The late afternoon sun hung low over the horizon, its amber glow spilling across the waves as Marikoth Norwyn knelt before the altar to Verilion. The room, modest yet ancient in design, bore the marks of his family’s devotion to their patron. The polished stone altar was adorned with carvings of justice, vigilance, and the boundaries that Verilion guarded. Before him lay a ceremonial blade, its steel edge catching the waning light, and a brazier smoldering with incense, its smoke curling like whispered prayers.
With practiced precision, Marikoth bowed his head, his hands resting heavily on the hilt of the blade. His voice, low and steady, carried the solemnity of the sacrament.
"Verilion, Guardian of Order, I stand this day in memory of my brother Tarin. By your will, let the scales of justice remain balanced and the boundaries of life upheld. Guide me, that I may guard those who cannot guard themselves, and that I may endure in the face of all trials."
He raised the blade, tracing a careful arc in the air, a symbolic warding of the space. The faint glow of the altar’s carvings seemed to acknowledge his words before fading back into the stone. Marikoth returned the blade to its place, letting the silence of the room settle around him like a shroud.
Rising, he moved to the balcony overlooking the sea. From this vantage point, his familial home perched on the cliffs, he could see the endless stretch of waves crashing against the rocks below. The rhythmic sound was a comfort and a reminder of constancy in a world that so often shifted. Here, with the wind tugging at his hair and the scent of salt heavy in the air, Marikoth allowed himself a rare moment of reflection.
It was the anniversary of Tarin’s death. Nearly three centuries had passed, yet the loss felt as raw as the day it happened. Tarin, his brilliant younger brother, had been a rarity among Hill Elves—a mage whose mind and spirit burned brightly. His death at the claws of the dragon Zyrantharix had left a void not only in their family but in Marikoth’s very being. And then there was Althara, their wild and willful sister, who had left Arandor in pursuit of vengeance. Her absence was another kind of wound, one that time had not managed to heal.
From a wooden chest, Marikoth retrieved the latest letter from Althara. She wrote rarely, her missives arriving as fleeting glimpses into a life he could barely fathom. Unfolding the parchment, he read her account of distant lands—scorched deserts and tangled forests, of mercenaries and cultists devoted to the dragon she hunted. Her words carried her unmistakable defiance, her refusal to let Tarin’s death go unanswered.
Marikoth set the letter aside and retrieved his quill and parchment. With the weight of centuries behind each stroke, he began to write his reply.
"Althara,
Your tenacity remains unchanged, though I cannot help but wonder if it blinds you. Tarin’s loss was grievous, but vengeance is not justice. You have left behind a family and a legacy. Our name, alongside the Stonewind line, is among the oldest of the Hill Elves in Arandor. As the eldest daughter, it was your duty to remain, to strengthen what remains of our family, not to pursue shadows."
He paused, staring at the ink as it dried. His hand moved again, softer now.
"The Magistrate Brynloris Kral has returned to Arandor. Her presence is a boon to the Queen and a reminder of the strength unity brings. Tharion, ever the steadfast friend, has found happiness in a Human woman named Matilda Dawnvale. Their love is a rarity and a joy. I hope that, should you return while she still lives, you will treat her kindly. Tharion bears no grudge against you for leaving, though I wish I could say the same of myself.
Do not forget, Althara, that the bonds we leave untended are the ones most easily broken."
Marikoth set the quill down, the faint sound of the waves pulling him from his thoughts. He folded the letter carefully, but instead of sealing it, he placed it in a small chest already brimming with unsent missives. For all his words, he lacked the resolve to send them. Althara would not be swayed, and perhaps, he thought bitterly, it was his pride that stopped him from trying harder.
Returning to the balcony, he gazed out at the endless sea, its ceaseless motion both a comfort and a torment. Althara had always believed it was her place to avenge Tarin, but Marikoth disagreed. Her place had been here, alongside him, carrying their family’s legacy. Yet even as the eldest, he could not deny that her spirit was untamable, her path her own to walk.
The waves surged against the cliffs, steady and eternal. Marikoth watched them as the sun dipped below the horizon, the weight of memory heavy on his shoulders. For now, all he could do was wait, and hope that one day Althara would return, even if it was only to stand on this balcony and see the waves for herself once more.