Baronsworth lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, taking quiet solace in the feel of cold stone beneath him. He was tense, agitated—but for now, he simply lay still, letting his breath slow, the air returning to his lungs in long, steady draws.

  It felt good to be back upon the earth after such a journey into the unknown. Here, everything felt solid—stable, grounded, enduring.

  Not like the shifting dreamscapes he had wandered through, where the world bent and morphed without warning, whisking him from one strange reality to the next.

  Here, the walls stayed where they were. The ground did not vanish beneath his feet. He was home.

  When his breath had steadied and the trembling in his limbs had quieted, he sat up—slowly, carefully.

  For a moment, he thought he must still be dreaming, for before him stood the most wondrous vision he had ever seen.

  Alma.

  Every time he saw her, it was as though it were the first. Her bright indigo eyes shone with startling intensity—perhaps from the soft glow of the chamber, or perhaps the dream-sap still lingered within him, revealing the hidden beauty in all things.

  Her red hair burned like fire—radiant and fierce, yet tamed, controlled.

  He remembered the old stories of the Phoenix his father used to tell him, back when the world was simpler.

  He had nearly forgotten those nights.

  But now, childhood memories stirred—waiting behind a locked door he’d only just remembered how to open. It had been years since he’d thought of those fireside tales—years spent drowning in rage, in grief, in the cold fog of despair.

  The light of that former life had dimmed until it felt like a myth he’d once believed in.

  But now, it all returned in vivid detail: his father’s voice, the warmth of the hearth, the joy of laughter shared between parent and child.

  And more than that—he remembered who he was.

  Baronsworth met Alma’s eyes and smiled. The noise in his mind quieted.

  Though his spirit still reeled from the violence of the crossing, he was present now—anchored.

  Alma knelt beside him, touching his face with a gentleness that stilled even the deepest of tremors. Her hand was warm, like sunlight breaking through a long, bitter winter.

  “You are… changed,” she said softly, her eyes searching his.

  “But for the better, I think. I was so afraid when you entered this sacred place. I feared we might lose you. But now... I feel calm. As though something has been healed.”

  She paused, still holding his gaze—something unspoken resting just behind her words.

  Then, after a moment, she spoke again. “Father was right to bring you here,” Alma said gently. “I see that now. I was so worried for you, Baronsworth… these experiences do not always go as planned. I feared the ritual might overwhelm you. But deep down, I knew it was necessary.

  I knew the answers you sought would not be found in this world, but in the realms beyond. I’m truly glad you returned safely.”

  She embraced him.

  Though they had only met that very day, Baronsworth felt as though they had known each other for lifetimes. In her arms, the years of rage and torment that had gripped him—the burning thirst for vengeance, the grief carved into his soul by loss—seemed to soften, and even vanish.

  For so long, his heart had been a battlefield. Yet now, he felt only peace—a peace so complete it seemed to radiate from the very heart of the universe.

  He was grateful—deeply, wordlessly grateful—that she was the first to greet him upon his return from the unknown.

  They remained in one another’s arms for a long while, a moment outside the measure of time.

  Whether it was the lingering power of the sacred sap, or the sanctity of the place itself, neither could say.

  At last, they parted, and again their eyes met—his still searching, hers full of quiet understanding.

  He tried to speak, but no words came. Not yet.

  Alma was the one to break the silence. “I asked my father to let me enter the circle, even though it is forbidden.

  Only the High Priestess is permitted to cross the threshold during a vision rite. But I… I felt something from the chamber. A powerful current of energy. When I entered, you were writhing within the sarcophagus. I feared you were lost to the journey.

  So I broke another rule—I reached out and offered some of my own essence to calm your spirit. I could not simply stand by, not when you were in pain. Tell me, Baronsworth—what did you see?”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering himself.

  When he spoke, his voice was low, but it carried unexpected power, as though echoing from the heartwood of the Sacred Tree itself.

  “I saw… everything. My father. My family. The past I fled from. The future I must face. And now… I understand. I’ve been lost for so long—fleeing from shadows, chasing blood. But fate—whatever force guides the strands of our lives—led me here. To this place. To you. And it showed me exactly what I needed to see. For years, all I saw was darkness.

  And now… now there is light again.”

  He smiled at her—genuinely, perhaps for the first time in years—and her answering smile stirred something deep within him.

  For a fleeting moment, he wished he could stay in that chamber forever, no longer needing words, content only with the silent comfort of her gaze.

  But he knew he had to tell her what he had seen. He drew in a breath—

  And she gently laid her fingers across his lips.

  Then, silently, she reached for his hand. Alma closed her eyes. Her breath slowed, and her consciousness widened.

  Her gift—True Sight—unfolded within her, and through their joined touch, she opened herself to the truth of his journey.

  Visions surged through her like a tide. She saw all that he had seen—every joy and every sorrow, every revelation and every burden.

  And when it was done—when the final echo faded—she opened her eyes and spoke, her voice trembling with awe.

  “Come, Baronsworth—we must tell my father at once! He will surely know how to guide you onwards, toward your destiny.”

  Alma rose and took his hand, gently urging him to follow.

  Baronsworth stood, still dazed from the journey.

  But before they could leave, he stopped and turned softly toward her. “Alma… before we go, I just wanted to say…”

  He hesitated, searching for words.

  “Nothing in my life has prepared me for this. And your presence—your kindness—has meant more to me than I can express. I simply wished… to thank you.”

  She blushed, the hue of her cheeks nearly matching her fiery hair.

  For a moment she lowered her gaze, smiling shyly; then she looked up again, her eyes luminous.

  “There’s no need to thank me, Baronsworth. I’m here for you. From the moment I first saw you, I sensed a rare light within you.

  I knew you would need me during the rite, just as I know now—deep down—that fate brought us together for a reason. You have a part to play… a great one, I’m certain, in the days to come. My heart tells me so. And I promise—I will stand by you, now and always. Whatever your path may hold, I will help you see it through. That is my vow.”

  Baronsworth smiled, momentarily lost in her radiance.

  Was this still the waking world, or some echo of the higher realms? He could not tell.

  Since arriving in Ellaria, the line between dream and waking had grown too thin to discern.

  She took his hand and drew him gently forward. “Come now,” she urged. “You must speak with Father—there is no time to waste!”

  Baronsworth followed her into the golden light filtering through the canopy of the Great Tree.

  Outside, they made their way to the glade where Lord Aenarion awaited them. He stood beside Solon, both visibly relieved to see Baronsworth whole and walking.

  The priestesses, weary from the rite, were departing in small boats, gliding across the lake to rest.

  The sacred grove was hushed now, yet the air still shimmered faintly with the afterglow of grace.

  As Alma and Baronsworth approached, Lord Aenarion stepped forward, his voice calm yet commanding.

  “Baronsworth. It gladdens my heart to see you whole. I know well the power of Varanilin—and the strain it places upon body and spirit. My daughter insisted on going to your side during the rite. Ordinarily, such a thing would never be permitted… but she would not be dissuaded. I hope her presence caused you no harm.”

  Baronsworth smiled warmly. “No harm at all, my lord. Quite the opposite. Your daughter was exactly who I needed to see upon returning from the other side.

  Her presence helped guide me back. You were right to trust her instincts.”

  Aenarion inclined his head, a faint tension easing from his face.

  Then his gaze fixed on Baronsworth. “Good. Then speak, Baronsworth. Tell me—what did you see?”

  Baronsworth recounted all that had unfolded within the Sacred Tree: the fall of Great Asturia and the betrayal that had sparked the cataclysm; the slaying of the Demon King Astaroth; and the divine command to seek the fragments of the Great Crystal—the next step upon his path.

  “I see…” murmured Aenarion, falling into thoughtful silence before continuing.

  “Then it is true. You are of the blood of the Protectors, descended from the great men of Asturia. Many in this world believe Alistair and his kind are but myths—tales to soothe children before sleep. But we Elves have lived long enough to know better. It is heartening to see that the line has endured.”

  Solon grinned, turning to Aenarion. “You see? I told you to have faith in the lad!”

  He threw an arm around Baronsworth’s shoulder. “Well done, boy—you walked into the wolf’s den and came out unscathed. Everything’s unfolding as it should.” He nodded, satisfaction lighting his face.

  “Another piece of the puzzle revealed.”

  “Indeed, Solon. You were right to bring me here,” Baronsworth replied. “This experience has swept away many doubts and fears. My heart is calmer now. The path ahead feels—at last—clear.”

  “Then we have gained much this day,” said Aenarion. “The line of Sophia endures, and the will of the gods has been made known. That alone is reason for hope.”

  He stepped forward slightly, his expression softening. “But before we speak further, Baronsworth, I must say this: forgive me for doubting you.

  You have shown strength and resilience beyond what I expected of any mortal man. My caution was born of concern for your safety—but I see now I should have placed more faith in you.”

  Baronsworth smiled, struck once again by the Elf-lord’s humility—an elder among the wise, yet unafraid to admit error.

  “No apology is needed, my lord. Your caution was warranted. And… I’m glad, perhaps for the first time in my life, to have proven someone wrong.”

  Aenarion chuckled, the weight on his brow lifting. “Then I hope you prove me wrong many more times, young Baronsworth.

  I have been called a pessimist more than once.”

  Solon clapped him on the shoulder. “Not a pessimist. Just—cautiously optimistic.”

  Laughter passed between them, and Baronsworth noted the closeness of their friendship—even deeper than he had first perceived.

  Then Baronsworth turned, his tone earnest. “Lord Aenarion—my father said you knew of a Crystal fragment nearby. Do you know where it lies?”

  Aenarion’s expression turned grave. “I do. There is one not far from here, in the land that once belonged to my brother, Lord Oberon, and his people. Once, it was Athelia, the Land of Starlight.

  But now, it has become something else entirely.”

  He paused, eyes shadowed by memory. “Be warned, Baronsworth. That place is now called Alden Morthos—the Felwood. My brother is a proud and mighty warrior; he would not have abandoned his ancestral home without dire cause. Yet what dwells there now cannot be overcome by strength of arms alone. A darkness has taken root in that realm—deep and ancient. The very air is thick with a corruption not born of this world. I have done all I can to contain its spread, but for all my knowledge…”

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  He trailed off, gaze distant and troubled. “I sense even this sanctuary may not remain untouched for long.”

  “I understand,” Baronsworth said firmly. “If that is where fate leads me, then that is where I must go.”

  He turned to Solon. “Let evil beware the valiant heart—for the flame of truth burns ever brighter against the dark, and where it shines, every shadow shall pass away.”

  Drawing his sword, he studied his reflection in the polished steel. “I do not fear the darkness. Let the darkness fear me.”

  “The Canticle of the New Dawn!” Solon cried, his face alight with joy.

  “So you do believe in the prophecy!”

  “Inspiring words,” Aenarion interjected before Baronsworth could reply—his tone warm, almost proud. “And I believe them.”

  A glimmer of admiration kindled in his ageless eyes. “I see the fire of conviction in you, young Baronsworth. Very well. I gave you my word that I would aid you in your quest—and aid you I shall. Whatever perils lie ahead, I will not make the mistake of doubting you again.”

  He turned then, gesturing toward the horizon, veiled in a low, ominous mist. “You must set sail northward.

  You will know the way when the fog deepens and the sun grows pale. Press onward—through shadow and silence—until at last you reach land. There, amid the forsaken ruins of my brother’s once-proud realm, lies the temple you seek.”

  He paused, the weight of memory heavy upon him. “The Crystal fragment lies within that temple. Long ago, it was guarded by a noble and ancient order of warriors. Whether they yet endure, I cannot say—and I would place little hope in it.

  That realm is cursed now, the very earth turned against the living—trees gnarled like claws, paths that shift like dreams, the ground itself whispering deceit. But follow the mountain’s western foot, and you will find the temple, concealed upon a high terrace between the mountain’s crowns.”

  He met Baronsworth’s eyes, searching for doubt. There was none.

  “The gods have led you this far,” Aenarion said, his voice soft but firm. “Trust that they will not forsake you now.”

  Baronsworth stood resolute, the call of destiny burning within him.

  Yet part of him still longed for the peace of this place—and for Aenarion’s presence. “Will you not join me?” he asked. “Your company would be a great strength to me.”

  Aenarion smiled, his voice tinged with both fondness and regret. “Ah, to go on a great adventure again…to walk the perilous paths, and face evil head-on. A part of me yearns for it. But I cannot.”

  His gaze shifted to the sacred woods behind them, and his tone grew grave. “There are Orcs in my forest, Baronsworth. They have wandered far beyond their hunting grounds. That troubles me deeply.

  It may mean their numbers grow—or worse, that the corruption in my brother’s lands has begun to seep into ours.”

  He turned a palm skyward, as if feeling the pulse of the world itself. “These woods are shielded by ancient wards—sustained by the power of the Great Tree, and by my will. So long as I remain beneath its boughs, I can hold the barrier firm. But if I leave, it will weaken. And should it fall, the corruption would spill into this sanctuary like wildfire. All we have preserved would be undone.”

  He drew a long breath, his next words solemn, like an oath before the gods. “This place is one of the last havens of light left in our world. I cannot allow it to fall.”

  Baronsworth nodded, understanding at last the burden Aenarion bore.

  “Even so,” the Elf-lord continued, “you will not travel alone. I will ride with you as far as Nim Londar, the White Harbor, and ensure you are well prepared for the journey ahead.”

  Then his voice shifted—subtle, but full of intent. “And though I cannot go beyond that point… there is one I believe would gladly do so.”

  He turned his gaze toward the waters.

  There, gliding across the lake, came a boat—its sails full, moving with quiet purpose. Swiftly it reached the shore, and from it stepped a young Elf clad in silver-etched armor of exquisite craft.

  Tall and broad-shouldered, he bore himself with the calm authority of one long tempered by battle. His hair, white as moonlit frost, fell to his shoulders, and his face—handsome and youthful—reflected both steadfast conviction and inner stillness.

  In his eyes burned the same light that lived in Aenarion’s: compassion for the innocent, and unyielding hatred for evil.

  “This,” said Aenarion, “is my son, Gil’Galion—a master of the blade, and perhaps even finer with a bow. Yet his skill in war is but one of his many gifts. Valiant, cunning, and wise beyond his years, his worth on your quest will be great.

  On the day of his birth, the Athelari foretold that he would one day leave the shelter of these woods to take his place in the war against the dark. He has trained for that moment ever since. Long has he desired to reclaim his uncle’s realm for our people.

  It seems fate has chosen now as his hour.”

  Gil’Galion bowed low—first to his father, then to Baronsworth. “Milord,” he said, his voice calm and resolute, “forgive that we have not met until now. Duty keeps me often far from the comfort of home. In truth, I would not be here even now, had my father not summoned me.”

  “He commands the Silver Lances,” Aenarion said. “He and his riders guard our borders, hunting intruders and shielding our realm.”

  “There have been many such intruders of late,” said Gil’Galion, his tone sharpening. “Orcs, mostly—of the same foul breed as the ones that stalked you.

  They come into our woods in ever greater numbers, but none depart.”

  At once, Baronsworth understood who stood before him—the white-haired commander who had saved his life.

  He stepped forward and knelt. “My lord.” Baronsworth said softly, realization dawning. “You were the one who rescued me. Had you not intervened, I would surely have perished. For that, you have my deepest thanks.”

  Gil’Galion shook his head gently. “Your words are kind, but unnecessary. All who enter these woods without malice are under our protection.

  I merely did my duty.”

  “Even so,” said Baronsworth, rising, “I owe you my life—and not only I. I speak also for those who traveled with me. We are in your debt.”

  Gil’Galion inclined his head. “It is a rare thing to meet one so courteous. Yet your manner is rivaled only by your valor. When I found you, you were no helpless soul, but a man surrounded by the slain—standing unbowed amid ruin. It gladdens me that you lived.”

  Baronsworth smiled faintly, though it did not last. “I lived, yes—but barely. The Orcs nearly overwhelmed me.

  And one dear to me was gravely wounded.”

  Gil’Galion’s expression softened. “Then it may comfort you to know that we hunted every last one of them. We gave chase, and though they fled as if pursued by divine wrath, it availed them nothing. They led us to their camp, thinking numbers would save them—but the Siril Caelani fell upon them like fire from the heavens. None survived.”

  He paused, resting a hand upon the hilt of his sword, his gaze distant. “Their leader was a warlock—its sorcery bound to frenzy and corruption. I suspect it forged the poison that struck you.

  But in the end, its craft served little to preserve its life.”

  Aenarion’s lips curved in a faint, approving smile. “Nor to end yours,” he said, turning to Baronsworth. “Such poisons are bound not only by craft but by will. When that will is slain, their power fades. Were any trace still within you, or your companions, it would wither soon enough — though our healing rites have already undone most of its harm.”

  He inclined his head slightly, the smile returning. “It brings me great joy when the machinations of our foes fade into nothingness.”

  Gil’Galion’s expression darkened. “I fear it is not all good news, Father.” He reached into his satchel and withdrew a withered parchment—foul and leathery, its surface etched with curling, malignant sigils. “When I took the warlock’s head, I found this upon the body. I studied it, but the language is one I do not know, and I have read many. Perhaps you can make sense of it.”

  Aenarion took the page with careful hands. His gaze lingered upon the faded ink, tracing the twisting runes as his expression grew grave. “This script…” he murmured. “I have not seen it in a long age.

  It is the tongue of Mortharas—the language of demons.”

  A ripple of unease passed through those gathered.

  “What does it say?” asked Gil’Galion, his voice low and grim.

  Aenarion explained aloud, slowly. “It commands the Orcs to hunt down the Ark-s?n—Orcslayer—wielder of the sword that shines with radiant light. They speak of him traveling alone into the Elderwood. They called for reinforcements to pursue him. They have been tracking you for some time, Baronsworth. You are fortunate they did not find you sooner.”

  “I’m a fast rider,” Baronsworth said with a half-smile.

  “That you are,” Aenarion nodded, but his voice was tight. “Perhaps that is the only reason you still draw breath.”

  A long silence followed, broken only by the rustling of leaves.

  “This troubles me,” Aenarion continued. “For Orcs to possess a scroll written in the demon tongue—there are only two possibilities. Either some dark cult has unearthed long-buried knowledge… or…”

  “Or the demons are finding their way into our world once again,” Solon finished, his tone grave.

  Aenarion’s expression darkened. “Impossible.

  Alistair defeated them on that black day—the day the sun went dark, and Asturia sank beneath the waves. The last portal to their realm was shattered. Their King, Astaroth the Vile, destroyed. Since then, the legions of Mortharas have been leaderless, tearing each other apart in endless civil war.”

  Gil’Galion folded his arms. “And what if they’ve found new leadership? Another way through?”

  “Impossible,” Aenarion snapped. “If a portal had opened, we would have known. The Athelari would have foreseen it. The land itself would shudder.

  We would feel the tremor of their arrival, and there would be no subtlety—only fire and ruin and a horde at our gates.”

  It was the first time Baronsworth had seen the great Elf truly unsettled.

  “In my visions,” Baronsworth said slowly, “when Berenar betrayed Asturia, he performed a dark blood ritual. I could…feel that he was somehow the conduit, the portal into which Astaroth came into the earth. His body became the portal.”

  Solon punched his palm. “I knew it! There is a way the darkness has been entering our world.

  They don’t need a portal—they can be invited in, to dwell in the bodies of their servants!”

  Aenarion’s gaze grew grave. “Are you certain, Baronsworth? There is much in the dreamlike states that can be hazy and distorted. Perhaps you are confused.”

  “I am certain.” Baronsworth said. “It wasn’t something I perceived with my eyes, or even my senses. It was a knowing.”

  Aenarion grew silent, but Gil’Galion spoke. “Father, do not be blind! There are already dark hordes, plundering the land. Orcs, bandits, worse. Tell me, Father—can you truly not feel it? The corruption, creeping ever closer?

  Our borders are no longer feared. They come now—brazen, emboldened—hunting our guests, encroaching deep into our sacred forest. A century ago, such trespass would have been unthinkable. But now? We find Orcs with scrolls written in demon-script, chasing them from the very heart of our domains. No... something is wrong. Surely you can feel it.”

  Aenarion said nothing for a time.

  Then, slowly, he looked up—his gaze distant, troubled. “I do feel it, son. A shadow rising. I had only hoped…

  I was wrong.”

  “Ever since the Great Crystal was shattered,” Solon said gravely, “the ancient barriers that once divided our realm from Mortharas have weakened. As things stand, little remains to keep the demons from crossing at will. If they can truly be… invited in, as you say, Baronsworth—then I fear the great war for Mytharia is about to begin.”

  Alma drew a slow breath, the tremor in it betraying the first crack in her composure. “Visions have come to me of this—shrouded and obscured, as they so often are.

  Though my heart was certain, I chose to keep silent—to spare our people… and to spare you, Father. But hearing now of what stirs beyond the veil, I can remain silent no longer.”

  She stepped forth, conviction burning in her gaze. “Father… I can feel the darkness growing around us. It is not only the corruption that drove Uncle Oberon from his lands—though that too spreads ever further. This feels older… deeper… and far more powerful. I’ve dreamt of a day when the light falters, the sun devoured, and the world stands still beneath a sky of shadow.”

  Aenarion’s face went pale.

  “The Black Sun…” he breathed, raw dread flashing in his eyes.

  Solon nodded grimly. “Let us not forget—the next eclipse draws ever nearer. On that day, the sun will vanish, consumed by shadow. The same omens that once marked the fall of Asturia now return to the heavens. When the sun hides its face again, I fear the Eternal Night may follow.”

  Alma inclined her head. “I would not speak this lightly… but I believe our ancient enemy has returned.”

  For a long moment, Aenarion was silent. His expression hardened; he shook his head slowly, deep in thought.

  At last, he spoke.

  “Something is amiss—that much I cannot deny. Yet for all our sakes, I hope you are mistaken. Until we have proof, I will not raise alarm. Dreams, however vivid, are not enough. You said it yourself, daughter—your visions are not always clear. We will watch for signs, true signs, of the Black Sun’s return. But until they appear, I will not let fear take root among our people. The darkness was defeated once before, and until I see it rise again, that victory remains.”

  Baronsworth lifted his gaze.

  “In my vision, my father said the darkness prepares to rise again—that light and shadow both are moving their pieces, setting the board for the great war of our age.”

  Aenarion turned toward him, eyes sharp and intent. “Did he name our enemy?”

  Baronsworth hesitated, then slowly shook his head. “No. Only that darkness was stirring.”

  Aenarion exhaled, his voice low. “Then, as I said—there are many dark powers beyond the Betrayer. Perhaps your father spoke of one of them. For now, we must assume nothing.”

  “But even if it was Bhaal,” Gil’Galion said boldly, “we will strike him down.

  He was defeated once—he can be defeated again. He is no more than a shadow of what he was: a disgraced Celestial, fallen, cursed by the Light.”

  Aenarion smiled faintly at his son. “This is what I cherish most in you—your fire, your unshakable will, even in the darkest hour. But do not underestimate our enemy. Should Bhaal truly return…”

  His expression darkened. “Then woe to us all. For he is a mighty foe indeed.”

  Solon’s tone took on the weight of prophecy. “Avas Athala and Avas Morthara.

  The Sun King shall rise to cast down the Black Sun; and through his fall, the Eternal Night shall end, and the Everdawn shall be born—when light and redemption shall be restored unto all creation.”

  He paused, then concluded softly, “So it is written.”

  Aenarion drew a long breath. “I pray you are mistaken, Solon. For if the End Times are truly upon us, then sorrow and ruin will soon cover the earth.”

  “Such has already come to pass, Elf-lord,” Baronsworth replied. “I have seen horrors beyond imagining since the night my family was slain and I was driven into exile.

  The Western Empire lies in ruin—a festering pit of cruelty and despair. And the rest of Valantis fares little better: torn by war, ruled by pride and greed.”

  “The lad makes a good point,” Solon said.

  “I’m told it all worsened with the arrival of the Great Comet,” Baronsworth continued. “For Men, it was seen as a sign of a new age—of redemption, of triumph. But for your kind, it meant something else, did it not? Fire. Destruction. Death.”

  Alma’s hand closed tightly around his arm. He felt their bond deepen—closer now than ever.

  The paradox lingered between them: to his people, his birth heralded hope. To hers, it foretold ruin.

  He turned to Aenarion. “Tell me, Wisest of Living Beings… is what Solon whispers true? Could I be Avas Athala—the Sun King reborn?”

  Aenarion sighed. “I am sorry, Baronsworth. I do not have the answers you seek.”

  “You can read the signs of the stars and the heavens, can you not?” Baronsworth pressed. “I was born under the Great Comet. Surely you have some insight into what that might mean. My mother believed I was the one foretold in prophecy.

  Solon believes it too.”

  Aenarion regarded him quietly. “And what do you believe?”

  Baronsworth paused, his gaze hardening. “Since my birth, a shadow has crept over the world. And not least among the horrors it brought was the Great Purge—so thorough in its purpose that I’ve never met another born beneath the same sign.”

  He turned to Alma, eyes locking with hers. “Until now.”

  Then he looked back to Aenarion. “Two souls born under the same sign. I know not what to make of it.”

  “Nor do I,” Aenarion said softly.

  “But it is possible,” Solon said, “that the Sun King has returned.”

  “Many things are possible,” Aenarion replied. “But even I—who have walked Mytharia since her first dawn, and read more tomes than could be counted—do not hold all truths.”

  He turned to Baronsworth again, his tone measured and firm. “For now, we must focus on what is known: you must recover the fragment of the Great Crystal. If you can truly restore the covenant your line once held with the gods… then that alone will be a gift beyond measure in the days ahead.”

  “I agree,” said Solon. “The power of the Protector may be the spark that begins to turn the tide.”

  Aenarion inclined his head. “Then we are of one accord. Prepare yourself, Baronsworth. Steel your body, mind, and spirit—for what awaits you in the Felwood is no ordinary trial. You will face more than foes of flesh and blood. The road will be long… and dark.”

  Baronsworth scoffed softly, though his voice rang with iron resolve. “Since the day my father fell, my life has been a long, dark tunnel—with no light at its end. Yet I can endure whatever fate hurls in my path. I am not afraid. I did not come this far to fail.

  I have nothing left to lose—and everything to win. And I will allow nothing to stand in my way.”

  He turned to Gil’Galion, inclining his head in genuine respect. “That said… I am grateful for any aid freely given—especially from one as noble and valiant as your son.”

  “I truly hope so, young man,” Aenarion said quietly, though pride glimmered behind his calm. “You will need every measure of that resolve in the days to come.”

  The Elf-lord paused—long enough for silence to grow heavy between them. Something weighed upon him.

  At last, he spoke.

  “There is… one more thing I must tell you, Baronsworth. Something I was uncertain whether to share. But you deserve the truth.”

  He turned his gaze toward the Sacred Tree. “This quest to rekindle the Crystal—it has been attempted before. Long ago, your ancestor Berethor walked these very halls. When he departed, he too journeyed to Athelia, seeking to awaken the Crystal. Yet it remained silent—dormant. Despite all his strength and faith, nothing stirred.”

  Baronsworth was still for a long moment. “I see,” he said evenly. “But things are not as they were.

  Something has changed.”

  He lifted his eyes, bright with conviction. “Something happened to me in that realm—something real. It was no illusion. I can feel it, as if a part of me long asleep has awakened. It’s difficult to describe… but the knowing is there. I was given clear guidance in that place beyond, and I do not believe those visions were deceit or madness. I refuse to believe I came all this way for nothing.”

  Aenarion regarded him closely. “Your visions were indeed of striking clarity,” he said at last. “And I, too, believe you would not have been led here without purpose.

  Perhaps you are right. Perhaps there is something different about you.”

  He folded his hands in quiet thought. “Still—I could not keep this from you. You deserved to know.”

  Then he turned toward the shore. “But enough of such talk. This is a place of sacred silence, and I fear we’ve disturbed it with too many words already. Come. It grows late. You, above all, must rest. You have endured much these past days—and more awaits.”

  He stepped into the waiting boat and extended a hand. Baronsworth took it, and soon he, Alma, and Gil’Galion had boarded.

  The Elven ferryman pushed them gently from the bank, and the craft glided soundlessly across the mirrored water beneath the vast boughs of the Great Tree.

  That night, within the safety of the citadel, Baronsworth was given a quiet chamber of his own.

  And for the first time in many days, he found true rest—not as one adrift, tossed by unseen currents, but as one who had at last glimpsed his true course.

  Gil’Galion, the Elf-Prince: wise, immortal, and peerless in blade and spirit.

  Felwood, the cursed land once called Athelia, forsaken by the Light.

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