Long did our heroes tread the twisted paths of the Felwood. Gil’Galion led them, scouting ahead with eyes sharper than any mortal’s, marking signs and dangers invisible to the rest. At his breast, Mirunara’s pendant thinned the haze, and true paths gleamed where false ones gathered.

  Fredrick guided from behind, ever certain of their course. When asked how he knew the way, he only said that he had studied this forest long ago—and that now, in the stillness of his heart, he felt the Father’s hand upon his path.

  There was a strange calm about him, a serenity wholly at odds with their grim surroundings. It amused Baronsworth, yet more than that, Fredrick’s quiet confidence lent them comfort, unreasonable though it seemed.

  Some subtle blessing seemed to shield them that day. Whether by fate or divine favor, no creature stirred to challenge their passage. Still they moved cautiously, trusting to Gil’Galion’s heightened senses to avoid each rustle and wrong turn. Through his skill—and perhaps something greater—they made remarkable progress toward the heart of that haunted wood.

  The day waned. Shadows stretched long. Twilight would soon be upon them.

  “We’ll need shelter,” Fredrick whispered. “I’ve spent nights here before. When the sun sets, all light dies, and what wakes in the dark… the sounds alone can freeze the blood of even the bravest men.”

  “Agreed,” said Baronsworth. “But it must be defensible—or hidden well enough to pass unseen.”

  Gil’Galion narrowed his gaze into the murk ahead. “I may know such a place. Follow me.”

  “A night in the Felwood,” Karl muttered. “Just the vacation I always dreamed of.”

  Something stirred the Elf; he quickened his pace, moving with the grace of a shadow. Soon he was well ahead of the others, lost among the trees. For a moment they feared him gone, but then he turned and beckoned them onward.

  They hurried after him—and at last saw what had stilled him.

  Before them rose a massive stone wall, ancient and overgrown with black vines.

  “Quickly,” Gil’Galion said, eyes alight. “We must find the entrance.”

  Before Baronsworth could reply, the Elf was already moving, running soundlessly along the ramparts, excitement barely contained. Baronsworth glanced back to the others, then pointed down the same path. “This way,” he called, and took off after him—swift, if not as silent.

  Soon he found Gil’Galion standing upon what had once been a road. They had come to a gatehouse: towering, shrouded in ivy, yet still bearing the grace of its making. The architecture was unmistakable—elegant arches, fine stonework echoing the craft of Ellaria and Nim Londar.

  A realization struck Baronsworth, clear as memory: Gil’Galion knew this place.

  Karl and Fredrick arrived moments later, breathless. The Elf spoke softly.

  “This is Athlos, the ancient city—once the capital of my uncle Oberon’s domain. In the elder days he and my father stood united, and the might of the Elves was unmatched. This stronghold was our jewel, a place of pride and wonder. I remember running through its halls as a child—feasting, laughing, speaking with the spirits of the wood. The world felt so alive then. So full of light.”

  He paused. His voice fell.

  “Now the woods are silent. And this place, once filled with joy, is but a memory—fallen to ruin.”

  He leaned against a tree, head bowed. In his gaze lingered a sorrow that would not lift.

  Baronsworth stepped beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  “Do not lose heart, friend. We came to restore this land—and others like it. My heart tells me the Crystal holds the power to cleanse this corruption. And if we succeed… perhaps your people will walk these roads again, and sing in these halls once more. Perhaps Athlos will rise anew—a place of music and laughter. But for that day to come, we must see this quest through. We must not abandon hope.”

  Gil’Galion acknowledged the words, comforted by them. For a time they remained in breathless pause, gazing out over the city.

  A great road stretched before them, climbing toward a wide stair carved in the rock. At its summit another path ran straight and stately, lined with empty fountains; and beyond it—half-veiled in mist—stood the palace, nestled at the mountain’s foot. All around them rose the bones of a forgotten realm: towers, halls, terraces—overgrown, yet remarkably intact. The mist here was thinner, the air lighter.

  “There is great beauty here, even with the taint,” Karl murmured. “Seems the corruption hasn’t bitten as deeply within the city as it has in the forest.”

  “A wondrous place,” said Fredrick, gazing about with awe. “I can only imagine what it was like before the darkness came.”

  “Indeed,” said Baronsworth. “But we cannot linger. Night falls swiftly, and we must find shelter.”

  Gil’Galion nodded, and they pressed onward, crossing the threshold of the ancient city.

  They moved through the streets in quiet reverence, marveling at the enduring craft of the place. Though ivy gripped every stone, the buildings kept their noble bearing—regal even in ruin.

  “It has been centuries since an Elf walked here,” Gil’Galion murmured, more to himself than the others.

  “And yet the buildings stand,” Karl said. “That’s no small feat.”

  More remarkable still was the utter silence. The city lay empty, untouched—but not defiled.

  “The Elves of old wove powerful enchantments into the stone and soil,” Gil’Galion said. “Spells to hold the darkness at bay. Even now their strength holds. The mist has crept in, yes—but whatever foul things prowl this land, they do not dwell here. The very air repels them.”

  Baronsworth looked toward the citadel at the far end of the city, its towers rising through the thinning fog.

  “Then I’d wager the enchantments are strongest there,” he said, pointing. “In that palace yonder.”

  The company made for the great hall, ascending the broad steps at the city’s heart. Soon they reached its massive doors—dark wood and brass, cloaked in vines yet noble still. Baronsworth stepped forward, expecting to strain against the weight, but at his touch the doors yielded. The hinges, unmarked by rust or rot, swung open with quiet grace.

  They stepped inside.

  A solemn quiet met them—deep and reverent. Dust hung in the air, and the light that filtered through fractured windows gave the vast interior a ghostly beauty. Though time had worn it down, the palace’s splendor was still written in its bones: arched ceilings, faded mosaics, great columns of marble and gold-veined stone. Baronsworth felt both awe and sorrow. Such greatness—left to crumble.

  Gil’Galion drew near, eyes distant.

  “The residence of my uncle Oberon,” he murmured. “I remember the first time I came here as a child—how small I felt beneath these pillars. The halls were alive with music and mirth, with gilded tapestries and soaring domes… wonders that rivaled even my father’s works.”

  His voice trembled. “To see it now—empty, broken… woe to me that I should live to witness the fading of my kind!”

  With a cry, he fell to his knees, striking the cold floor.

  Baronsworth stepped forward and set a firm hand on his shoulder.

  “Do not despair, Gil’Galion. We have not come to mourn—we’ve come to mend. Evil has spread across this world, but so long as we breathe, we fight to drive it back. As your father heals the sick, we will heal the land—root by root, wound by wound, until it is whole again.”

  The Elf looked up. Grief dimmed, and the old fire returned to his eyes.

  “You speak with the heart of a king, Baronsworth. Your words give me strength. I count myself fortunate to have you by my side.”

  He rose, standing taller, and turned to the others with renewed purpose.

  “If we are to rest in the palace of an Elven lord, then only the finest chambers will do. Follow me.”

  He led them up a sweeping staircase, still largely intact. They climbed what felt an age, passing abandoned halls strewn with shattered furniture and faded tapestries. Much lay in ruin, yet the great carpet underfoot—once crimson, now dulled—remained unrotted.

  At last they reached the upper floor.

  “Come,” said Gil’Galion, gesturing toward a narrow stair spiraling higher. “From the tower’s crown, we may glimpse the Temple of the Knights of the Flame. I remember it could be seen clearly from there.”

  “The Knights of the Flame are that ancient?” Baronsworth asked, surprised.

  “Oh, very old indeed,” Fredrick replied. “The Order was founded by two Asturian pilgrims—Avalon and Arianna—who crossed the sea long ago, the last of their noble line. They brought wisdom from their homeland: how to read the stars, how to heal, how to build sanctuaries attuned to the divine. They taught humility, communion with the gods, and the deeper truths of the Crystal. Many sought to worship them, but always they refused. Humility was their greatest teaching.”

  He smiled faintly. “Still, they were natural leaders—wise, kind, and just. They served as the first Grandmasters of the Order, and for many long years they healed and guided, until they passed peacefully, their work complete.”

  “Avalon and Arianna,” Gil’Galion repeated softly. “My father told me tales of them. Wise… and, it seems, fond of humor.”

  Fredrick’s smile deepened. “Arianna used to say, laughter is the language of angels. Without it, a man’s heart quickly falls into shadow—especially in dark times.”

  “So your Order had both a man and a woman to lead it?” Karl asked, raising a brow.

  “Yes,” Fredrick said. “That tradition endured for centuries—until the day the Order was joined to the Church. Then the High Pontiff decreed that only men could lead. He claimed women were weak in the flesh, too susceptible to sin.”

  His voice hardened. “Since then, there has been but one Grandmaster—and always a man. The Church also bound us to vows of chastity.”

  Baronsworth frowned. “So the Church stripped away half your founders’ wisdom and replaced it with law and fear.”

  “Indeed,” Fredrick said quietly. The truth, though long suspected, cut deep. Most of his life, it seemed, had been shaped by a lie.

  “Did Avalon and Arianna have children?” Karl asked.

  “No,” Fredrick answered. “Their line ended with them. They are buried somewhere in this land—near the temple, the first sanctuary they raised.”

  Their voices faded as they climbed the last turn of the stair. At length they reached the tower’s summit—a circular chamber unlike any they had seen before.

  Bookshelves lined the walls, crammed with dusty tomes. Scrolls and parchments lay scattered across long-forgotten desks, among vials, curious metal tools, and glass instruments of alchemical design. From the ceiling hung several ornate orbs, their surfaces etched with symbols. A faded rug sprawled across the stone floor, and at the chamber’s heart stood a grand bed, Elven embroidery yet faint upon its sheets.

  At the far end, a pair of carved doors led to a balcony.

  The air was thick and still, as though sealed here for centuries.

  Gil’Galion strode forward and flung the doors open. A rush of clean wind swept in, stirring the dust and chasing it into the corners. The others breathed deeply, tasting air pure and untainted after long deprivation.

  “It is as I hoped,” Gil’Galion said with a smile. “We are too high for the mist to reach.”

  Indeed, no trace of corruption endured. The very walls seemed to hum with quiet peace, as if the room had been spared the passage of time itself. Baronsworth looked around and thought it a reliquary—an echo of a vanished age, preserved in quiet grace.

  “What is this place?” he asked.

  “This,” said Gil’Galion, crossing to the far wall, “was my uncle’s private study.”

  He brushed away dust from a small lever half-hidden behind a desk and pulled it.

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  With a groan of ancient gears, the orbs above began to turn, their motion slow and deliberate. A storm of dust rose, and the companions coughed, waving the air before their faces. Karl muttered something half-formed—but then they all looked upward, and fell silent.

  The orbs glowed faintly now, casting shifting lights and shadows that danced across the ceiling. The whole mechanism moved like a map of the firmament: stars in motion, planets in orbit, a living model of the sky.

  “We Elves study the heavens,” Gil’Galion said softly, eyes reflecting their movement. “We have done so since the world was young. We believe that what happens above echoes what happens below. The wise among us say, As above, so below.”

  Karl blinked. “How can a bunch of stars tell you what’s going to happen down here?”

  Gil’Galion laughed, a sound bright and easy. “Ah, a fair question—and one every Elven child asks at the age of seven.”

  The others laughed with him. Karl didn’t quite know why, but their mirth was contagious, and soon he was laughing too.

  “I jest,” Gil’Galion said, smiling. “It is a good question, Master Karl of the Golden Gryphons. I shall do my best to answer—though I beg your patience, for we Elves are taught certain philosophies from birth, and to explain them properly requires a little groundwork.

  You see, there are two ways to look upon the universe—perhaps more, but for the sake of understanding, let us begin with two.”

  He cleared his throat, the teacher awakening within him.

  “The first way,” Gil’Galion began, “is to see all things as random—governed by nothing but chance. A chaotic, unordered existence. We call this casuality— a word that, in your tongue, means that nothing possesses inherent purpose, that events occur without design or intent.

  The second view is its opposite: that all things are deliberate, purposeful, bound by an underlying order. That the universe is not chaos, but structure. We call this causality—the belief that every event arises from a chain of causes, each linked to the next, all woven together.”

  He paused, letting the distinction settle.

  “For millennia our philosophers have debated these two paths. In time, most came to favor causality over casuality—not only through reason, but through witness. Some among us, those who have lived since the First Age, saw the shaping of the world with their own eyes, taught by the gods themselves.”

  “You’ve mentioned them before,” said Baronsworth. “Only your father and uncle remain?”

  Gil’Galion nodded gravely. “Yes. Once they were many. Now only two endure.”

  Karl tilted his head. “Okay, that’s all well and good—but I still don’t get how the stars tell you what’s going to happen down here.”

  Gil’Galion smiled. “Ah, patience, my friend. I was coming to that.”

  He gestured upward to the slow-turning orbs.

  “If one believes, as we do, that the universe was wrought with intelligence, then one comes to see that it follows a hidden code—a pattern both mathematical and divine. It is subtle, yet everywhere in nature. Many living forms obey a proportion we call the Golden Ratio: a harmony found in flowers, in shells, even in the shape of our bodies.

  “This ratio—Phi, or 1.618—is what our greatest minds deem a building block of creation, a fingerprint left by the Most High. Some believe it to be the very code upon which the cosmos is written, or at least a fragment of it.”

  “I think I see where you’re going,” Baronsworth said, arms folded in thought.

  “Just so,” Gil’Galion replied. “If all things unfold with purpose, then nothing is truly random. The stars above, moving with perfect grace, are part of that design. Long ago, the gods revealed this truth to the wisest among us. They taught the twin sciences of Astrology and Alchemy—two faces of the same coin.”

  He cleared his throat.

  “Tonight, let us speak of the first. Through ages of study, our scholars refined what the gods bestowed. We can read the motions of the stars and wandering lights—not only to mark the seasons, but to gain insight.”

  “Into the future?” Karl asked, yet doubtful.

  “Yes,” said Gil’Galion, “and more. From the heavens we may discern a child’s temperament, their gifts and flaws, by the pattern of stars at the hour of birth—or even conception. We may know when to build or sow, when to take up arms or stand down, when to mourn and when to rejoice. Even the forging of our blades and the weaving of our relics is guided by the heavens; beneath chosen constellations, their metal drinks the sky’s hidden music. To us, the stars are not mere fires in the void — they are the reflection of the divine mind.”

  Baronsworth leaned against the wall, his eyes drawn to the slow dance of light and shadow above.

  “It must take lifetimes to master such knowledge.”

  “Indeed,” Gil’Galion said softly. “But for us, time is not so brief a thing.”

  Karl shrugged. “I’m not sure I understand all that—but it sounds a lot better than killing birds and staring at their livers to guess the future.”

  Gil’Galion chuckled. “Augury, yes. Crude, yet built on the same principle: that what is decreed in heaven may be read in the signs of the earth. But tell me, Karl—if fate decrees your defeat, what good will any omen do? If doom is written, will the entrails not deceive you as surely as the stars shine? That is why we trust the heavens above all things: the stars do not lie. Yet if destiny wills your fall, no light in heaven or earth will save you.”

  As if to answer him, the orbs above shifted. A shadow drifted across their light; slowly, one sphere slid before another until the chamber dimmed—the heavens darkened, the world swallowed in sudden night.

  Karl tensed. “What is that?”

  “The next solar eclipse,” Gil’Galion murmured, his voice low and distant.

  Fredrick’s eyes widened. “The Black Sun!”

  Baronsworth’s gaze settled upon the shadowed orbs. “The same dark omen that appeared during the downfall of Asturia.”

  A hush fell over them. Dust swam through the dim air like drifting ash. The atmosphere itself seemed to darken. Sensing the weight upon his companions, Gil’Galion forced a small smile.

  “But there is no cause for dread. Eclipses are not so rare. For those who live centuries, they become almost familiar. Not every shadow of the sun foretells the world’s end.”

  “Solon seems convinced this one is grave,” said Baronsworth.

  “And so does my sister,” Gil’Galion replied, fingers brushing the hilt of his blade. “Her sight is seldom wrong. Still, I agree with my father’s wisdom—fear wins us nothing. Better to meet fate awake than to flee from its darkness.”

  Karl frowned. “The sun blotted from the sky? That’s as ill an omen as I’ve ever heard.”

  At that moment, the shadow passed. The orbs brightened, light spilling once more through the chamber. Yet none could shake the feeling that what they had witnessed was more than a trick of the orrery—it had felt like a whisper of destiny itself.

  For a breath, none spoke. Then Gil’Galion turned toward them.

  “Come,” he said gently. “There is something I would show you.”

  He led them to the balcony. When he opened the doors, a rush of clean wind swept through, chasing out the stale air of the tower. After their long passage through the Felwood’s cursed mists, it felt like the first breath of paradise.

  Above stretched a flawless vault of sky. Far away, birds wheeled homeward; and beyond the endless sea, the sun sank toward the rim of the world. Its golden light poured over them, warm and steady, washing the shadow from their hearts.

  “You see?” said Gil’Galion, his voice quiet with wonder. “Even when all below is wrapped in darkness, there is always Light above—untouched, eternal.”

  Fredrick bowed his head slightly, his tone solemn yet filled with conviction.

  “The Sun will rise again.”

  The words fell upon them like a benediction, simple yet vast—echoing through the silence as though the heavens themselves had spoken.

  Baronsworth leaned upon the railing, eyes half closed, letting the warmth sink into his skin. The wind stirred his hair; the fading gold of twilight brushed his face. It felt like the memory of peace returned to life.

  Silence gathered around them again, companionable and deep. Then the sun dipped lower, and its fading glow caught upon the sword at Baronsworth’s side.

  Even sheathed, the blade answered the light—a slender gleam, steady and unbroken.

  The glow lingered there, unwilling to fade, before sinking away with the day. And when it was gone, the warmth remained—quiet, enduring, like a promise remembered.

  They stood unmoving as twilight deepened. The first stars appeared, and above them the moon rose—full and bright, casting its silver peace upon the land. And once more, even as the world fell to darkness, there was Light above.

  Gil’Galion stirred, his keen eyes turning southward. “Yes… there it is—see? Nestled in the mountainside. That temple, built in the Asturian style, is where the Crystal rests. We should reach it by tomorrow, if we keep our pace and do not stray from the path.”

  Their hearts lifted at the sight. They were close now. With fortune on their side, they would not have to endure this cursed land much longer.

  For a time they lingered, gazing across the moonlit valley. The light of Selunara washed over the hills and trees, and for the first time in what felt like ages, hope no longer seemed so distant.

  “What’s that?” Karl asked suddenly.

  He pointed toward a vast shape rising from the heart of the Felwood. At first it looked like some monstrous beast—but as they watched, they saw it was a colossal tree. Nearly identical to the sacred one in Ellaria—save that this one was dark. Twisted. Wrong. From its roots and branches, black mist seeped and pulsed, like venom from a wounded heart.

  “That,” Gil’Galion said quietly, “is the greatest lament of the Elves. A twin of the Great Tree of Ellaria, whose seeds were brought forth from our ancient homeland. Once it too was a source of life and harmony—until a darkness took root within it, and we have never learned the cause.”

  His gaze became grave as he spoke, the weight of memory dimming his fair face.

  “One day, the cursed mist began to pour from the tree’s heart. The mightiest among us gathered, summoning every art and spell we knew, but nothing could halt it. The corruption seemed to come from elsewhere—not from nature turned wrong, but from a place beyond. A darkness alien to our world.

  It spread slowly at first, then faster—poisoning the land, twisting the hearts of those who dwelt nearby. Madness followed. Despair. In the end, Uncle Oberon had no choice but to flee, to abandon his realm.”

  Gil’Galion paused, his voice heavy.

  “My uncle blamed my father—claimed he surrendered hope too soon, that he turned away, uncaring because these lands were not his own. But the truth is… there was nothing anyone could do. We searched every tome, every record, every prophecy. We found no answer. No cure.”

  “A tragic tale,” Fredrick murmured. The others nodded in quiet agreement.

  For a while, they remained under the stars, lost in thought, reflecting on the sorrow of the Elf-prince and the burden of his people. Below, the cursed forest brooded in the dark.

  “I think I’ll sleep out here,” Baronsworth said at last, drawing his pipe from his travel bag and lighting it with a flick of flint. He rested against the balustrade, exhaling a slow plume of smoke. “After that cursed mist, the stars are a welcome sight.”

  “I shall take my uncle’s old bed,” Gil’Galion said with a glint of mischief. “I’m curious to see how well it has weathered the centuries.”

  “I’ll take any spot with a roof and walls,” Fredrick added. “I’ve had enough of sleeping under open sky—especially with that foul corruption yet lurking.”

  “How can you all speak of sleep on an empty stomach?” Karl groaned, dropping his pack with a thump and rummaging through it. “We need dinner! I’m starving.”

  Gil’Galion laughed. “A fair point. I could use a bite myself.”

  The others murmured their agreement, and soon they were seated in a loose circle upon the balcony, sharing the fare they had brought from Ellaria—bread light as air, dried fruit sweet as honey, and herbs with a tang sharp as pine. It was good food, rich with exotic scents, and surprisingly satisfying after the long day’s journey.

  They spoke as they ate, their voices soft beneath the wheeling stars. Karl and Baronsworth traded stories of their campaigns with the Golden Gryphons—tales of peril now told with rough humor and the laughter of survivors. Between the mirth came moments of quiet, as they remembered comrades long fallen.

  Then Gil’Galion spoke, and his voice changed the air. He told of a world still young, when the gods walked among their creations, when rivers ran clear with starlight and the mountains had yet to be named. His words wove pictures in the darkness, and for a while it seemed the age of heroes lived again.

  The night deepened around them. Firelight flickered in a small metal dish Karl had managed to kindle, its glow reflected in their eyes. Overhead, the constellations drifted slowly across the heavens—serene, eternal.

  For a time, all was serene. It was a rare and precious peace.

  Fredrick’s voice carried a tinge of wistful nostalgia as he spoke of his youth—a time when the world yet shimmered with boundless possibility.

  “I was born into House Tyrandir, an ancient and noble line. From a young age, I was groomed to become a Knight of the Empire.”

  He smiled faintly, eyes far away. “I longed for it—more than anything. I trained day and night: sword drills, sparring, reciting the codes of chivalry until I could speak them in my sleep. And when the Emperor’s sword finally touched my shoulders, I thought my life’s purpose fulfilled.”

  His smile faded. “But of course, life rarely follows the road we chart for it. There was a girl—Lily. A noble’s daughter, bright as spring. We met at a summer gathering beneath the chandeliers of Argos. One dance, one look—and that was enough. We met in secret after that, whispered our vows beneath moonlight, thinking love alone could defy the world.”

  Karl leaned forward. “Let me guess—her father had other plans?”

  “Indeed,” Fredrick said. “She’d been promised since childhood to the son of Lord Blackthorne—an Elector Count, proud and ruthless. When our affair came to light, all hell broke loose. Her father raged that I’d disgraced their name. Blackthorne himself came with his son and a dozen guards. Words turned to steel. In the chaos, one of his men fell by my hand.”

  He drew a slow breath. “They seized me at once. I was stripped of my rank, condemned before I could speak. Blackthorne wanted more than justice—he wanted humiliation. They marched me to the square at daybreak before half the city. I can still hear the rasp of the executioner’s whetstone as I knelt.”

  The firelight flickered across his face. “And then… a voice spoke. Grandmaster Cedric of the Knights of the Flame stepped forward. Even Blackthorne dared not defy him. The crowd fell silent as he offered me a choice: redemption through service—or death. I chose The Order, and left everything behind.”

  A hush followed, broken only by the wind.

  “I’ve never regretted that choice,” Fredrick said quietly, “only the sorrow I brought her. She married, as duty required—but the flame between us never truly died. I carry it still, deep within—a memory, and a regret. If the laws had been just, if the Church had not bound us with fear and hypocrisy, perhaps our story might have ended differently.”

  Gil’Galion’s voice was soft. “There is no shame in loving truly. Only in denying it.”

  “Perhaps,” Fredrick said, smiling faintly. “But courage, too, can wound. The Holy Empire clings to traditions that no longer serve the Light. We’ve mistaken doctrine for truth, ritual for righteousness. If we would walk in the Father’s will, we must be willing to cast aside what has withered.”

  Firelight danced across his face, their shifting light kindling in his eyes. “And I will see that change come—if the Flame grants me strength.”

  For a breath, the fire crackled softly, painting them in gold and shadow—three travelers poised between darkness and dawn.

  It was Karl who broke the stillness.

  “Gil’Galion, what is it?” he asked, his voice cutting through the calm.

  The Elf had left his place by the fire and came now to the edge of the balcony, quiet and unmoving, his gaze set beyond the city walls. None had marked his departure until that moment.

  “Orcs,” Gil’Galion said quietly — the word carrying the weight of certainty. “And other foul things. I can feel them… watching. They’ve caught our scent.”

  He lifted an arm, pointing toward the mist-veiled ruins and the dark line of trees beyond.

  The others rose swiftly and joined him. Through the shadows they saw it—movement among the trunks, a stirring of branches, the gleam of eyes low to the ground.

  Fredrick’s expression hardened. “So. They’ve found us at last. It comes as no surprise. This land teems with corrupted things. A miracle, truly, that we’ve remained unseen this long.”

  “Well, good,” Karl muttered, one hand on the hilt of his sword. “I’ve had enough of creeping around like a frightened child. Let them come. I’ll crack every last Orc skull between here and the sea if I have to.”

  Baronsworth allowed himself a faint smile. “If they are indeed foolish enough to strike at us, I’ll remind them why they fear the Lightbringer. The soil will be rich with the blood of any who dare bar my path.”

  Gil’Galion remained composed, the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Peace, my friends. We are safe tonight. The palace is guarded by ancient enchantments—wards that unsettle creatures of shadow and corruption. They may watch, but they will not cross the threshold.”

  He turned toward the hall, his cloak trailing softly across the stone. “Rest now, if you can. Tomorrow we move again—and make our final push to the temple. If fortune favors us, we will be free of this cursed land before the next moonrise.”

  One by one, the others followed. Karl grumbled something about “unfinished fights,” but soon disappeared inside. Fredrick tarried a moment longer, thoughtful, his gaze resting on the forest’s edge before he too withdrew.

  Only Baronsworth remained, taking the first watch.

  He rested against the cold stone, arms folded, eyes lifted to the night sky. He thought of home—of rolling fields after rain, the scent of tilled earth, the quiet songs of spring. He let the memory steady him, a vision untouched by shadow. In time, his head bowed, and sleep claimed him.

  Gil’Galion appeared beside him then, soundless as falling snow. Without a word, he sank into quiet meditation at the balcony’s edge. Elves did not sleep as men did; a few hours of deep reflection beneath the stars—mind turned inward, spirit communing with what lay beyond sight—was enough to renew them.

  He stayed there—still as carved stone, calm as a mountain pool—his gaze fixed upon the horizon.

  Nothing stirred.

  The night passed in solemn peace, broken only by the distant howl of wolves and the whisper of the wind.

  The watchers lurked in the forest’s depths, but did not dare cross the gates of the city. Not yet.

  What was sorrow becomes purpose—for tomorrow, at last, they reach the Temple that guards the Crystal fragment.

  Will Baronsworth awaken the covenant his people once held with the gods?

  Or have they fallen too far from grace, forsaken by the Light?

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