The fire crackled softly, its flames casting dancing shadows across the rough, battle-weary faces of those gathered. Theodas sighed, a sound heavy with exhaustion. His eyes fixed on the embers, as if they might somehow draw him back from the abyss of his mind, where memories lurked, waiting to devour him. "I'll take first watch," he murmured, his voice low but resolute, a steady anchor in the quiet night.
Ochrea met his eyes, an unspoken understanding passing between them. She nodded, her expression gentle but firm. "I’ll relieve you in a few hours," she offered.
Bjorn stretched, his muscles groaning in protest as he worked out the kinks from the day's battles. He grinned, the lightness of his tone a stark contrast to the heaviness of the night. "I’ll take the next two shifts," he offered, his voice carrying a warmth that belied the darkness around them. "The old man here needs his beauty sleep."
The Chief, who had been quietly tending to his own thoughts, chuckled, the sound deep and gravelly, like stones grinding together. "These old bones aren’t so stubborn that I’ll turn down more sleep. If you’re sure that’s what you want?"
Bjorn nodded, his expression sincere. Then, with a conspiratorial glance toward Ochrea and Theodas, he leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper as if sharing a well-kept secret. "The Chief might have a connection to the earth—can 'feel' his way around—but his night vision isn’t what it used to be. Besides, he’ll be up half the night anyway, figuring out how to mine all this new ore without collapsing the place on our heads."
Ochrea and Theodas exchanged a knowing look, a small smile tugging at the corners of their mouths. It was a brief respite from the weight that hung heavy in the air. Ochrea leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Theodas’s cheek, the gesture as much for herself as it was for him. "Get some rest when you can," she whispered, her voice tinged with concern. "Come wake me if you get tired."
He nodded, his smile fading as the gravity of the night settled back on his shoulders like a heavy cloak. "I will. You get some sleep too."
As the others drifted off, the steady rhythm of their breathing blending with the crackling of the fire, Theodas stood alone, the solitary sentinel in the night. His thoughts were drawn into the flickering flames, the warmth doing little to stave off the chill that had settled in his bones, a coldness born not of the night, but of memory.
The flames became a doorway to the past, one he could not help but step through. He was back in the Elvain Kingdom, a place of beauty and power, where he had once been a prodigy. Theodas could still see the proud faces of his instructors at the Arcane Conclave, could still feel the thrill of mastering spells that others took decades to learn. He had graduated before reaching his first century, an accomplishment that had brought him honor, but also the burden of expectation. His service in the scouts had been exemplary, completed well before his second century, but it had left him yearning for something more, something beyond the cold logic of magic and the rigid structure of Elvain society.
He found it in Neev, an artist whose spirit was as untamed as the wind, whose passion for life drew him like a moth to a flame. They had met by chance—or perhaps it had been fate—in a crowded market, her hands covered in clay, her face streaked with the colors of her work. She had smiled at him, a smile that held all the warmth of the sun, and in that moment, Theodas had known he was lost. He had followed her to the human frontiers, to a life so far removed from the halls of the Arcane Conclave that it seemed like another world entirely.
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Neev believed the clay of the frontier lands held healing properties, a belief rooted in ancient traditions and whispered legends. She had set up her own kiln, and in time, her creations became known far and wide among the human settlers. She gave her wares freely, accepting payment not in gold, but in the simple gifts of the land—bread, meats, cheeses. Theodas had taken to tending a small garden, teaching the locals how to hunt properly, finding a peace in the simplicity of their life that he had never known before.
Their daughter, Fëanor, had been their greatest joy, a child of both worlds, her spirit as vibrant as her mother’s, her mind as sharp as her father’s. She had a smile that could light up the darkest room, a laugh that could chase away the deepest shadows. She played with the human children, who adored her for her kindness, her curiosity, her endless sense of wonder. In those days, Theodas had thought their happiness unassailable, their peace eternal.
But happiness, Theodas knew now, was as fragile as a brittle bone—one strike, and it shattered to dust. The day the Orcs came, that fragility was exposed, laid bare like an open wound. He had been out hunting, his senses sharp, his focus unyielding as he tracked a deer through the dense forest. The first screams reached his ears like the roar of a distant storm, a harbinger of the chaos that had already taken root. He ran until his feet were raw and his lungs screamed for mercy, until the earth beneath him blurred into a ceaseless, agonizing stretch of ground that he was powerless to escape. By the time he returned, it was too late. The Orcs had descended upon the village like a plague of ruin, their bloodlust unquenchable, their savagery unimaginable.
Neev, ever the protector, had stood defiant, her heart as fierce as any warrior’s blade. She had faced the Orc leader—a war chief whose cruelty was spoken of in whispers, whose strength was the stuff of legend. She fought with a fury that should have felled gods, her skill beyond any human in that forsaken place. But it still was not enough. The war chief cut her down as if she were nothing more than a reed in the wind, her life snuffed out in a single brutal instant.
When Theodas arrived, the village was gone—consumed by flames that devoured the homes they had built with their own hands. The people they had loved were reduced to ash, scattered like dust on the wind. And there, among the dead, lay Neev and Fëanor, their bodies twisted and broken, their spirits wrenched away. The grief that engulfed him was a force beyond reckoning, a storm that ravaged his soul, leaving only rage in its wake—rage so pure, so blinding, it became all-consuming.
He tracked the Orcs back to their lair, a single, seething purpose driving him forward: vengeance. There would be no mercy, no quarter, and no one left alive. He became death's harbinger, reducing every trace of their existence to ash. As they had erased his family from the world, he erased them, leaving nothing but scorched earth and the echoes of silenced screams in his wake.
The fire sputtered before him, its flames flickering like echoes of his own pain. Hours slipped by, the night dragging in heavy silence, until Ochrea approached to relieve him. She moved with quiet grace, her steps soft, her presence a soothing balm to the raw wound of his memories. "Did you see anything out there?" she asked softly, her voice gentle, as though she feared disturbing the fragile peace of the moment.
"Only ghosts," Theodas replied, his voice hollow, the weight of old wounds pressing down on him. He hesitated, then added, "If you keep watch, I think I’m ready to tell you about my daughter."
Ochrea nodded, her expression softening with an unspoken understanding. She took his place by the fire, her eyes mirroring the dying embers as she settled into the quiet. For the next two hours, Theodas carefully unraveled the fragile threads of his past, his voice unwavering despite the pain woven into each word. He spoke of life with his beloved wife Neev and his daughter Fëanor, of the quiet joy found in the simplest things, of the love that had held them together, and the loss that had shattered his world. Ochrea listened in silence, her stillness a testament to the depth of her empathy, the reverence she held for his grief.
As Theodas made his way to the back of the camp, the faintest light of pre-dawn began to seep into the sky, casting the world in a cold, bluish hue. The rhythmic snores of Bjorn and the Chief filled the air, a small, yet comforting reminder that life, despite all that had been lost, continued on.