Aenarion stood very still, as though listening to the tremor that had passed through every heart in the hall.

  His gaze lingered on Baronsworth a moment longer, the Elf-lord’s expression shadowed with a rare and vulnerable gravity.

  Then he breathed out slowly and his voice softened, shaped with a warmth meant for Baronsworth, though he spoke plainly enough for all to hear.

  “There is a matter,” he began, “which I believe only you can take care of, mira.”

  A deeper hush settled, the hall suspended between celebration and the unknown.

  “As you well know,” Aenarion continued, “ever since the deadly mist lifted from the Felwood, my people have taken up arms once more. We marched to reclaim those ancient lands that are ours by right—lands swallowed by corruption for generations. A terrible struggle has raged in that forsaken wood, a fight against the creatures that lurked there beneath the pall of darkness.”

  His eyes glimmered faintly, remembering the long battle.

  “Yet fortune has favored us. Without the mist to shroud them—without that veil to embolden their wicked strength—those creatures falter before us. Our casualties have been few. The forest breathes again. We can at last see far and wide; my warriors hunt them with sure sight, with bright blades and keen arrows. The Felwood stirs toward healing.”

  But Aenarion’s voice hardened.

  “However—some madness has driven the remnants of these creatures into Athlos itself. They have made the city their final refuge. And as the wise have always warned: a cornered foe is the most perilous of all.”

  A murmur rippled through the gathered crowd.

  “The protective enchantments of that place, though weakened by corruption, yet endure. Their radiance still presses upon the shadows of this world.”

  “Even dimmed, those wards burn against the flesh of darkness; every heartbeat within those walls must be torment.”

  His gaze darkened.

  “They would never choose such agony unless driven by desperation… or by something far darker.”

  Aenarion’s voice sank into a somber hush.

  “For there is something within Athlos, my dear Baronsworth, that unsettles me.”

  His hand drifted to the table’s edge, fingertips tightening.

  “A presence stirs beneath the city—in the sacred caverns that run deep under its foundations.”

  “In those vaults lie currents of ancient magic: elder forces brought from our lost homeland, Avastan, which was reduced to ash by the Phoenix’s wrath in the First War.”

  “Those caverns are our legacy, the root from which the Elven people still draw breath and memory.”

  Baronsworth’s breath caught—he had felt it once before, faint and distant, while riding the high paths of Rimlan beside Alma.

  A stillness crept over the hall like gathering frost.

  “If the presence lurking there were to corrupt those places… or worse, devour them… then the lifeforce of my people might falter. We would weaken. Our light would dim. And in the great war to come, we would stand powerless against the rising dark.”

  He clenched his fist, the admission heavy as stone.

  “It must be stopped.”

  Silence pressed inward from every corner of the hall.

  “Then perhaps the time has come,” Gil’Galion said finally, “to confront the darkness once more with your gifts and your presence, father—to step where you have long chosen not to tread.”

  Aenarion lowered his gaze. For a long moment he remained still.

  “The power I may call upon is mighty,” he said quietly, “but it is not meant to be wielded as a blade. And even were I to do so, whatever stirs beneath Athlos lies beyond what I could face alone.”

  He lifted his gaze; it shone keen and bright.

  “For this, I require the aid of one whose strength may stand beside mine.”

  A breath passed. Then his voice hardened—not with fear, but resolve.

  “The only course left to us is the boldest one: to strike directly—swiftly, without hesitation—and confront whatever lurks within our rightful lands.”

  “But to do this, we need two things: greater numbers, and a warrior mighty enough to lead the vanguard.”

  A faint smile touched his lips—half awe, half grief.

  “There is one among the Elves who can give us both.”

  His next words fell like the toll of a distant bell.

  “My brother, Oberon.”

  A quiet stirring swept through the room.

  “He commands a great force,” Aenarion went on. “Yet Oberon alone is worth a legion.”

  “His voice can ignite the hearts of thousands; his presence upon the field is like a rising star—terrible, awe-striking, irresistible.”

  “Where he strides, courage surges. Where he strikes, whole ranks are broken.”

  “And in him stirs a power older than memory, a flame from our earliest days that no darkness can dim.”

  Aenarion’s expression clouded, sorrow etching itself across the lines of his ageless face.

  “I had hoped to cleanse his lands with my own hand—offering that restored realm as a gesture of reconciliation, a bridge between us long sundered.”

  “But fate has chosen another path. Its will is clear: if the Elves are to claim the place that awaits us in the ages to come—not the stature we once held, but the one we have long envisioned in our highest dreams—then we must stand united.”

  “The rift that has lingered between the last of the Aenar must come to an end.” His voice deepened, power and sorrow braided together.

  “Selunor, the Silver Staff, and Mirunath, the Edge of the Fallen Moon—must stand once more side by side.”

  “Only thus can we hope to meet the darkness that comes. For unity is the threshold of our rebirth. Such is the will of fate.”

  His next words trembled with an ache almost too ancient to bear.

  “For if we remain parted by pride and grief and old wounds… then perhaps the time of the Elves draws to its dusk, and we are destined to fade into twilight.”

  Aenarion seemed to dim as though some shadow crossed his spirit. Baronsworth had spoken with him through triumph and tragedy, yet never had he seen the Elf-lord bowed so low—not even when speaking of the wounds of the past.

  Baronsworth reached out and laid a steady hand upon his arm, grounding him with quiet strength.

  Leaning forward, his voice softened into warmth.

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  “Fear not, mira. The best days of our peoples lie before us, not behind. Let no despair take root in your heart. Name what you will of me, and it shall be done.”

  Aenarion’s rigid poise eased. A faint light returned to his eyes, as though Baronsworth’s touch coaxed warmth back into a weary spirit.

  “I knew you would lend me your aid,” he murmured. “Very well. Let me tell you what I require.”

  His gaze steadied, solemn as a vow.

  “I need you to travel to Oberon’s realm as an ambassador of the Light.”

  “You are the Protector of the Realm — Sophia herself placed that mantle upon you — and even Oberon, for all his fury, reveres the Varanir.”

  “Tell him the hour has come for the Elves to set aside bitterness and unite once more. We will need all our strength for what rises.”

  A shadow crossed his face.

  “You must convince him by any means you deem wise.”

  “But be wary, Baronsworth. The death of our father still coils around his heart. He is driven by anger… and by grief that has never healed.”

  “Without my presence or counsel, I do not know how far he has descended. Part of me fears he walks the edge of madness.”

  He looked away briefly, the admission costing him.

  “In his mind, he lives for a single purpose: to avenge our father, King Thedas—to hunt Bhaal to the ends of the world and break the Betrayer once and for all.”

  “Conflict consumes him. It consumes his people as well.”

  “They call themselves the War Elves now, and the name fits like a drawn blade.”

  “Their lives are forged in discipline and wrath. They train unceasingly, awaiting the day destiny will open the gates before them and reveal the moment to strike at Bhaal.”

  His visage hardened.

  “There is still a chance he will join us.”

  “If you can show him that our causes are bound—that he needs us as we need him—then he may listen.”

  “But beware: he is impatient, quick to anger, and wields a power few could withstand.”

  “In all your travels, you will meet no living being his equal.”

  Aenarion’s voice grew quieter still.

  “I would go myself. But I fear he would not grant me audience.”

  “At best, he would turn me away before a word could be spoken. At worst…”

  He did not finish.

  “You, however—he does not know.”

  “And he would never strike down a Man, nor any who are not servants of the Dark One, without hearing their purpose.”

  “Tell him who you are, and he may grant you ear, for he holds great respect for the Asturians who fought beside us in the First War.”

  Aenarion’s gaze sharpened, the warning unmistakable.

  “But whatever you do, speak not a single word of your mother’s lineage. Not one.”

  “You are descended from the one he deems his bitterest foe, and for that alone he would condemn you.”

  “Be vigilant. Though Oberon is an enemy of our enemy, he is wild, unpredictable, and deadly.”

  He leaned closer.

  “Do not challenge him—in word, deed, or blade.”

  “A duel with him would be nothing short of suicide.”

  “If you sense matters slipping from your control, withdraw with humility and haste.”

  “His aid is crucial in the war to come… but I will not have you risk your life.”

  “Should you fall, we lose our greatest champion—and gain nothing.”

  Aenarion exhaled slowly.

  “Have you understood?”

  Baronsworth inclined his head.

  He asked only how he was to reach Oberon’s realm.

  “By the same means I used to arrive here,” Aenarion replied. “Through the Portal near your home.”

  “But do not concern yourself with that yet. For now, return to the celebration.”

  “Rest. Tomorrow I will show you how to use the Portal, and you shall set out upon the quest I’ve entrusted to you.”

  He placed a hand gently over Baronsworth’s heart.

  “Thank you. Know that I would not ask this of you if any other path remained.”

  Baronsworth bowed.

  He returned to the feast, speaking with those around him, lifting a cup when expected—yet his heart no longer stirred to celebration.

  The warmth of the hall, the music, the laughter drifted around him like memories already fading.

  He knew peace had slipped from his grasp once more, and that the road ahead would lead him into dangers he could not yet fathom, toward choices that would shape not only kingdoms, but the ages to come.

  That night he slept deeply—his body weary, his spirit uneasy. Dreams rose from the depths of his mind, fierce and unbidden.

  He saw an Elf-lord, terrible and bright, carving through legions upon a darkened field.

  The silver blade in his hand shone like moonfire, reflecting the full moon above and glowing with a light of its own.

  Then the figure halted, turning toward Baronsworth.

  The blade, dripping with blood, lifted in challenge.

  The Elf’s eyes blazed—too bright, too ancient for mortal sight—and white-blue fire surged around him like the breath of some celestial forge.

  Baronsworth woke with a start, his breath sharp, skin damp.

  Yet morning was already climbing over the Sunkeep, its warmth spilling across stone and field as though to steady him.

  After breaking his fast, he stepped into the crisp air beyond the gates.

  Aenarion awaited him beside the great Portal, its carved arch cool and silent for now.

  The Elf-lord regarded him with quiet approval.

  “Travel light,” Aenarion had advised. “Your blade and your gear alone.”

  “The Portal will carry you straight to Zarkath—the harsh land my brother calls home.”

  “You will cross no leagues of forest.”

  “And you will be received as a guest… for better or for worse.”

  Still, Aenarion had urged him to present himself with the dignity of his station.

  Oberon valued refinement—beauty, craftsmanship, a hint of grandeur.

  So the Elven tailors, swift as thought, had shaped for Baronsworth a garment worthy of a highborn envoy.

  He now stood in the Valorian Fields arrayed in that attire: a riding-coat of deep midnight blue, falling almost to his boots like the mantle of an ancient captain.

  The fabric was soft yet weighty, each fold carrying the quiet authority of Sunland heraldry.

  Along its collar and hems ran delicate threadwork of gold—a subtle gleam, noble without ostentation.

  The sleeves were drawn back just short enough to reveal the Divinium vambraces beneath, their pale inner sheen catching the light like frost kissed by dawn.

  Few in any age had glimpsed such metal; fewer still had worn it.

  On him, no proclamation was needed. Its presence spoke for itself.

  An elegant leather girdle drew the coat close at the waist without impeding motion.

  The split front allowed the easy stride of a seasoned rider.

  Layered over the Armor of the Eagle, these garments came together in a tall, commanding silhouette—steel tempered by cloth, grace interwoven with might.

  And upon his brow rested the Helmet of Berethor.

  Wrought of pure Divinium, smooth and seamless, it held the morning light in a soft, luminous depth, as though an unseen fire stirred within the metal.

  Its contours carried their own silent heraldry; nothing further was required.

  At a single glance, one sensed the lineage it bore, and the destiny it implied—something long awaited in the turning of the ages.

  Without a word, Baronsworth looked every inch a lord restored to his land, walking once more in the dignity he had reclaimed.

  One by one, the others gathered around the Portal, murmuring among themselves.

  Anticipation shimmered in the air like heat above a road.

  Baronsworth stepped forward and addressed them.

  “My friends,” he said, his voice carrying easily across the field. “We have passed a long and joyful winter within these walls, and it has been good.”

  “Yet my duties as Protector call me forth once more.”

  “Though these months have granted us rest, the respite wanes.”

  “Soon a vast shadow will sweep again across the lands—and we must be ready.”

  He raised his voice so that all could hear.

  “I go to negotiate an alliance with Oberon, Lord of the War Elves.”

  “He and his brother have long been sundered—but the time has come to end that feud, for the Aenar must stand united in their true might, as they did in the days of old, when the Dark One was first cast down.”

  A figure stepped forward—Karl, adjusting the last straps of his gambeson.

  “Well then,” he said with a dry laugh, “off we go again—straight into the heart of madness, no doubt, where everyone and their mothers will want us dead on sight—”

  Aenarion raised a hand, silencing him.

  “I’m sorry, Karl,” he said. “But this time Baronsworth must go alone.”

  Karl blinked, then scoffed.

  “Ha! No disrespect, Elf-lord, but I promised this one I would follow him to the ends of the earth, and I intend to keep my word.”

  “Wherever he goes, I go.”

  Baronsworth shook his head gently.

  “No, Karl. Not this time.”

  “Lord Aenarion is right.”

  “This mission is delicate, and Oberon’s temper… volatile.”

  “The chances of disaster double if two of us arrive unbidden.”

  Karl muttered under his breath, then relented with a scowl.

  “Fine. I’ll do as you say.”

  “But know I don’t like it.”

  Baronsworth smiled faintly.

  “Thank you, old friend. I’ll return before you know it.”

  Aenarion drew Baronsworth a few paces aside, lowering his voice as though unveiling something sacred.

  “There is one last thing you must learn,” he said. “The Portals are not doors, nor spells, but pathways wrought in elder days.”

  “They answer to will—not sight, nor voice, but intent alone.”

  “Fix your mind upon a place, even one whose soil you have never trod, whose towers you have never seen.”

  “If a Portal stands there, it will answer.”

  “If not, it will bear you to the nearest one, for no true purpose is ever wasted in their design.”

  He laid a hand on the carved stone arch; the runes etched into it stirred beneath his touch.

  “Go on,” Aenarion murmured. “Try it.”

  Baronsworth drew a steady breath and focused inward, gathering his will like a single arrow loosed toward a distant mark.

  A faint vibration met him—a hum rising from the earth, from the very bones of the Portal itself.

  Then the archway awakened.

  Light blossomed within its frame, sudden and bright, as though the stone had inhaled the daylight and breathed it back out in radiance.

  Baronsworth’s eyes widened.

  “It worked!”

  Aenarion’s smile was small, filled with pride.

  “Indeed. The mantle of the Protector grants you this gift—one of the keys by which these ancient paths may be opened.”

  “Now go.”

  “Say your farewells, steel your heart, and be on your way.”

  “I will remain here until your return.”

  Baronsworth felt his chest tighten. The moment had come—he would part from those he loved.

  He crossed the space and found Alma at the front of the crowd, radiant as dawn.

  They embraced, and no words were needed; their love moved between them like warmth in winter.

  He turned to his mother next, holding her close.

  Then Isabella approached, Lord Thoron at her side—and after them, the others who had walked this road alongside him.

  “Goodbye, milord,” Alexander called at last, lifting a hand in salute. “Godspeed.”

  One by one, the voices followed—palms raised in parting blessing, a soft chorus of farewells.

  The Asturian Knights stepped forward in unison; their polished armor catching the morning light like a field of small suns.

  Each struck a fist to their heart in the solemn salute of their people—a promise of honor, loyalty, and brotherhood no distance could dim.

  Baronsworth lifted his hand in return—and stepped through the Portal, passing from familiar warmth into the deep, uncharted currents of destiny.

  The Season of Peace has come to an end. The road ahead leads once more into peril.

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