~Elyndra's POV~
"Next!"
The bellow thundered across the square like a storm breaking against the bones of the sky. The creature who roared it towered above all others — a mountain of sinew and molten stone. His every breath shuddered through the ground beneath us; his voice alone could have split rock. Beneath his cracked skin ran rivers of ember-light, molten veins that pulsed as though the heart of a volcano beat within his chest.
His face was a thing carved by cruelty — tusks curling from shattered jaws, eyes burning the deep orange of dying fire. No thought lived there, only the dull, eternal wrath of a creature born from agony. From his skull jutted crooked horns blackened by soot; his flesh bore the stains of endless battle. His armor was a graveyard's collection — fragments of shattered steel, chains ripped from gallows, bones of knights long dead. Some of his kin carved runes into their own flesh, believing pain the forge of strength.
We called them Ogres — beasts of Kaer'Thal, the walking scars of the earth, shaped from ash, stone, and the bones of forgotten gods.
It is said that when an ogre dies, its heart burns for hours before hardening into stone.
I had read such words in the Scrolls of Arcadia—old elven records chronicling the horrors that crawled beneath the red moons. But books and whispers could not prepare one for the stench of their breath, the heat of their bodies, or the sound of their laughter. I had spent two thalens hiding among the human enclaves of Varethia, studying them in secret. Yet now, irony mocked me — for I stood in chains within the market of beasts, where men and elves alike were sold to their kind as slaves.
Our enclave had been raided three nights past.
The woman behind me pushed forward; I turned, annoyed, but her hollow eyes silenced my rebuke. There was no life in her face, only the echo of fear. They were all like her — trembling, starved, their souls emptied of hope.
"We'll be fine," I whispered, more to break the silence than to comfort her. She looked at me as though madness had taken me — and perhaps it had. I counted the ogre's teeth instead of my heartbeats.
The chains groaned as the beast yanked them. My ankles burned; the soles of my feet were raw from three days of walking. My lips had split from thirst.
"Can you spare some water?" came a voice — small, trembling. I looked down to see a child, perhaps six eclipsera old, clutching an empty bowl. His face was a map of bruises; his hair, a nest of dust and knots.
"Here." I gave him the last drops from my flask. He drank as though from life itself.
"You there! What are you doing?"
The ogre's march made the earth quake. I drew the child behind me, but two slaves seized her and dragged her away into the crowd.
The beast loomed above me, the heat of him scorching my skin. "No sudden movements, puny human." His words were thunder dipped in mockery.
We were herded forward again. At the front sat the merchant — a weretiger, his striped fur shimmering beneath the torchlight. He traded in gold, stones, relics, and souls. Beside him stood a goblin — twisted, sharp-toothed, eyes like green glass glimmering with malice. It swung a cleaver lazily as it scanned the line. Then its gaze found me.
And something changed.
It left its post, creeping closer, nostrils flaring. I knew why. The potion that cloaked my bloodline was fading, and the gold in my pupils had begun to show through the brown.
I turned away, but too late.
"That one," it rasped, its words broken, alien. "That human..."
My heart hammered. If it called attention to me, they would all die. I dared not use my power — not here, not now.
The goblin crouched low, its stench thick enough to make me gag. "Look at me," it hissed. I hesitated, then lifted my gaze.
Its eyes widened. A gasp tore from its throat as the last shimmer of my potion dissolved. My eyes burned bright gold — unmasked.
The creature turned to signal—but an arrow whispered through the air and struck it through the skull. Its body convulsed, then fell lifeless at my feet.
For a heartbeat, the world stilled. Then came chaos.
Steel rang, beasts roared, slaves screamed. A storm of arrows fell from the woods — black shafts of vengeance whistling through the night. Ogres toppled, goblins shrieked, the weretiger's roar ended in blood.
Through the din, men and elves charged from the trees, cloaked in moonlight, their war-cries fierce and cold.
I poured the last of the potion down my throat; my eyes dulled once more to mortal brown.
Moments later, silence. Only corpses, smoke, and the smell of iron remained. I found the child again —he was trembling, but alive.
"Where are your parents?" I asked softly.
"Dead," He whispered.
"Elyndra."
My name struck me like a blade. I turned slowly — and there he was.
A black stallion reared before me, and astride it sat the man I both loved and feared: tall, pale as starlight, his silver hair flowing like a banner of frost. His eyes gleamed with solar fire beneath the moon's glow. His armor shone with blood and light; a blue cloak coiled behind him like mist.
"Brother," I breathed.
He dismounted, the movement fluid, terrible, graceful.
"What in the gods' names are you doing here?" His voice carried the weight of command and storm.
I lowered my gaze. "I wanted to see the forest," I lied. He knew.
His hand closed around me, pulling me into his embrace. I winced against the cold steel of his breastplate, the scent of olive and iron filling my lungs.
"You had me worried," he said softly — a confession more fragile than steel.
"Sorry," I whispered. An evil grin spread across my lips.
Heavy footsteps approached. Elarion — for that was his name — released me at once, his composure restored.
"Lord Elarion!" a knight saluted, breathless. "The slaves are freed, my lord."
"They are no longer slaves," Elarion said, voice low, steady. "Not after this night."
He walked to the mound of dead beasts, his face grim in the firelight. "Burn them."
The order was obeyed. Soon, flames roared skyward, devouring flesh and armor alike. The night stank of death and smoke. Elarion stood motionless, eyes reflecting the inferno.
When he turned, the freed captives watched him with awe — for before them stood Elarion Vaerielle, Beast-Slayer, the last prince of the elves and commander of the Morning Vale.
"Tonight," he said, "your dignity is restored. These plagues that have poisoned our lands shall no longer torment you."
The people wept, and for the first time in years, the word hope dared to breathe again.
***
We rode through the forest road of Moria, beneath the shadow of trees older than gods. By night we traveled; by day we hid from wyverns that scoured the skies. When dawn broke on the second day, the high mountain wall of Caelvorn rose before us — vast, pale, and silent as judgment.
A mage rode forward, whispered words older than flame. The stone trembled, then parted. Gates of living rock opened like the world's first wound.
Caelvorn — last bastion of men, elves, and mages — awaited us.
Once a holy elven sanctuary, now a fortress carved in despair, she stood as mankind's final prayer. Her towers bore runes of fire; her walls sang with magic. The Morning Vale guarded her heart, an army sworn to bleed before surrender.
As I reined my horse in, Kaelith Dorran approached — golden-haired, his smile warm enough to thaw the night.
"You ran off and found another stray," he teased, nodding to the child clutching my cloak.
He knelt and offered a small wooden horse. "The last time she brought something home, it was a fox — smaller than you."
The boy smiled faintly.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"You need to stop running away," Kaelith said as he rose.
"I'm fine, aren't I?" I grinned and tugged at his pointed ears.
He winced. "You are impossible."
"And you love me for it," I said, though my eyes drifted toward the castle beyond the gate — and the shadows that waited in the dark beyond them.