Smoke rose from the east—not the thin plume of a single village, but a black column thick as a storm cloud.
Orion's Gate was under siege.
The city, once a bustling trade hub on the eastern plains, now stood as the last shield before the heart of elven lands. Its walls were high, its archers sharp, its gates forged from moon-steel. But against ten thousand orcs—unified, silent, and wielding violet-flamed weapons—it was a candle before a hurricane.
Darien received the raven at dawn.
"They breach the outer wall. Civilians trapped in the lower quarter. Reinforcements needed within a day—or the city falls."
He did not hesitate.
"Sound the call," he ordered. "All available warriors from Lyothara, Frosthaven, and Silvira. We march within the hour."
Prince Kaelin stepped forward. "What of the book? Lira says she's close to understanding the first ritual."
Darien's jaw tightened. "We do not wield shadows while our people burn in light."
But even as he spoke, doubt gnawed at him.
Steel had failed on the Ridge of Mourning.
Light had failed at Virelle.
What hope did Orion's Gate have?
The journey took two days of hard riding.
When they crested the final hill, the sight stole their breath.
Orion's Gate still stood—but barely.
Flames licked its eastern towers. The outer wall was shattered in three places. And beyond the broken gates, orcs swarmed like ants over honey.
Yet the elves inside fought with desperate courage. Arrows flew. Frost-lances flashed from Frosthaven's reinforcements already inside. Vines from Silvira's healers lashed out, dragging orcs into pits.
But the enemy did not break.
At the center of the horde, the cloaked figure stood atop a mound of rubble, the black shard raised high. Where it pointed, elven magic flickered and died.
"They're draining the city's wards," Elyar gasped.
Thorin gripped his new dwarven axe. "Then we cut off the hand that holds it."
The counterattack began at dusk.
Darien led the charge, the rune-etched axe singing in his grip. Where it struck, orc armor shattered like glass. For the first time, elves saw their enemies fall—not dissolve into ash, but bleed, scream, and die.
Hope surged.
But the cloaked figure turned.
And pointed the shard… at Darien.
A wave of cold silence rushed outward.
Elves dropped to their knees, clutching their chests—as if their very connection to the Tree had been severed.
Darien staggered, the axe growing heavy in his hands.
In that moment, he understood.
This was not a battle of blades.
It was a battle of existence.
And the orcs were winning.
Back in Elmara, Lira felt it too.
The book on her lap pulsed violently, as if in pain.
New words bloomed across its pages—urgent, burning:
"When the Light-Born kneel, the Hollow rises.
To stand, you must walk the path of Unmaking.
Begin with blood. End with war."
She looked east, toward the smoke on the horizon.
"Father," she whispered, "I'm ready."
But it was too late.
By midnight, the survivors of Orion's Gate retreated through the western gate.
Half the city lay in ruins.
Hundreds were lost.
Not turned to ash.
Not erased.
Just… gone.
As Darien rode back toward Lyothara, the drums began again.
But this time, they were answered.
From the south, human horns echoed across the plains—Valeris, watching. Waiting.
From the mountains, deep stone-drums rumbled—Khaz-Dûmhar, sealing their gates.
And from the groves, the dryads wept black sap onto fallen leaves.
The world was choosing sides.
And the Elves stood alone.