The Age of Legends: Year 5679 Of the MagalaN Empire
POV of an Ice Eagle
The ice eagle soared through the storm clouds above the western Shield Wall Mountains, where he made his home. He preferred hunting during blizzards, his silvery-white feathers blending perfectly with snow. His sharp eyes burned with heat-vision, able to spot prey struggling in the storm winds.
But this storm yielded no prey. He had not eaten in three days. Hunger gnawed at him.
Then his gaze caught on a man astride a fire horse, struggling up the mountain slope. The rider pushed upward as if desperate to cross to the other side.
Seledin's interest sharpened. Sometimes men tried to pass this way. Beyond the mountains lay an enormous house of men. Ice eagles hunted them when driven by hunger, though human flesh tasted foul. Fire horse or not, he could kill them both with a single swoop and a rain of ice-spear feathers.
Yet Seledin hesitated.
He could sense it. This man was no ordinary prey. His aura was wrong—no, not wrong… different.
He is not a mage. He is a creature of magic, like me.
Mages conjured magic. But magic creatures were magic. And this man… this man was very, very strong. Stronger than any Seledin had ever seen.
Why is he here? With such strength, he could disperse the storm and walk the ridge unhindered… unless… unless he is hunting.
Seledin's heart jolted. He climbed higher, pulling away from the stranger, scanning the mountains for signs of his prey.
A massive twelve-foot bear lumbered far below, but surely it was not the target. Seledin's hunger gnawed at him again, and for a moment he nearly dove upon the beast. Yet his fascination with the rider held him.
Where is the man's prey? Could it be the vast house of men in the east?
Excitement stirred. If the man hunts there, then death will follow… and vultures. Vultures are the best—better even than bear.
Seledin angled toward the eastern slope, climbing higher above the clouds to survey the land.
Then a whisper pierced his mind.
"Please… lend me your sight, my friend. I need your eyes."
Seledin jerked midflight, nearly tumbling before he recovered. Panic surged through him. The blizzard winds stilled, the sky began to clear. He knew. It was the rider with the fire horse—the one hailing him.
Terror seized him. The snowy gale vanished entirely.
He dispelled the storm! He is after me—I am his prey!
No predator endured being turned into prey, least of all a full-grown ice eagle. Thirty feet of wingspan, feathers that turned blades, claws that could tear iron. His kind rained storms of ice-spears from the sky, froze prey with their breath, and carried a scream that summoned every eagle within miles to vengeance. Even dragons thought twice before crossing an ice eagle.
The man's voice came again, calm but commanding.
"I am not your foe. Your leader gave me one of his feathers. Selebran, King of the Shield Wall Mountains—first of your kind. Please… I beg you, grant me your sight. I must know they are safe."
Seledin's wings faltered. His fury dimmed. The name stirred awe and disbelief. Selebran, the ancient king—who had flown to the stars three thousand years ago. No mortal should know that name.
This man lies… unless he is older even than that. Older… and stronger.
The man answered without words. A vision opened in Seledin's mind. Through the rider's eyes, he saw the fire horse blazing, hooves melting snow in torrents of steam. He lifted his right arm. Upon his wrist gleamed a guard of sapphire-blue feathers.
Selebran's feathers. The only blue of their kind.
The rider spoke, his voice heavy with ages.
"I am immortal. A MagalaN—the last of my kind. My kin brought Selebran and his mate from another realm. In return, he gave me this feather… and a promise."
"…That we will all be there to fight the final battle," Seledin whispered, finishing the vow of his people.
A shiver passed through him. An Ancient. An immortal. Did he come for the men beyond the mountain?
"Yes," the rider answered. His voice trembled with something deeper than power. "I must save them. Please, lend me your sight."
Seledin's great wings drove harder against the sky. He heard the desperation in those words.
"Call me Seledin, Lord Ancient. I give you leave to see as I see."
Their senses merged. Together they soared east over the Shield Wall Mountains. Terror filled the Ancient, sharp and numbing. Then came shock. Then desperation. And at last… emptiness. Cold, hollow emptiness.
But not silence. The Ancient's gaze lingered. And from that void came rage.
Seething. Boiling. Consuming.
Seledin felt it tear into him, burning his very soul. Rage that was his own, rage that was not. Vengeance that demanded to be unleashed.
He screamed. A battle cry no ice eagle had ever voiced.
Blinding light split the heavens. Thunder roared, shaking the mountains.
The Age of Legends trembled. Seledin knew then: this was the beginning of the end.
The Ancient War was coming.
The last MagalaN had risen.
The Age of Legends would shatter and break.
The Ancients. The mortals. The Undying.
Sound the drums. Blow the trumpets.
Raise the sword and shield.
Draw the arrows. Ready the fields.
∆∆∆ ∆∆∆ ∆∆∆ ∆∆∆ ∆∆∆
POV of the Last MagalaN
And so it was said that the MagalaNs began the Golden Age, when the land united Man, Elves, and Dwarves.
---
"I have to reach them! Almost there…"
Aladrim gritted his teeth as icy wind slammed against him. He clung to Nightmare's saddle strap, snow stinging his face. The mountain itself seemed to fight him, slowing his climb, trying to keep him from reaching the ridge.
If not for his senses, he might have believed the storm conjured by some sorcerer. But no—this was natural. The Shield Wall Mountains always birthed storms like this.
That was why he had brought Nightmare.
The fire horse had once belonged to Matrim MagalaN. Though he looked like a common fire steed, those who underestimated him did not live to learn from their mistake. Nightmare was as ancient as Matrim himself.
A MagalaN bonded with a creature of magic at birth. Their first breath summoned a beast that would serve them for life. The strength of a MagalaN could often be measured by the power of the creature they called.
Nightmare was proof of Aladrim's strength. His heat melted snow in a circle around them, his fiery presence keeping the worst of the cold at bay. Step by step, they advanced.
Aladrim could have dispersed the storm outright, but that would have been reckless. The surge of magic would have lit a beacon to his enemies. Besides, his strength was nearly spent. The last battles had drained most of his reserves. To burn more here would force him to dip into his life force.
Immortals could restore their life force through sleep. But even an Ancient would die once that well was emptied. Mortal or immortal, all lived on the measure of that fire within. And he could not waste his now.
I must conserve what remains… for the true fight. For the moment when the Ancient War arrives in this age. Because when it does, I cannot win. Not yet. This realm is not ready.
Nightmare snorted, shaking sparks from his mane, as though reading his thoughts. Aladrim managed a grim smile and patted his neck.
"Almost there."
He was the last. The others—Matrim, Perrim, Thorrim, Galadedrim—had all fallen. The Ancients had once been five, protectors of this land. They had fought, bled, and died to shield it from the horrors that hunted them across realms. For five thousand years they had stood watch, two fighting, two resting, one ruling.
But they could never increase their number. Their kind could not sire children with mortals. Any who tried saw both mother and child perish.
And so their line dwindled. Until only he remained.
Eight years ago, the Demon Lord himself had found them. Five thousand years of preparation, undone in a single war. Kingdoms burned. Nations fell. The four others gave their lives. And now only he was left.
Aladrim knew the truth. He could not survive another clash with Gol'Koxzurc. The Demon Lord was no mere immortal demon, but one of the Ancient Undying. They could be killed—but not ended. They always returned, their strength measured by how quickly they revived.
Sooner or later, he would face him again. And that would be his death. But even so—
I will finish what we began. I will win this war. If not in this age, then in the one to come.
"Almost there," he muttered, urging Nightmare onward. "Three more hours and we'll see Rosun."
Then it struck him.
A ripple of power. Magic. Cast from the east—massive, undeniable.
Aladrim froze. "No… Noreline."
Despair gripped him as he extended his senses. Spells raged in the east, colliding like titans. Nightmare sensed his agitation, flames brightening in anticipation of the command.
Aladrim vaulted fully onto his mount. His voice shook with urgency.
"Nightmare! This may be our last ride together. Remind me, friend—remind me why they call you by that name. We have to reach the ridge now!"
The fire horse erupted in a pillar of flame, melting snow for yards in every direction.
"They call me Nightmare!" the steed neighed, rearing high. "The fastest fire horse of my clan!"
In a blink, horse and rider became a blazing comet racing up the slope. Fire trailed in their wake, avalanches collapsing around them.
"Friend and rival of Salem the unicorn," the fire horse roared. "But fiercer! Stronger! Nothing stops me. I burn through all!"
Flames burst from Nightmare's mouth, melting snow and carving a streamlined path through the storm. The blazing current cut the wind, doubling their speed.
Aladrim knew the strain would be immense, but he had no choice. They had to reach Rosun. They had to protect her.
Noreline… please be safe.
He spread his senses wide, reaching for the heart of the storm. There—where cold and heat clashed, the vortex spun. He seized it. He crushed it.
The storm shattered.
"Ride, Nightmare! Ride!"
Avalanches thundered down the mountainside. Snow and rock roared past, but Nightmare ran faster still, fire shielding them both.
But Aladrim's strength was spent. Nightmare felt it—the Ancient had burned through his reserves. He had risked his life to break the storm.
"I need to know they're safe!" Aladrim cried. "Please, Light… let them be safe!"
And as if in answer, an ice eagle appeared ahead, wings vast and white against the clearing sky.
Aladrim reached for him. The eagle panicked, wheeling away. Aladrim called again—this time invoking the name of Selebran. Still doubtful, the eagle relented only when Aladrim revealed the sapphire feather bound to his arm.
The eagle's name was Seledin. And he lent his sight.
---
Through Seledin's eyes, Aladrim beheld Rosun.
The Kingdom lay in ruin. Tens of thousands of demons besieged its walls. The Demon Lord himself stood among them.
Lightning shock ran through Aladrim's body. No… this is impossible. Rosun lies east! The horde was to march west, toward the allied armies. Have the Night Elves betrayed us?
The outer walls lay in flame. The inner wall had fallen. The city gasped its final breath.
Then, from the castle spire, a blue light erupted. A dragon burst forth, diving upon the horde.
Aladrim's heart stopped.
"No… Noreline, no! Don't reveal yourself!"
A beam of dark fire answered. It tore the spire apart. The tower exploded, stone raining down. Seledin's sharp vision revealed the heat-auras of every soul inside—snuffed out.
And at the center of it, the summoner's image shattered.
Noreline.
Queen of Rosun.
The only human who could call the dragons.
His one true love.
She was gone.
Aladrim's soul cracked.
"She is lost… forever."
Then his gaze fell upon the Demon Lord, wings unfurled, rising toward the castle.
"He killed my kin… He destroyed our realm. Matrim. Perrim. Thorrim. Galadedrim. Noreline."
His eyes burned white.
"You want this realm too?"
Power surged through him, searing flesh and soul. Nightmare screamed in warning, but Aladrim did not hear.
"I'll give it to you!"
Light erupted from his body. The mountain quaked. Snow and stone collapsed in avalanches. The northern slope fell, rolling into the valley below.
"I will make this world your prison. Your tomb!"
Nightmare's cry was drowned by the roar of a beam descending from the heavens. Aladrim rose to meet it. The explosion shattered the sky.
White fire engulfed him. His scream echoed with thunder.
The mountain collapsed. Snow and rock became a host of golems, born of wrath and vengeance, surging downward like an army.
And thus ended the Age of Myth.
The time when the MagalaNs walked this realm.
The world wept when Aladrim died.
For who would protect them, when the demons rose again?