"The Elves proclaimed Aenarion the Defender, the blessed Phoenix King of Asuryan, and where he led others followed; where he fought, the Daemons were thrown back. Great were his victories and many are the tales told elsewhere of the Phoenix King's battles. Mighty heroes rallied to Aenarion's banner; Elves such as Caledor the Dragontamer, greatest of the Elven mages, andEoloran Anar who first raised the Phoenix King's standard; names forever entwined with the legend of the first Phoenix King."

  —Saga of Aenarion

  They had ridden for several days from Chrace to Cothique, and he had with him a small army of servants and guards. He had perhaps underplayed his importance mentally. He had thought he would have maybe five to ten people go along with him. That was just not true.

  Banners of Chrace and House Stormvaine were carried at the front and rear of the caravan. People talked and laughed while they journeyed, bedrolls and tents tied to saddlebags. Pots and pans tied to pack horses while Elves wore thicker cloaks and clothes for the mountainous weather. Cale felt it was a site straight out of a movie scene.

  The moment he had spoken to his family about his plans—bringing it up as simply a potential business opportunity—Calethor didn’t really have to sell it to his parents yet. He had given them the timeline and what he planned to bring with him. That’s when the problems started to arise. The moment he had spoken of having a travel party of around ten people, his mother had straight up asked him if he was trying to embarrass them.

  That had stopped him in his tracks as he mentally attempted to figure out what he had said wrong. Embarrassingly, his studies in either life hadn’t covered the appropriate party size of a traveling prince.

  Anyway… Cale looked behind him at the sixty some elves trailing behind. Even that had been a battle and a half to get the number reduced down to this size. He had brought with him ten Chracian hunters sworn to his family as a personal bodyguard, twenty spears, ten archers, and twenty servants. Twenty. He even had three mages.

  He mentally shook his head. Calethor wasn’t sure if it was because of the Dark Elves ambush that had resulted in his technical death, or if this was just what noble etiquette demanded. But despite his early stance, he had come to be extremely grateful for it, even if it still made him uncomfortable. It was undeniably nice to have most of his wants and needs taken care of, people checking to see if he needed anything, even if it felt a bit over the top. The pelted bodyguard’s also provided excellent sparring partners and teachers, and Maerthas had, of course, accompanied him.

  Speaking of, he saw Maerthas approaching from further back in their little caravan. He waved in greeting as Maerthas got closer, the lion’s head on his shoulder seemingly glaring. Perhaps still mad at how it died.

  “My Prince,” he greeted, “perhaps it is time you tell me about this journey we are on.”

  While Cale had given the basic plan to his parents, he had yet to really speak about it to anyone else, and even that hadn’t fully explained what he planned to do. Only that it should benefit their house.

  “Well, if you must know,” he said with some whimsy, “we are visiting my cousins!”

  Maerthas just stared.

  Sighing, Calethor continued, “You are such a stick in the mud, Maerthas. We should have brought Ariandrel. She at least appreciates my humor.” He thought warmly of his little sister. She had begged to come along.

  “A stick in the mud?” Maerthas questioned, his expression confused.

  “It’s an expression. I’m sure you can figure out what it means.” Calethor shook his head. “Anyway, we are visiting primarily to speak with Arathion. We are cousins through my father’s side of the family. He is a recent father to two twins. They should be around three years old. One is unfortunately afflicted with an unhealthy body and with us are some tonics and potions I hope will allow him to grow up happier.”

  “I’m failing to see how this benefits your family.”

  “Why can’t we just commit a good deed?” Calethor said, then sighed. “But no, Arathion is in possession of the dragon-armor of Aenerion,” he added simply.

  That prompted a more interested look from Maerthas at the mention of the legendary warrior. “I see… That would be of some value,” he said, voice more thoughtful now, “if such a relic could be repaired, studied, or even used.”

  Calethor hummed in agreement as he spotted their destination ahead. A weathered elven villa of pale stone and timber, its balconies and walkways sheltered from mountain wind, with a small stable and storage sheds tucked behind it. It was sequestered away in the mountains of Cothique, not something you’d typically find a prince or princess of Ulthuan living in. He knew the prince in question spent most of his fortune on his attempts to fix the armor.

  He hoped he would be able to convince him to work with him. He felt confident, but who knew what could go down.

  He felt a thrum of excitement within him. He was about to meet two legendary elven heroes, even if they were only children for now. Regardless, they were both destined for great things, and he was going to meet them. He let the fanboy within him trot around, but outwardly he kept the cool grace of elven nobility.

  They stopped on the outskirts of the villa wall, his people gathering behind him while most of the woodsmen formed a loose circle around him. Obviously not expecting anything, but ready nonetheless.

  Soon an older elf servant came to greet them. From his memories, Cale believed this to be Thornberry—the only servant currently in service to the Prince of Cothique, and in his opinion the real guardian of Tyrion and Teclis.

  She was an elderly female elf, and despite her age she had sharp-eyes.

  Thornberry gave a formal bow. “Welcome to this household. Welcome to the home of Prince Arathion of Cothique.” Her gaze lifted, polite. “May I ask who you are?”

  Calethor stepped forward slightly. “Calethor Stormvaine, a Prince of Chrace.” He kept his tone even. “I am here to see my cousins, if it can be arranged, and to speak with Prince Arathion. I am here to discuss a potential mutually beneficial partnership.”

  Thornberry listened without interrupting. Then she nodded once. “Understood. Please enter.”

  She unlatched the gate and stepped aside to let them through.

  “Thank you,” Calethor said as he passed. “May I see Arathion?”

  “Certainly,” Thornberry replied. “Follow me, my lord.”

  Calethor fell into step behind her. Maerthas followed silently, while the remainder of the bodyguard stayed behind with the rest of his people.

  They were led inside, and Cale took it all in, immediately noticing the difference in quality and furnishings. Not that it was uninhabitable, but it was safe to say he was spoiled back home.

  Climbing up to the second floor, they entered a lived-in space that looked like it had been forced to serve two purposes: shelves lined with books and rolled charts, some neatly placed and others stacked in unstable piles; a large workbench in the center with tools scattered across it—chisels, files, clamps, and small hammers. Off to one side, set on a wireframe, was the Dragon Armour of Aenarion.

  It caused him to stop as he looked upon it, a legendary relic thousands of years old. Worn by the first Phoenix King and used to battle powerful daemons. Excitement flowed through him. Not only in seeing the armor but knowing that he was about to make his first real change according to how the future was supposed to play out.

  The armor was layered in deep blues and bright gold, with a scaled skirt and breastplate that looked like overlapping fish-scale mail. Over it sat heavier plates at the shoulders and chest, curved and polished. The pauldrons flared outward with white feathered crests.

  The helm was the centerpiece. A dragon’s head rose from the crown, golden, with white wing-like plumes sweeping back on either side. A wide belt or cuirass band wrapped the waist, set with a large red gem at the center, and the rest of the armor repeated that same pattern. blue cloth beneath, gold trim over top.

  Designed so no one would ever forget who was wearing it. A true masterpiece even if one didn't know its history. Cale wanted to reach out and touch it but was able to hold himself back.

  It was unmistakably High Elf work and built for war.

  “I am glad someone else appreciates it.”

  The voice came from deeper in the room. Arathion stood there, only a couple centuries old, still young by elven standards, but he looked aged. His face was lean, his eyes tired, and there was a worn edge to him. His hair was kept back without much care, and his clothing was fine but neglected.

  “Greetings, cousin!” Cale said. “It is truly impressive,” he added as he gestured to the armor.

  Arathion gave a small nod, like he didn’t quite believe the compliment. “Most people do not think it is the actual armor of Aenarion, an ancient replica maybe, but not the original."

  Cale’s eyes stayed on the armor, he remembered that many questioned its authenticity. “I believe it is.”

  “As do I,” Arathion appeared to appreciate the words. “But let us speak as to why you're visiting my humble home.”

  Cale was thankful that he wanted to get straight to the point. “Fair enough.”

  Gesturing around the workshop as he spoke. “Rebuilding the armor I imagine takes a considerable fortune, and I’m sure some unusual or hard to get ingredients.”

  Arathion’s mouth twitched. “Yes.”

  Cale nodded. “I’m here because I think we can help each other.”

  Arathion studied him for a moment, then shifted his weight and motioned toward a pair of chairs set near a smaller table. “Come. I am being a bad host.”

  Cale followed as Arathion led him over. Maerthas remained behind, taking up a position behind him.

  Thornberry appeared at Arathion’s side as if she had been waiting for the signal. Arathion didn’t even have to look at her.

  “Refreshments,” he said simply.

  Thornberry inclined her head. “Of course, my lord.” Then she turned and left.

  Arathion sat first and motioned for Cale to take the other chair.

  “Before we start,” Arathion said, folding his hands, “how are we related?”

  Cale winced. “My fault. We share Aenarion as an ancestor. It’s through my father's side—Talarion Stormvaine.”

  Recognition crossed Arathion’s face. “That explains it. I haven’t personally dealt with Stormvaine often, but I do remember my wife mentioning your house.” His voice dipped slightly on the word wife. She had passed away while giving birth to the twins.

  He steadied himself. “Now. Tell me what you’re proposing.”

  “I want to sponsor you,” he said. “Directly. In exchange, you would enter the service of my family as an artificer.”

  Arathion sat back a fraction. “If I enter your family’s service, it will take my time. And my time is already spoken for.” His gaze drifted, briefly, toward the dragon armor in the corner. “I am repairing that. Every spare moment.”

  Calethor nodded once. “I don’t believe it will.” He kept his tone even. “How many times must you stop working on it because you’re limited by funds and resources? How many parts are you missing because you can’t source them? How many attempts have you put off because you don’t have the right materials, or the right tools, or the right help?”

  Arathion didn’t answer immediately, which was answer enough.

  Calethor continued, more direct. “With my house backing you, those delays go away. You would have what you need. You’d have people who can run down materials without you leaving your workshop.”

  Arathion’s jaw tightened. “And in return?”

  “In return,” Calethor said, “You keep doing what you’re already doing. Repairing it and hopefully finishing it.” He paused. “But I also want you, occasionally, to take time to make things for my house. Weapons. Armor. Equipment. Not to the point it becomes a distraction from your work. But enough that my family sees something in return.”

  Arathion stared at him for a long moment. “I’m sure you have many artisans under your family's employ already.”

  “Yes,” Calethor said simply. “But you are a relative, no matter how distant. Additionally you have studied runework and spells of the armor, meaning you have studied ancient craft.”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Which was true. Arathion had spent his entire life attempting to fix the armor. Cale was sure it would be almost impossible to find someone with that level of niche expertise. Which meant he could apply it to other things, if he wasn’t so obsessed with it. Cale was sure that if he chose to, Arathion could create impressive works based on the insights he’d gained from working on the armor.

  Arathion gave a quiet exhale through his nose. “You make it sound simple.”

  “It is simple,” Calethor replied and leaned forward slightly. “I’m not asking you to abandon your life’s work, cousin. I’m offering to make it possible to actually finish it.”

  Even if Arathion was an overall net loss for his family, he could not forget that House Emeraldsea would hopefully still come for the twins. Which would mean that Cale’s house would be allied with one of the richest families of Ulthuan. He planned to let the twins be taken into their custody at that time, as he wanted them to settle into their roles for the future.

  Thornberry returned with a bottle and glasses, setting them down carefully on the table. She poured for each of them, then moved away.

  Arathion stared at him for a long moment, weighing it. “I ask you let me think on it.”

  Calethor nodded. He hadn’t expected a quick yes anyway. His party had plenty of provisions to wait around for a bit and Cale had not thought it likely Arathion would be able to host some sixty elves. “That’s fine.”

  He let a beat pass, then mentally readied himself for the other topic that had brought him there. “On another note, I’ve heard one of your children was born sickly. I brought several tonics and potions that may help, and three proficient mages. If you’ll allow it, I’d like them to take a look.”

  Arathion’s eyes hardened. “You heard that?”

  That was an absolute lie, as he had the memories of his life as David was how he actually knew. Arathion's wife Alysia had been an extremely prominent figure and it would not have been impossible to gather the information legitimately. It wasn't like he could actually explain how he knew.

  “I did,” Calethor spoke genuinely. “And I say this honestly, I’m offering this with no strings attached and completely separate from our talks of working for me.”

  Arathion leaned back slightly, quiet for a few seconds. Then he spoke, measured. “I have been able to treat my son of some of his symptoms."

  He replied. “If you don’t want them, then that is your choice.”

  Arathion held his gaze, then nodded once. “I accept. I do not enjoy seeing my son struggle to breathe.”

  A burst of joy spread through Cale, having accomplished a fairly big step for himself. Providing some measure of treatment for Teclis now would hopefully allow him to have a more joyous childhood. It was a good deed, and while seemingly small, it felt pretty good.

  He stood up. “Then let’s get to work. No point wasting time while a child suffers. Let me go fetch the mages. Everything should already be ready.”

  Seeming surprised at his rapid desire to get to work, Arathion rose with him as if deciding to match it.

  Arathion moved toward the doorway and spoke as they walked. “Thornberry will set the room up and make sure there’s space for them to do their work.”

  “Of course,” Cale replied.

  Arathion nodded once. “Good.”

  They stepped out into the corridor. Thornberry was waiting there.

  “My lord?” she asked.

  “Prepare a sitting room,” Arathion said. “We are going to see if we can improve my son's condition.”

  Thornberry inclined her head. “As you wish.” Her eyes shifted to Calethor. “Your mages, my Prince?”

  “I’ll bring them now,” Cale said. “They should be ready.”

  Arathion started walking again, moving with purpose.

  Arathion glanced over at him. “You came extremely prepared to help my son.”

  Cale just shrugged. Probably not the most Elven thing he could have done but he had no desire to pretend to be aloof.

  Arathion just shook his head at it.

  “I’ll be back shortly,” Cale said to Arathion, then turned to Maerthas who was following. “Have the mages brought in.”

  Maerthas nodded once. “As you command, my Prince.”

  A few minutes later, the three mages were brought over. He had been able to get to know them more as they traveled here. One he knew quite well from Calethor’s memories. The other two were entirely new to him. They were dressed in layered robes and fine sashes, with subtle embroidery and rune-stitched trim. Each carried small satchels that contained the potions for Teclis, and they moved in a self-assured manner.

  Letharion was extremely fun to chat with, and had even performed a few simple incantations at Cale’s request. He couldn’t help himself from asking it. Memories of a life where it was impossible had made him appreciate it so much more.

  The other two—Aethril and Saelorn—were less tolerable, and were good examples of why a lot of the other races thought the elves were pompous assholes. Obviously polite to him because of his status, but based on the conversations he’d had with them, they absolutely shit on everyone else. Good enough around fellow elves, but goodness.

  “Alright,” Cale spoke up. “We have gotten permission to do what we came here to do. You are the professionals.”

  Aethril gave a confident smirk at his words. Saelorn and Letharion both appeared to take the task seriously. Turning around, Calethor led them back inside to find Arathion.

  Entering the room where everyone was present, the Cothique prince gently held a young child in his arms. Who he guessed was Teclis. He was small for his age, pale and thin, with limbs that looked almost too thin for his age. His breathing was shallow. Cale felt guilt for waiting this long to help him. Thornberry was also there, standing right next to Arathion.

  Letharion began to explain, “Greetings, my lord. We have brought several tonics and potions that we believe may be helpful to young Teclis. However, we ask that we conduct several examinations to ensure we attempt to treat the right things. Additionally, our prince has told us that you have developed something already to help. Would you be willing to share what you know?”

  “Of course,” Arathion replied. “Since I have agreed to this, we won’t do it halfway.”

  They began to gather around the child, laying out small bottles and tools on the nearby table. One by one, they uncorked vials, checked their notes, and began preparing what they’d brought, careful not to crowd him. Teclis’s father confirming everything they pulled out and discussed their initial thoughts.

  Seeing that everything was going well, Cale stepped out. His people would do what he had brought them to do. From David’s memories, it seemed the treatment Lady Malene—Tyrion and Teclis’s aunt—had eventually come up with would not be a horribly difficult feat to replicate. He hoped, anyway. He had three mages with him, and Cale had already given them a brief summary of what to expect based on what he remembered.

  Maerthas shadowed him. Cale wasn’t sure how long it would take them to figure it all out, but he had time. Now he was curious what he should do to occupy himself. Everything he had wanted to do out here was done, and he would begin his trek back to Chrace once decisions were made. Then he would attempt the traditional rite of a Chracian hunter.

  It was weird knowing what it entailed and still being willing to commit to it. He had a horrible pride and confidence now. He had the memories of two lives, and with them the self-awareness to recognize what it was. It gave him perspective and tempered him.

  He knew he should be afraid, hesitant, and avoid what he was doing for a more optimal outcome. But Calethor wanted it, and as the time grew closer, he realized he was excited to prove himself.

  Outside, within the walled perimeter of Arathion’s humble estate, he looked up at the Annulii Mountains towering into the clouds. They stretched the entire length of the circular island of Ulthuan, forming an impassable wall between the Inner and Outer Kingdoms. If one attempted to cross them, they would eventually reach peaks that entered a glittering realm of pure magic, visible even to those not talented in the Arts.

  Calethor’s breath came out in a cool mist, and he watched it go.

  He was reminded of how fortunate he was, and wondered about the true circumstances of what had happened to him. The machinations of gods were never-ending in this realm, and he questioned internally which god had meddled.

  Deciding he would relax in his tents, he left through the gate. He returned to his small retinue of bodyguards who had been waiting outside for him. Each cut an impressive figure—tall elves wrapped in pale armor and heavy cloth, the iconic lion hides hanging from their shoulders. Their helms were red-plumed. Equipped with fitted cuirasses, bracers, and greaves. Axes all hanging from their backs.

  The Elven spearmen and archers formed a perimeter around the camp being set up by servants. Others took breaks while waiting for their shift, chatting quietly with each other. Servants stayed busy setting fires, putting up tents, handling the horses, and preparing for the night.

  It was interesting to watch what went into it all. David’s life had been one of modern luxury, and he had never been a true outdoorsman. Calethor had more experience being outside, but it was its own kind of luxury—tempered, at least, by the expectation that he could rough it when necessary. Chrace was a more warlike and grim kingdom than most due to their closer proximity to the Dark Elves.

  Seeing that his tent was not up yet, he moved to help. Coming up to a small group of servants working on it. He wasn’t comfortable doing nothing while they all worked. Without waiting for an answer, he began hammering stakes into the ground, using the tools laid out as they set the poles. Knowing if he asked they would refuse.

  One of the servants froze the moment he realized who was helping. “My Lord—” he started, half rising, unsure whether to stop Calethor or get out of his way. Another servant reached for the mallet, trying to take it from him carefully.

  Calethor kept working, driving the stake in with a steady rhythm. “It’s fine,” he said, not looking up. “Let us not turn this into something bigger than it is.”

  They hesitated, then the first servant nodded stiffly and went back to the canvas, pulling it taut while another held the pole upright. The initial awkwardness disappearing fast as they worked.

  Maerthas watched from a short distance, arms folded, with an amused expression.

  Calethor finished setting the last stake and straightened, brushing dirt from his hands. It was all set up, but he realized it still wasn’t quite done. As if to avoid having him help again, they moved quickly, setting up the furniture inside.

  This time he let them work without helping as they finished it.

  He stepped back to give them space. A cot frame was unfolded, then covered with a thick fur blanket. A small table followed, then a low stand for his gear. Someone hung a lantern hook from the central pole and adjusted it twice until it sat just right. It was efficient, practiced work, done in near silence.

  Calethor’s eyes drifted around the camp while they worked. Fires were catching now, small orange points in the growing dusk. Horses shifted and snorted as tack was loosened.

  The servants finished inside and stepped out quickly, heads dipped. One of them cleared his throat. “My Lord, your tent is ready.”

  Calethor nodded. “Thank you.”

  He waited until they had moved off before ducking inside, beckoning for Maerthas to come with him instead of waiting outside by the entrance.

  His body had him sit with the grace of a cat, and he waited for Maerthas to take the other seat. The Chracian removed his pointed helm and set it on the table. Brown hair fell loose around his head, with sharp ears poking out. Elves kept their hair long, traditionally, and also a signal of strength, status, or a sign of a dozen other things.

  Cale enjoyed talking to him. Even though Maerthas wouldn’t break formalities, he still spoke to him like a friend. He was knowledgeable and confident without being arrogant, and Cale found himself curious how a personality like that was developed. Since those awkward first steps in the world without his memories, Maerthas had been steady and helpful, always acting in Calethor’s best interest.

  Deciding on the topic, Cale spoke. “Would you tell me how you earned your pelt?”

  It was something he had been itching to ask, but he wasn’t sure if it was appropriate. The High Elf warrior was not one to brag—surprisingly humble, considering his status and accomplishments. Cale had seen other warriors boast of their battles, so he assumed it depended on the individual. Since Cale was about to undertake the same thing, he hoped that Maerthas wouldn’t take offense.

  Smiling at his question, Maerthas leaned forward, putting both of his gloved hands on the table. “I have been waiting for you to ask me, my Prince. It is important to learn as much as you can about an enemy before you meet them in combat. The lion is a worthy foe.”

  “Well, I wasn’t sure if it was inappropriate,” Calethor defended, a tad embarrassed by how willing the Elf was to talk about it contrary to his first thoughts. “I thought it was something sacred or personal.”

  “What warrior does not like to talk about his victories? No woodsman would be ashamed to speak of how they earned their title unless they cheated,” Maerthas said, grinning. “It took me two weeks to hunt mine down and earn the pelt.”

  He gestured to the cloak on his shoulders, the beast in question with its face fixed permanently in an angry snarl, its likeness expertly preserved.

  “The white lions that inhabit Ulthuan are mighty,” Maerthas continued. “They are quick, intelligent animals. While one attempts to hunt them, it is easy to find yourself becoming the hunted. You will soon see what I mean.”

  And as Cale listened, Maerthas rubbed a wretched scar that stretched from his ear to collarbone. He hadn’t expected him to downplay it, but he could at least make it sound hopeful.

  “Many arrogant nobles have found themselves killed by the beast,” Maerthas went on, “but they do us a favor. Any elf who underestimates his enemy out of pride is not fit to lead his people.”

  “Is that why many of the warriors with pelts that I have spoken to seem to be less…” Cale paused, searching for polite words.

  Maerthas interrupted. “Pompous cocks?”

  Calethor was stunned by the bluntness, not expecting those words from the usually stoic warrior. His mouth hung open. Truly the elves of Chrace were a different stock from the Elves of the Inner Kingdoms.

  “Forgive me, my Prince,” Maerthas corrected lightly, waving a hand. “I am only excited for you to join our brotherhood. While we may look like the White Lions, we are not sworn as the Phoenix King’s bodyguard. They were originally Chracian woodsmen and hunters, but not all who accomplish the feat wish to join them. We share many similarities, however.”

  He paused for a moment. “But yes. Nothing is more humbling than being hunted by something whose claws can cut through steel, whose muscles are capable of caving in breastplate.”

  “We are an arrogant people, so firm in our belief that we are the greatest. I believe it is one of our greatest flaws.” He said the last bit sadly before continuing. “However, when your life is on the line, an Elf must admit one undeniable truth.” He met Calethor’s eyes. “We die as easily as any race.”

  “You will struggle to find a truly arrogant White Lion or Chracian, some may have confidence bordering it but they will not underestimate an enemy. Those who have are dead.” He spoke grimly before switching to a more lighthearted tone. “Fortunately for you my Prince, Elven ego has not yet struck you like many of our Nobles. Thank Isha.”

  Calethor smiled at his words. “While I am flattered, I still have to accomplish the feat.” He hesitated on his next words. “What would you place my odds at? Be honest.”

  Maerthas tapped his fingers against the wood of the table as he thought, his lips turning to a frown.

  “I believe you are as ready as your age allows. You have the tools and knowledge necessary to survive, but this hunt is not one that will ever be ensured. That would defeat the point of the whole thing. It is the final step in weeding out those who wish to be a White Lion or prove themselves worthy of the pelt.”

  “Well, I did say be honest.” He laughed at his prospects. “Regardless, I’ll do everything I can to succeed. I don’t think it would be the worst way to die in this world.”

  Nodding grimly, Maerthas spoke. “If I were a betting elf, my Prince, I would put the odds in your favor. I did mine when I was seventy. There is no shame in waiting.”

  Calethor cringed internally at the thought, repulsed by the idea completely, as if his body was reacting to something physical. Interesting.

  “There is no other option for me,” Calethor said firmly. “I will not push it back. I cannot.”

  The Chracian hunter looked on knowingly. His lips crept into a small smile. Standing, he grabbed his helm. “We all have to battle against our nature. I shall see you in the morning, my Prince.”

  Calethor lifted his hand in farewell, lost in thought. Maerthas left the tent, lifting the flap as he went. Cold air flowed in through the gap.

  Calethor did not feel like a warrior, he had yet to accomplish anything great. He had fought against Dark Elves in skirmishes but that was the extent of his combat experience, and David’s memories were anything but violent.

  If he succeeded, it would be a truly impressive feat for someone his age. Something that would greatly help his reputation. But what scared him was that if he did succeed, what he planned to do next was practically suicidal. He was going to set foot on the Isle of the Dead and attempt to enter the Great Vortex.

  So he could warn Archmage Caledor Dragontamer about the Daemon of Chaos within that weave of magic. It was only there that N’Kari could be struck down completely and irrevocably. Calethor could not allow it to escape, or he would lose his chance forever.

  The smallest part of him hoped he would die hunting the white lion.