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I take to the skies with Myra just as a chunk of Glenheim’s south wall comes crumbling down, flattening a bridge and tearing through the once bright shroom-lamps that hung there. Myra holds on tightly to my paws, her fury growing by the second.

The thuds have stopped, and now they’re replaced with the sounds of wailing from the Elves below as they run to find their families, their friends, and their partners. Above, there’s a group of women all staring out at something through the highest hole driven into the stronghold.

“Raziel!”

I look down to see Swiftrunner moving pieces of broken wood and moss aside to uncover Mia, who coughs up dust as she emerges from beneath the planks of a broken bridge.

“Sister!” Myra shouts down as I lower us to meet the pair. “Sis – Sis are you –“

“I’m cough I’m fine, Myra!” she says, though her sister throws her strong arms round her neck with feeling. “I – hehe – you really are the affectionate type when you want to be, huh?”

“I’ve lost too much,” Myra replies, her harsh tone cutting through her sister’s laughter. “I won’t lose you too.”

“Did you see anything?” I ask Swiftrunner, who just shakes his head sadly as he watches the chaos unfold below.

“No, Little-Brother,” he says. “I only felt the tremors, then the impact against the walls. Whatever it was, it was something big. And I can guess who it is that’s out there waiting for the opportunity to strike again.”

I meet his grim stare.

“You don’t think…”

A general shout of alarm comes from above – where the Elven girls of the commune are standing atop Glenheim’s highest point, looking out at the newly made window to the outside world. Beside them stand the Glenmaidens, clutching their silver blades in their hands.

“Raziel,” Myra’s voice states. “Take me up there.”

I turn to see her focused face not even looking at me. She’s too intent on her sisters and finding out what’s going on. And I’m not gonna argue here – though I’ve got this sinking feeling in the pit of my tiny gut that we might be biting off more than we can chew.

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At the peak of the plant-sanctuary we feel the wind of the outside world buffet our faces, and we edge through the crowd on the wooden platform to look out into the drab twilight that’s stretched itself over the valley.

A blood-streaked sky, with an armada of living twigs beneath it.

Creatures like the goblins I fought in the depths of the Demesne, only more twisted and malformed. Taller too, and all arranged in organized rows with serrated pincers and wicked blades attached to the end-barks of their arms like grizzly mutations of organic and artificial life. Each one sways with the still, dead wind that blows gently through the valley floor. There are no more farms, no more villages. There’s nothing at all but the black shapes of the Seedlings and their hulking war machines that blot out the setting sun above.

We are looking into the ranks of an army.

“By Lyca…” Swiftrunner whispers. “The Darkseed’s forces…”

He wants to say more. I know he does. Because the same accusation is welling up in my mind right now.

They’ve followed me here…

I stagger back, bumping into Myra’s leg in my confusion. I expect to see bubbling, seething rage boiling in the face of my Master. But instead, there’s a calmness that has come over her as she looks out onto the armada below, and the gentle winds throw back her silver fringe.

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“What do we do?” Swiftrunner asks, his eyes flitting between each and every elf assembled.

And though they all hear the question, it’s only Myra that has a straight answer.

“The only thing we can do,” she says. “We fight.”

…

Deep in the dark recesses of Glenheim’s underground, representatives of the village were called to meet before Palka.

Mia’s here, Myra and the Glenmaidens, Arthelia the baker, and – you guessed it – yours truly.

It was eerily silent as we made the journey below, looking above the whole time for any indication that the ceiling was caving in. We’d expected another attack but had met no further assaults from the army outside or their looming war machines. About an hour had passed since the last boulder had been tossed against Glenheim’s walls.

Now, here we stand, lining the rim of Palka’s great pool as she rises and fixes us all with her slitted, reptilian eyes, and her voice echoes in our minds.

Though she graces everyone with her gaze, she looks at me last and lingers on me and the silver sword sheathed on my back.

Then she delivers her proclamation:

“We cannot fight.”

I step forward to speak but, of course, Myra beats me.

“Mistress,” she says. “We have no choice. The enemy is on our doorstep.”

“Our enemy, Myra?” Palka repeats. “Or the Lightborn’s?”

“Everyone’s enemy!”

Her tone is rebuked by the stares of her fellow Glenmaidens, and she steps back slowly, head bowed in respect.

“I only mean…that the Darkseed will not stop till this entire world is consumed. You know this, Sisters.”

Arthelia steps forward suddenly, her old bones creaking with the effort.

“True,” she croaks. “The Darkseed won’t be stopping anytime soon. But remember what happened when we sent our Sisters against it before. Or did you forget, Myra?”

“I – no!”

I turn and stare at the two as they lock eyes across Palka’s pond. I gotta admit, the spunk of the old broad has taken me aback.

“This is different, though,” Mia says, coming to stand beside her sister. “Now it’s come to us. It’s come…to finish us off.”

“So, you’d have us fight it, Mia?” one cloaked Glenmaiden says. “Did your eyes deceive you, or did you not see the size of that army out there?”

“Well – well what else are we supposed to do!” Mia wails. “Just sit here and die?”

“We can’t just do nothing,” Myra agrees. “Palka – Mistress – you can’t ignore this.”

“Do not mean to lecture the mistress on what she can do,” a Glenmaiden spits. “Palka’s wisdom has been our guide since the beginning. Who are you to question her leadership?”

Myra balked, her hands balling into fists.

“I’m not going to stand by and watch the rest of my Sisters die,” she told the dragon. “We have to take the fight to them.”

Palka rose, flapped her vestigial wings, and stared down at Myra and the Glenmaidens beside her.

“My children,” she says, her voice tinged with compassion. “I would never leave you unprotected from the ills of the outside. Is that not what I have endeavored to do since first your ancestors and I found each other eons ago? I am here to safeguard you. I am here to ensure the Elves of Arwyll shall endure. But I cannot watch you die again. It is too great a burden for a mother to bear. So you shall have your protection, but you shall not bloody your hands. Enough Elvish blood has been spilled already.”

The dragon’s eyes flash to me, and all at once I understand what’s really been going on here, this whole time…

“Well, what then?” Myra asks her Mistress desperately. “If you won’t have us fight, how can we defend ourselves?”

The dragon looks to me, and slowly the rest of the Elves follow suit.

“We have oft been at the beck and call of the world – forced to solve its problems,” Palka says. “This time, the world has sent us one that shall aid us.”

Now all eyes are on me.

And they’re asking me to perform the ultimate trick: beat an army as a feeble Corgi.

“No,” Myra says firmly. “You – we – can’t expect Raziel to face that horde alone.”

“Have you not been training him?” Arthelia asks. “Isn’t he ready?”

“In single combat!” Myra rages, forgetting herself again. “One warrior – no matter how skilled – can't fell a whole army!”

“He is the Lightborn,” a Glenmaiden chips in. “He is no mere warrior. We all saw the power of the last one.”

“Even he needed an army before he went off to face the Darkseed,” Myra spits back. “And he still failed!”

“Betrayed by a human, he was,” Arthelia corrects. “Raziel has no such qualms. Truth be told, the old Lightborn woulda probably been better off had he faced the Darkseed alone. In fact, we all would be.”

“He need not kill them all,” Palka interjects. “Only one.”

I look up at Palka, following Myra’s stunned gaze.

“Aerthelos,” she says to a young Glenmaiden beside her. “Bring her before us.”

The girl marches out to an adjoining room as we look after her in confused silence. Then, not too long after she’s gone, we hear the gnashing and clinking of chains, followed by some determined grunts of effort as something is dragged – apparently kicking and screaming – into the chamber.

Then we all share a collective gasp as we look upon the disheveled, ruined thing that’s writhing like an animal on the ground before us.

“Is…” Myra stutters. “Is that..?”

The heap of twisted bark and rotted vines jerks its head up to regard us all before it settles finally on Myra’s shocked features.

“Hello, Myrathellon,” Seneca says. “Glad to be back home.”