongness that Tharion couldn’t shake.

"Do you feel it?" Tharion asked, his voice low as they descended the hill.

Arannis nodded, his grip tightening on his shield. "Something isn't right. The town looks occupied, but there’s an unease in the air."

As they entered the town, the streets were eerily quiet. The buildings, though intact, were devoid of life. The only sounds were the distant creak of wood and the shuffle of unseen feet. The pair moved cautiously, their senses on high alert, until they reached the town square.

At first glance, it seemed as though the town was indeed inhabited. Figures moved through the streets, shuffling about in an aimless manner. But as Tharion and Arannis drew closer, the horrifying truth became clear—the figures were not living townsfolk, but the undead. Their bodies were decayed, flesh hanging loosely from bones, eyes vacant and lifeless.

"We need to retreat," Tharion whispered, realizing the danger they were in. "There are too many of them."

But it was too late. The undead seemed to sense their presence, and within moments, the quiet shuffling turned into a mass of groans and guttural moans as the horde turned its attention toward the two warriors. The shambling figures began to converge, their numbers swelling as more poured in from the surrounding alleys.

"Go!" Arannis shouted, raising his shield to block the first wave of attackers.

Tharion thrust his spear forward, striking down the nearest undead, but it was clear they were outnumbered. They fought their way through the throng, every step a struggle against the tide of undead that pressed in on them. Despite their formidable skills, the sheer number of enemies threatened to overwhelm them.

With a final, desperate push, they broke through the horde and sprinted toward the outskirts of the town. The undead gave chase, but Tharion and Arannis had the advantage of speed and experience. They reached the open plains beyond the town, the horde unable to keep up, and eventually, the undead fell behind, returning to their shambling presence in the town.

Breathing heavily, Tharion looked back at the town, now a shadowy mass in the distance. "That was close."

Arannis nodded, his face grim. "We need reinforcements. This isn’t something we can handle alone."

They continued on, making their way to the nearby hold of a nobleman known as Lord Albrecht Elden. The hold, a sturdy fortress built into the side of a hill, stood as a beacon of safety in the darkening landscape. The guards at the gate, did not know Tharion and Arannis, but Elves were a rarity in Kelt and so they ushered them inside.

Once within the hold, Tharion and Arannis were brought before Lord Albrecht. A stern but fair man, Lord Albrecht listened intently as they recounted what they had witnessed in the town, a place they learned was called Grimspire. His expression grew darker with every word.

"A Demi Lich," Lord Albrecht said finally, his voice heavy with the weight of the revelation. "Only a being of such power could raise and control so many undead."

"We barely escaped," Tharion admitted. "The town is lost, but if we act quickly, we might be able to prevent the undead from spreading further."

Lord Albrecht nodded, already moving to take action. "I will summon the other nobles. This threat cannot be ignored. In the meantime, I will gather every capable warrior and adventurer I can muster. We will need a force strong enough to face this menace head-on."

Over the next few hours, Lord Albrecht’s messengers were sent out, summoning the nearby nobles and their forces. At the same time, three score of adventurers began to gather at the hold, drawn by the call to arms. Among them were two figures who caught Tharion's attention: a skilled hunter and tracker named Thomas Thornbrook, and his friend, a blacksmith and swordsman named Wade Elrian.

Thomas, a tall man with a rugged demeanor and eyes that missed nothing, approached Tharion with a nod of respect. "I’ve tracked many beasts through these mountains, but this... this is something different. We’ll need to be clever to bring down whatever’s behind it."

Wade, a broad-shouldered man with a hammer at his side and a sword on his back, added, "My forge can’t keep up with the demand for weapons, but I’ll be damned if I let those things take over Fernwoods."

Tharion looked at the gathered adventurers, a mix of experienced fighters and eager recruits, and felt a surge of hope. They had survived the initial encounter, but the real battle was yet to come. With the nobles' forces on the way and this group of adventurers by their side, they stood a chance of turning the tide against the undead.

"We move at dawn," Lord Albrecht declared, his voice cutting through the chatter of the gathered adventurers. "This will not be an easy fight, but we fight not just for ourselves, but for every soul in this land. We fight to prevent the darkness from spreading."

As the adventurers dispersed to prepare for the coming battle, Tharion and Arannis exchanged a glance. The odds were daunting, but they had faced worse before. Together, they would stand against the tide of darkness, with new allies at their side.

The morning sun would rise on a day of reckoning, where the fate of Grimspire and perhaps the entire region would be decided. But for now, in the quiet of the night, Tharion allowed himself a moment of reflection, steeling himself for the battle to come. They had survived the first encounter, but the real test of their strength and resolve was yet to come.

The wind howled through the mountain passes as Tharion Stonewind, Arannis Dornthal, Thomas Thornbrook, and Wade Elrian stood at the edge of the valley that led to Grimspire. Days had passed since their narrow escape from the town, and now they returned. They had two clear objectives: find and destroy the Demi Lich and locate the sigil stone that powered the ward surrounding Grimspire. This ward prevented Lord Albrecht’s forces and the allied nobles from entering, effectively sealing the town against any large-scale assault. A score of men who'd gone ahead of them attempted to build barricades on the edge of the town but had been unable to enter. Due to Tharion and Arannis' experience in superior skills, they were picked along with Wade and Thomas to find the sigil stone powering the ward the Lich had raised enclosing the town.

Thomas led the way through the eastern ravine. They moved quietly and swiftly, knowing that any misstep could alert the undead to their presence. The ward allowed only small groups to enter Grimspire, which was why they were alone. Albrecht and the others waited on the outskirts, ready to storm the town as soon as the ward was dismantled.

The streets were as they remembered—empty, eerily quiet, and filled with the stench of decay. They had to be careful. Somewhere in this town was the sigil stone, and if they could find it and destroy it, Albrecht’s forces could join the battle.

They reached the town square, a likely place for signs of the sigil stone's power. As before, the square was not empty. Undead wandered aimlessly, their movements guided by some unseen force. The fountain at the center, desecrated with dark symbols, might hold a clue.

"Spread out," Tharion whispered. "We need to find anything that indicates where the sigil stone might be."

Arannis and Thomas moved towards the northern edge of the square, while Tharion and Wade approached the fountain. The symbols carved into its base pulsed faintly with dark energy, a possible link to the ward.

"This could be it," Wade said, studying the symbols. "But it’s only a part of it. The sigil stone must be somewhere deeper."

Tharion nodded. "The stone has to be hidden. We need to find its exact location."

Suddenly, a low moan echoed through the square. The undead had noticed them. From all sides, the horde began to converge on their position.

"We're being surrounded!" Thomas shouted.

The battle erupted in the square. Arannis moved to the front, raising his shield as the undead clashed against them. Tharion’s spear flashed in the dim light, striking down any that got too close. Thomas loosed arrows into the crowd, while Wade swung his sword in wide, sweeping arcs.

"We have to hold them off!" Tharion yelled. "We need more time to search."

But the undead kept coming, drawn by the ward’s magic to defend the town. As the horde pressed in, the group was slowly pushed back towards the square's edges. Arannis was forced to break formation, pushing through the undead to create a breach.

"Arannis, fall back!" Tharion ordered, but it was too late.

A new wave of undead poured into the square, separating Arannis from the rest. Tharion, Thomas, and Wade were cut off, forced to retreat towards the alleyways.

"We can’t reach him!" Thomas shouted, nocking an arrow.

"We have to move!" Tharion called, gripping his spear tightly. "We’ll find another way!"

They began to retreat, falling back into the maze-like streets of Grimspire. As they moved, Tharion glanced back and saw Arannis scaling the northern wall, fending off the undead with his shield as he ascended. Reaching the top, he turned to look at them briefly before disappearing over the other side, heading west.

"He’s headed for the western wall," Thomas said urgently. "If we double back, we might intercept him."

"Let’s go," Tharion commanded, his voice tight with determination. He has absolute trust in Arannis, but he was not without worry for his oldest friend.

Navigating the twisting alleys, they moved quickly, avoiding the roving undead as they made their way to the wall’s western side. Their secondary objective—to find the sigil stone—loomed over them. The wards protecting Grimspire had to be deactivated before Lord Albrecht and his forces could join the battle.

As they reached the wall, they saw Arannis approaching from the walltop. He jumped down, landing heavily but unharmed.

"The undead were concentrated near the northern gate," Arannis reported, catching his breath. "There was a glow—a faint light coming from the ground near the old guardhouse. It could be the location of the sigil stone."

Tharion's eyes narrowed. "The guardhouse makes sense. It's secluded, fortified. If the stone is there, it would explain why the undead are concentrated in that area."

Wade nodded. "If we destroy the stone, the ward will fall, and Albrecht’s forces can storm the town."

The group moved cautiously towards the guardhouse, skirting the main roads. The undead presence was heavier here, as Arannis had described. The faint glow he had seen was now visible to them as they approached—a pulsing light emanating from the ground beneath the guardhouse.

They reached the outer perimeter of the guardhouse. The building itself was in ruins, but the glow came from a small, almost hidden cellar door. This had to be it.

"Be ready," Tharion warned. "Whatever guards the sigil stone will not let us take it easily."

They approached the cellar door, Tharion leading the way with his shield raised. As he pushed the door open, a wave of cold, dark energy washed over them. Inside, a narrow staircase led downward, illuminated by the eerie glow of the sigil stone’s power.

The cellar opened into a small chamber. At its center, on a raised stone pedestal, sat the sigil stone—a large, jagged crystal glowing with an unnatural light. Runes surrounded it, pulsating with energy that thrummed through the air.

"This is it," Wade said, his voice low. "This is what's keeping the ward in place."

As they stepped into the chamber, the air around them rippled. From the shadows, dark shapes began to materialize— spectral wraiths, protectors of the stone, summoned to prevent its destruction.

Arannis raised his shield. "Defend the chamber! Tharion, destroy the stone!"

The wraiths surged forward, their ethereal forms slashing at the intruders. Thomas loosed arrows into them, while Wade swung his sword, each strike dispersing the dark forms temporarily. Arannis blocked the incoming attacks, holding the line.

Tharion advanced towards the sigil stone, the spear in his hand glowing with the celestial power of Fanyarnir. As the wraiths closed in, he drove the spear into the stone with all his might. A blinding light erupted from the impact, the stone cracking under the force.

The wraiths screeched, their forms dissolving into mist as the sigil stone shattered. The air around them vibrated, and a shockwave of energy burst outward, dispersing into the town and beyond.

Outside, the sky above Grimspire flickered. The ward, once invisible, became visible for a brief moment—a shimmering barrier that surrounded the town—before it dissipated into nothingness. The path was clear.

Lord Albrecht and the allied nobles, waiting on the outskirts, saw the barrier fall. With a rallying cry, the forces began to advance into Grimspire, the ground trembling under the march of hundreds of soldiers.

Tharion turned to the others, the remnants of the wraiths vanishing into the air. "The ward is down. Albrecht’s forces will be here soon. Now, we find the Lich."

Arannis nodded, picking up his shield. "We head deeper. The Lich will know we're coming."

Thomas and Wade prepared their weapons. "Let’s finish this," Thomas said, his eyes cold and determined.

With the ward broken and their path clear, they moved out of the guardhouse, heading into the heart of Grimspire. The final confrontation with the Demi Lich awaited, and they were ready to bring the fight to the darkness that had gripped the town for far too long.

The forest was dense, shadows dancing in the dim light of the fading day. Tharion and Arannis crouched low, backs pressed against the rough bark of a towering oak, hearts pounding as they strained to hear anything over the wind. The silence was deafening, and in that moment, they knew—Veldrin Naenala was out there, watching, waiting to strike.

It had been days since Veldrin had taken them into the woods, promising nothing but hardship. He had told them bluntly: "Survive, or fall." There would be no mercy in these woods. No safe harbors. The lesson was clear—if they couldn’t endure this, they wouldn’t endure the world beyond Arandor.

Tharion’s muscles ached, the exhaustion of constant vigilance weighing on him. His breath came shallow and quick, his nerves fraying. Arannis, next to him, was no better. Both had been pushed to their limits—sleep deprived, food scarce, and every step through the wilderness accompanied by the certainty that Veldrin would strike at any moment.

This wasn’t simple training. Veldrin had grown up in the last centuries of the Age of Chaos, a time when the world had been nothing but conflict and terror. He knew what it meant to face true horrors—both from within and without. The world then had shaped him into something fierce, something unrelenting.

"You need to know what it feels like," Veldrin had said on the first night, his voice low, barely audible over the crackling fire. "When your enemies come, they won't wait for you to be ready. They will not stop when you're tired. You must know what it means to be pushed to the edge and keep fighting."

And pushed they were.

Veldrin attacked without warning, striking from the shadows, each ambush a reminder that they were prey in this wilderness. He never used lethal force, but his precision was terrifying. A dart at Tharion’s neck; a snare around Arannis’s leg; a blade against their skin, just enough to let them feel its cold bite before pulling back. Every time, they failed to stop him. Every time, he vanished into the trees, leaving them with nothing but their own frustration and exhaustion.

Tharion glanced at Arannis now, sweat dripping down his brow. They had learned to communicate without words, small gestures and subtle movements. Veldrin’s ambushes had taught them that trust was their only ally. No amount of strength or skill mattered if they couldn’t work together to anticipate their opponent.

Suddenly, a faint rustle came from their left. Tharion’s muscles tensed, but he forced himself to stay still. He had learned by now not to react too soon—Veldrin thrived on their mistakes.

More rustling, closer now. Arannis shot him a glance, a subtle shift of his hand—a signal. Tharion nodded, barely moving, readying himself.

The attack came swiftly. A blur of motion as Veldrin descended from the trees, his lithe form almost invisible in the dim light. Tharion threw himself to the side, narrowly avoiding a sweeping strike aimed at his legs. Arannis was faster this time, his bow drawn in a flash, loosing an arrow that Veldrin deflected with an almost lazy motion of his blade.

But this time, they were ready. The ambush had become instinct. They fought not to win, but to endure. Every strike, every dodge, was calculated to prolong the battle, to push Veldrin just a little further. It was no longer about besting him—it was about outlasting him.

And then, as suddenly as it began, Veldrin stopped. He stood in front of them, his piercing green eyes locking with Tharion’s. There was no smile, no look of approval, just a steady, unyielding gaze.

"You're learning," he said, his voice carrying the weight of years of battle, of loss, of survival. "But you’re not ready yet."

Tharion wanted to collapse, the exhaustion overwhelming. But he didn’t. Arannis, too, was breathing hard but remained upright. The two stood there, battered but standing, staring at the Elf who had taught them more in these few days than in years of formal training.

Veldrin sheathed his blade and walked past them, disappearing into the forest once more. His words lingered behind him like a shadow: "The world will not break you—but only if you refuse to break yourself."

They would sleep tonight—if they could. But Veldrin would return, maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day. He would come at them again, forcing them to dig deeper, to find strength they didn’t know they had.

Tharion glanced at Arannis, who met his gaze with a tired but resolute nod. Veldrin was ruthless, but they knew why. He had seen the horrors that chaos could bring. He knew the true terror their people could inflict, and if they were to face it, they would need to be prepared.

There, in the silence of the forest, on the edge of breaking, Tharion understood. This wasn’t about surviving the wilderness or besting a mentor. This was about surviving themselves—their doubts, their fears, their weaknesses. The real battle, Veldrin had taught them, was within as much as without.

---

Years later, Tharion sat alone on the bluff in Arandor, at the center of the great temple. The wind swept across the cliffs, carrying the familiar scent of pine and the crisp, fresh air of his homeland. Below him, the kingdom stretched out in all its beauty, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. Yet, despite the serenity around him, his thoughts drifted to the past—back to those brutal days in the wilderness. He thought of Arannis, who had passed on, his steady presence forever missed. And Veldrin, now deep in his Slumber of Renewal, resting as the world continued to turn without him. The lessons they had learned, the scars they had earned, and the bonds they had forged still remained within him, a constant reminder of the strength he’d gained from being pushed to the edge. Tharion knew that even though his oldest friend was gone, and his mentor waited to awkaen, their teachings had become a part of him, shaping the warrior and leader he had become. As he looked out over the kingdom, he understood now—he hadn’t just survived; he had become what they had always believed he could be.

The sun hung low over the mountains, casting long shadows across the hills as Tharion Stonewind made his way to the craft hall, the rhythmic crunch of his boots barely audible over the wind that rustled the grasses. Arandor was quiet, its heart steady with the peaceful calm that always marked the end of day. Yet beneath that calm, Tharion carried something heavy.

He reached the Armory, a place familiar to him yet distant in his thoughts. Inside, the faint sounds of metal clinking echoed—Marikoth Norwyn, ever at work. Tharion pushed open the wooden door, the familiar scent of steel, oil, and dyes meeting him as he entered. Marikoth stood by the forge, hammer in hand, his strong arms streaked with soot and wear, yet his posture as sharp as ever.

"Marikoth," Tharion greeted, his voice even as always. Yet there was something in his tone—something quieter, more weighty.

Marikoth looked up from his work, sharp eyes meeting Tharion's without the need for formal pleasantries. They had known each other too long, both born of the same Hill Elf clan, raised in the same traditions. The passage of centuries had not dulled their bond.

Tharion stepped forward and placed a rough, unpolished piece of iron on Marikoth’s worktable. The metal was dull, unremarkable to the untrained eye, but Marikoth could tell there was more to it. He glanced at the iron, then back at Tharion. The stoic warrior rarely asked for anything personal, and Marikoth’s instinct as both a tinkerer and a fellow warrior told him that this was no ordinary request.

"I need this fashioned into a necklace," Tharion said simply, his eyes not quite meeting Marikoth's as he spoke.

Marikoth raised a brow but said nothing, turning his attention fully to the iron. He picked it up, feeling the weight of it in his hand. Rough, but durable. Not precious by any means, but sometimes it was the simplest things that carried the greatest significance. There was something unspoken in Tharion’s request, something that ran deeper than just the metal itself.

Marikoth weighed the iron in his hand a moment longer, then nodded. "I’ll do it. Give me time."

Tharion gave a short, respectful nod but offered no further explanation. Marikoth didn’t need one. They were both Hill Elves—both of a generation that had seen many years, many battles, and many losses. Marikoth knew enough not to pry, especially when it came to matters like this. Instead, he would honor the request in the way only a fellow warrior could—by crafting something with care, precision, and respect for what it might mean.

As Tharion turned to leave, Marikoth locked his gaze on the iron, his mind already at work. There was more here than met the eye. It wasn’t just a simple request—it was a gesture, an expression that Tharion could not or would not put into words.

The door closed softly behind Tharion, and Marikoth moved to the forge, setting aside his other work. He stoked the fire, the heat rising and casting a soft glow over the armory. As the flames grew, he picked up his tools and got to work, the rhythmic clang of hammer against iron filling the quiet space. Every strike was precise, measured, and infused with a deep understanding of the material in his hand.

Hours passed, but Marikoth worked without pause, each detail of the necklace emerging from the rough iron with purpose. He shaped the metal, molding it into a fine yet understated piece—simple, as Tharion had asked, but not without elegance. The edges were smooth, the surface polished to a dark sheen that caught the light in subtle ways. Marikoth added a single, intricate clasp of Elven design, a detail meant to hold something precious and personal.

The fire dimmed as Marikoth placed the finished piece on the table, his sharp eyes taking in the final result. It was unadorned, without decoration, yet it carried the weight of something far greater than any ornamentation could offer. There was meaning here—one that belonged to Tharion alone.

Marikoth wiped his hands and stood for a moment, his gaze lingering on the necklace. He understood enough to know that whatever this piece of iron meant to Tharion, it was not just about the material. It was a memory, a loss, a tribute—perhaps all three.

But Marikoth, ever the sentinel, would not ask. He would deliver what was needed.

When the morning came, Marikoth emerged from the Armory, the necklace wrapped carefully in cloth. Tharion was waiting outside, his posture as still and unmoving as the hills they had both been born into. Marikoth approached and handed him the necklace without ceremony.

"It’s done," Marikoth said simply, his tone as direct as always.

Tharion took the necklace and unfolded the cloth. For a moment, his eyes lingered on the dark metal, his expression unreadable. He said nothing, but the weight of his silence spoke volumes.

Marikoth, ever perceptive, gave a curt nod. "If there’s anything else—"

"There’s not," Tharion interrupted softly, his voice carrying the faintest edge of something unsaid. "Thank you, Marikoth."

Marikoth nodded, understanding that Tharion’s thanks went far beyond the simple act of crafting. The two warriors stood in silence for a moment longer, the quiet between them filled with years of shared experiences, battles fought side by side, and the unspoken bond of those who had seen more than most could bear.

As Tharion turned to leave, the iron necklace glinting faintly in his hand, Marikoth watched him go, knowing that whatever burden Tharion carried, it was his alone. But for this small moment, Marikoth had lightened the load, if only slightly.

And that, for a Sentinel of Verilion, was enough.

Earlier that night, after they had returned from the battle deep within the ruins of Jyn Pal, they sat by the fire, letting the tension of the day slowly ease away. The battle had been fierce, a test of their endurance and strength against the darkness still clinging to the remnants of that ancient city. The creatures they faced had pushed them to the edge, forcing them to fight with everything they had. But now, as they sat together in the warmth of his home, all of that felt like a distant memory, as if it had happened a lifetime ago.

She had told him she was moving—leaving her home outside the boundaries of Arandor and coming closer to the heart of the city. It had taken him by surprise, though he had hidden it well. Her home, close to the wilds, had always seemed like an extension of herself, a place where she could be surrounded by the nature she loved so deeply. The idea of her leaving it behind carried a weight he wasn’t sure how to put into words, but it was there, lingering between them in the quiet moments after she spoke.

He hadn’t hesitated in offering her a place to stay while she searched for her new home. His house, with its warmth and quiet, was the perfect place for her to find rest after their battles. But when he had suggested, with a smile, that he could stay in the barracks to give her more space, she had laughed softly, shaking her head with that stubborn determination he had come to admire. She insisted that there was no need for him to leave his own home. She was a guest, and she would make do with whatever was offered.

He had relented, as he often did when her resolve showed itself. That stubbornness, the quiet strength she carried, was something he cherished. As a Hill Elf, he had always admired resilience, the unyielding nature of the earth and mountains, and in her, he saw that same unwavering spirit. She was as steadfast as the land itself, and for that, he loved her all the more.

As they sat in the firelight, her head resting against his shoulder, he found himself speaking more freely than he usually did. The words had come out quietly, almost without thought, but they had been sincere. "I’m glad you’re moving to Arandor," he had said. "It means I can help keep you safe… I’d rather you be here than out there, on your own."

She had laughed softly, her hazel eyes meeting his with a teasing glint. "How long have you felt that way without telling me?" she had asked, her voice light, but with a hint of genuine curiosity. He hadn’t known how to answer, not fully. It wasn’t something he had consciously held back, but in truth, the feeling had been there for a while, growing steadily with each day they spent together.

Later, as the night wore on and she began to drift into sleep, she murmured something sleepily against his shoulder. "Next time," she had whispered, her voice soft and barely audible, "tell me those sorts of things sooner."

He had smiled at her words, his heart warming at the quiet request. Her stubbornness might have made her strong, but in moments like this, when her guard was down and her vulnerability showed through, it made him love her all the more. He had leaned in closer, resting his cheek against her hair as he held her gently.

Now, as she slept beside him, her warmth pressed against his side, Tharion let out a quiet sigh. The battles of the day felt far away, the dangers they had faced in Jyn Pal reduced to mere shadows in the firelight. What mattered now was her—her presence, her stubborn strength, and the quiet comfort they found in each other. He hadn’t always been good at speaking his heart, but perhaps he would find it easier now, knowing how much it mattered to her.

As she nestled closer to him in her sleep, Tharion promised himself that he would tell her those things sooner next time. For now, though, it was enough that she was here, in Arandor, beside him. The future felt uncertain, as it always did, but in this moment, the only thing that mattered was the quiet peace they had found together. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but tonight, they had this—and that was all he needed.