Chapter 16: Into the Shadows
The dawn was gray and lifeless, smothered beneath a thick blanket of clouds. Snow fell in sparse, hesitant flakes, as if the sky itself doubted the worth of this day. Soldiers moved through the camp in silence, their faces pale and drawn, their breath fogging the air in rhythmic puffs. The hum of sharpening blades and the muted clank of armor were the only sounds, an oppressive cadence that filled the void where courage should have been.
Seeker stood at the edge of the camp, his shadowed eyes fixed on the horizon. The forest loomed to the right like a wall of secrets, its edges black and jagged against the rising light. Ahead, the Elven army waited, disciplined, implacable, and poised to deliver death. And to the left, the tightly packed formations of Torvald’s garrison stood in grim readiness. They would cover Seeker’s flank, but only barely. His company, stretched thin, would anchor the most exposed edge of the line.
The weakest link in the chain.
The snow crunched beneath deliberate, measured footsteps. Seeker didn’t turn, already recognizing the familiar sound: Aldric Venn. The emissary’s gait was precise, his armored boots neither rushed nor languid. It was the stride of a man who believed in the weight of his own authority.
“Seeker,” Venn said, his voice clipped and cold, carrying the sharpness of steel sheathed in velvet. He stopped a few paces behind Seeker, his presence as rigid as the frost-laden air. “Count Torvald has issued new orders.”
Seeker’s gaze didn’t shift from the forest. “New orders,” he said flatly, tasting the words like bitter wine. “Let me guess, he wants us on the right flank.”
Venn’s lips curled into a thin semblance of a smile, though his pale eyes betrayed no humor. “You’re perceptive, as always. Yes, the Count has decided your company will hold the edge of the formation. It’s a critical position,” he added, his tone as smooth as it was calculated. “It requires both discipline and... adaptability.”
The unspoken insult hung in the air between them, but Seeker didn’t rise to it. Instead, he turned his head slightly, enough to catch Venn’s faint reflection in the icy sheen of a nearby tent flap. “Critical,” he echoed, the word weighted with skepticism. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”
“Indeed,” Venn replied, unflinching. He clasped his hands behind his back, his posture immaculate, as if this were a polite discussion over tea rather than the grim prelude to a slaughter. “The Count believes your... unique command is well-suited to hold the line. After all,” he added with a faint incline of his head, “your people are accustomed to fighting against overwhelming odds.”
Seeker finally turned, his shadowed eyes meeting Venn’s. The emissary didn’t flinch under the weight of his stare, though his breath fogged in the space between them. “The right flank is exposed,” Seeker said, his voice low but firm. “We’ll have our backs to the forest. If the Elves hit hard enough, there won’t be anything left to hold.”
“That’s precisely why the Count chose you,” Venn said, his tone sharper now. “You’ve proven resourceful, Seeker. You’ve turned weakness into strength before. The right flank is vulnerable, yes, but it is also the place where victory is forged. Or lost.”
Seeker’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling faintly at his sides. “And if we’re overrun? What happens then?”
“Then you’ll have bought the rest of the line time to regroup,” Venn said bluntly. His pale eyes gleamed with a faint, cruel pragmatism. “Every battle has its sacrifices, Seeker. This one will be no different.”
The words hung heavy in the frozen air. For a moment, Seeker said nothing, his gaze drifting back to the forest’s dark edge. The storm hummed faintly in his chest, restless but contained. “I’ll hold the line,” he said finally, his voice steady. “But if the Count thinks my people are expendable, he’s going to be disappointed.”
Venn’s expression flickered, just for an instant, before he smoothed it into a mask of cold indifference. “Your orders are clear,” he said, stepping back as if to distance himself from the conversation. “Move your company into position immediately. And, Seeker...”
He hesitated, his tone softening to something almost resembling sincerity. “Do not fail. If you survive. if we all survive, there’s something we need to discuss. Something... personal.”
The words hung in the air like a stray ember, fleeting and fragile, yet capable of igniting something far greater. For the first time, Seeker saw a crack in the emissary’s rigid composure, a faint trace of something human beneath the frost.
“What is it?” Seeker asked, his voice low and measured.
Venn’s lips pressed into a thin line, the momentary vulnerability vanishing behind his cold, calculating gaze. “Later,” he said, the word clipped. “First, we survive this.”
Seeker didn’t reply. He watched as Venn turned and strode away, the emissary’s armor glinting faintly in the muted light. Only when Venn was out of sight did Seeker allow himself a breath, his shoulders rising and falling with the weight of the moment.
He turned back to his company, his eyes sweeping over the faces of those who had been entrusted to him. Some huddled in small groups, sharpening weapons or adjusting armor. Others stood apart, their faces lined with fear and uncertainty. The freed slaves of Torvald, wearing scavenged gear and bearing weapons too heavy for hands that had known only chains.
His old unit stood farther off, weathered gladiators with hardened stares. Gale polished his knives with meticulous precision, while Sarra adjusted the grip of her bow. Harken moved among the freedmen, offering gruff words of advice that carried a hint of kindness beneath the gruffness. Marlen sat by the fire, his hands clenched as faint embers danced along his knuckles.
Liora stood near the edge of the group, her spear resting against her shoulder. Her frost-dusted hands trembled slightly, but her gaze was steady, fixed on Seeker.
He exhaled slowly, the storm pulsing faintly beneath his ribs. They were all watching him, even if they tried not to show it. Waiting for the words that would shape their next steps. Words that, if he chose them carefully, might hold them together long enough to survive.
He stepped forward, his voice cutting through the frozen silence. “Listen up.”
Seeker stepped forward, his boots crunching in the snow. The sound drew every eye, the silence spreading like ripples in a pond. He let the quiet settle, not rushing to fill it. The weight of their attention grounded him, and in that stillness, he chose his words.
“I won’t lie to you,” he began, his voice low but carrying, each word deliberate. “The right flank is exposed. The Elves will hit us with everything they have. They’ll test us, push us, break what they can. And we’ll face what they throw at us and more. That much, I promise you.”
He paused, letting the truth of it settle like the cold in their bones. His gaze swept the crowd, resting on the faces of the freed slaves, the gladiators, and his old companions. “I know some of you are afraid. I see it in your eyes. You’ve been told your whole lives that you’re expendable. That you’re tools, not people. You’ve been beaten, chained, and thrown into the dirt because someone decided you didn’t matter.”
His voice dropped, fierce and quiet, carrying an edge sharper than steel. “But I say this, they were wrong.”
The silence deepened, every breath visible in the frozen air. Seeker’s shadowed eyes burned as he stepped forward, his presence a force of its own.
“You are not expendable. You are not tools. You are soldiers.” He let the word linger, sharp and unfamiliar to some, but full of power.
A murmur ran through the crowd, faint but rising, like the first stirrings of a storm. He held up a hand, and it fell silent again.
“Slaves are broken. Gladiators fight alone. But soldiers?” He paused, letting his words strike like hammer blows. “Soldiers fight together. They stand shoulder to shoulder, not because they are unafraid, but because they trust the person next to them. Today, you are soldiers, not because I say it, but because you’ve chosen to stand. To fight. To protect each other.”
Seeker took another step forward, the storm beneath his ribs stirring as he drew strength from their gazes.
“Look around you,” he said, gesturing with a sweep of his arm. “The nobles don’t fight for you. The Count doesn’t fight for you. They see you as a wall of flesh and steel to protect their banners. But that’s not why we fight.”
His voice sharpened, a crack of thunder in the stillness. “We don’t fight for them. We fight for each other. For the faces around this fire. For those who stand with us, who bled with us, who will rise with us.”
He let the silence stretch, then added, quieter now, his words cutting deeper. “We fight for freedom. not for the freedom they speak of in halls and courts, but for the freedom to be here, now. To choose. To fight for ourselves, for something that no one can take from us.”
“We fight for the freedom to raise children as free men, not as slaves. For the right to look them in the eye and tell them they will never wear chains. That no one will decide their worth but themselves. That their lives, their futures, belong to them and no one else.”
Seeker’s hand brushed the spear strapped to his back, and lightning flickered faintly along its length, the faint pulse echoing the storm inside him. “Some of you know what it is to lose freedom and then taste it again. Others...” He turned his gaze to the freed slaves, their hands trembling on unfamiliar weapons. “Others have never felt it at all. But today, you will. Today, you fight not because someone commands it, but because you choose it. Because you are free.”
His voice rose, filling the camp, carried by the frostbitten air. “The Elves think we’re weak. They see this line and think it will break. But they don’t know us. They don’t know what the storm gave us.”
He stepped closer still, his shadow falling over the nearest freedmen. His voice dropped to a fierce whisper that somehow carried to every ear. “We are not the same as we were yesterday. We’ve been reforged. Scarred, yes. But stronger. The storm didn’t break us, it made us.”
He straightened, his voice rising like a drumbeat now, steady and unyielding. “So when they come, we will not falter. We will not break. We will stand. And when they look into our eyes, they will see the truth: we are the storm.”
For a moment, there was silence. The kind that comes after lightning and just before the thunder. Then, one by one, they began to nod.
Liora’s trembling hands stilled, her frost coalescing into a sharp, crystalline edge along her spear. Marlen stood straighter, the embers in his hands glowing with renewed determination. Even the newest freedmen gripped their weapons tighter, their shoulders squaring as they exchanged glances with those beside them.
Seeker let the moment breathe, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of his own storm. Then he stepped back, his voice quieter now but no less commanding. “Form up,” he said, the words a final spark in the cold morning air.
They followed without hesitation.
The air inside the pavilion was cool and dry, the soft light of enchanted lanterns casting long shadows across the intricate maps spread over the central table. The faint hum of magic lingered in the air—a constant, soothing reminder of the power the Elves wielded. Outside, the sound of disciplined movements drifted in: boots crunching on frozen earth, orders given in calm, melodic tones. Even now, the army moved with the precision of a blade being sharpened.
Lord Thalindor stood at the head of the table, his serene expression betraying no hint of frustration. As a High Elf, he bore the mantle of leadership with a calm that could inspire or infuriate, depending on the observer. His silver hair was neatly braided, his robes pristine, as if the chaos of the Awakening Storm had touched everything but him.
“We underestimated its force,” he said, his voice measured. His violet eyes flicked to the maps, where the human formations were carefully marked. “The storm was inconvenient, but not unnatural. Such phenomena are rare, but not unheard of, particularly in these volatile regions. Still, it gave the humans time they should not have had. That is a failure we cannot afford to repeat.”
“Time,” muttered Vaedryn, his black armor gleaming dully in the lantern light. The Dark Elf strategist sat off to the side, her sharp features partially obscured by the shadows. “That’s all they’ve gained. It won’t matter.”
“It matters more than you think,” interjected Ellarion, the Grand Magus. He leaned forward, his long, pale fingers tracing a pattern across the map. “The storm did more than delay us. Their defenses have been... bolstered.” His tone grew sharper. “Their soldiers’ armor, particularly those on the frontlines, now carries enchantments that deflect lesser magics. We’ll need to focus our efforts on dismantling those protections if we’re to break through their lines.”
“Human spellwork is crude,” Vaedryn said, her tone dismissive. “Effective only because of its simplicity. It can be undone.”
“Yes,” Ellarion replied coolly, “but not without cost. Our mages will need to concentrate on weakening their wards, which means they won’t be able to lend the same support to our forces as they have before.”
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Thalindor nodded, absorbing this. “Then we must ensure their efforts are not wasted. The humans’ right flank is vulnerable. Exposed to both our main line and the forest. That is where we will concentrate our strength.”
Across the table, Sylvara, leader of the Wood Elves, tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “The bulk of my archers will remain with the main force,” she said, her voice soft and precise. “They are most effective when the enemy does not reach our lines. But I can spare a regiment, a small, precise unit to move through the forest. They will eliminate threats before they can reinforce the flank. Quietly.”
“Quiet doesn’t win battles,” came the rumbling voice of Karnath, the Wild Elf warlord. He stood apart from the table, arms crossed over his bare chest. His hair was wild, his face marked with war paint that gave him the look of a predator. “I will lead my most experienced soldiers to the right flank myself. We’ll hit them hard and fast, before they know what’s coming. The rest of my warriors will hold the frontlines. They’ll keep the humans busy while we shatter their weak link.”
“Your zeal is noted,” Thalindor said, his tone unreadable, “but your warriors must not lose cohesion. If the humans exploit even a moment of disarray, they could hold longer than we anticipate.”
Karnath smirked, his fangs glinting faintly. “They’ll hold, Thalindor. Don’t worry about my warriors. Worry about what happens to their flank when I’m done with it.”
The High Elf’s serene gaze lingered on Karnath for a moment before shifting to Sylvara. “Your unit in the forest must act quickly. If the humans reinforce the flank before Karnath strikes, we risk losing the element of surprise.”
“They will be precise,” Sylvara replied. “And unseen.”
Thalindor turned his attention to Vaedryn. “And your infiltrators?”
Vaedryn’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Everywhere,” she said simply. “We’ll hit their formations from all sides. Our goal is to break them, not just their lines, but their spirit. When they realize there’s no safe place to stand, they’ll crumble.”
Thalindor nodded, seemingly satisfied. Then his gaze shifted to the far corner of the pavilion, where a figure stood in silence, her dark cloak blending with the shadows. The others had almost forgotten she was there, until Thalindor spoke again.
“And you,” he said, his voice calm but carrying a faint note of command. “What will you contribute to this effort?”
The Nyral didn’t move at first, the silence stretching long enough to make even Karnath glance her way. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet but firm, with an edge that silenced further questions.
“I have my orders,” she said. “You have yours.”
Thalindor’s expression didn’t change, but a faint ripple of tension passed through the room. No one spoke.
“Very well,” Thalindor said at last, turning back to the table. “Then we are in agreement. The right flank will fall first, and with it, their hope. Prepare your forces.”
---
The cold had a way of sharpening everything: the bite of steel, the edge of words, the fragile line between tension and violence. Seeker stood near his company’s position, the air humming faintly with the unspoken energy of soldiers awaiting orders. Behind him, his people formed a quiet sea of readiness, freed slaves, gladiators, and the weary but determined men and women who now looked to him for leadership.
The stillness was broken by the crunch of hurried boots against the frozen ground. Lord Garen Dureval, a middle-aged noble with sharp, hawkish features and a perpetual sneer, approached with his entourage of aides. He stopped a few paces from Seeker, his expression a mixture of disbelief and irritation.
“Commander,” Garen began, his voice cutting through the frosted air like a blade. He glanced behind Seeker, his eyes narrowing as they swept over the assembled soldiers. “Where are the others?”
Seeker turned to face him fully, his gaze dark and steady. “They’re in the fort.”
“The fort?” Garen’s brow furrowed, his voice rising. “You mean to tell me the rest of the slaves, the children, are sitting behind the walls while the rest of us more noble prepare to bleed?”
“They’re not part of the fight,” Seeker replied evenly.
Garen snorted, incredulous. “Not part of the fight? Do you hear yourself? Those children could carry supplies, run messages, or...” He waved a hand dismissively, his tone growing colder. “...serve as a delaying force if the Elves advance too quickly. Tools, Commander. If nothing else, they’re tools. And you’ve left them to rot in the fort?”
The power inside Seeker stirred, its rhythm growing sharp and discordant. He took a step closer to Garen, his voice low but laced with steel. “They’re not tools.”
“Oh, spare me the moral high ground,” Garen snapped, his lip curling. “You’re leading a company of slaves and criminals, and now you think you’re some noble protector? Those children belong out here, earning their worth like the rest of us.”
Seeker’s hand twitched at his side, his fingers curling into a fist. The frostbitten air between them seemed to tighten, brittle and ready to break. “Their worth isn’t for you to decide.”
Garen scoffed, stepping forward to close the distance between them. “You’re out of line, Commander. Those children are assets to this battle, and you’re squandering them for what? Some misguided sense of... what? Humanity? Let me remind you who you’re speaking to…”
“That’s enough,” came a firm, measured voice from behind them.
Both men turned as Baroness Illara Velden, the commanding officer of Torvald’s rear forces, strode into view. Her crimson cloak billowed slightly in the cold wind, the gold trim catching the pale morning light. She carried herself with a practiced authority, her presence cutting through the tension like a razor.
“Lord Garen,” Illara said, her tone calm but brooking no argument, “return to your position. Now.”
Garen hesitated, his jaw tightening. “Baroness Velden, this man is wasting…”
“I said, now.” Illara’s eyes met his, and whatever resistance he’d intended melted under the weight of her gaze.
With a muttered curse, Garen turned and stalked back toward his command, his aides trailing after him like lost dogs.
Seeker exhaled slowly, the storm inside him settling but not quieting entirely. Illara stepped closer, her sharp, dark eyes studying him with an unreadable expression.
“He’s a fool,” she said simply, folding her arms across her chest. “But he’s not wrong about one thing. Nobles like Garen don’t see people—they see tools, assets, liabilities. You’ve made enemies by defying that, Seeker.”
“They’re children,” Seeker replied, his voice rougher than he intended.
“And you’re right to protect them,” Illara said, her tone softening slightly. “But out here, being right isn’t always enough. Nobles like Garen will keep testing you until they see you bleed, or until you prove that no one can touch you.”
Her gaze drifted toward the distant Elven lines, where the faint shimmer of their banners marked the horizon like distant ghosts. “Do another miracle, Commander. Hold the line, win this fight, and maybe when this is over, even the Garen Durevals of the world won’t dare question you.”
Seeker met her eyes, searching for any hint of condescension or mockery, but found none. Illara Velden, for all her pragmatism, meant what she said.
“Understood,” he replied quietly.
She nodded once, sharp and approving, before stepping back. “Go,” she said, her tone once again brisk and commanding. “Your people need you, and I need my rear flank to hold. If you lose your line, we all lose.”
Seeker watched as Illara turned and strode back toward her own command, her crimson cloak disappearing into the sea of soldiers preparing for battle.
For a moment, he stood in the cold, the wind biting at his skin. Then he turned, his gaze settling on his company.
No noble would touch them. Not while he stood.
---
The field stretched out before them, a vast expanse of frostbitten earth and brittle grass that seemed to shiver under the weight of the armies gathered upon it. The Elves stood in eerie silence on the far side, their banners rippling faintly in the cold wind. Their formation was a living wall of precision, shields gleaming, bows at the ready, and their siege engines crouched behind them like sleeping giants. Even from this distance, Seeker could feel the quiet arrogance of their ranks, an unspoken certainty that they would win.
The human army was less perfect, less composed. Soldiers whispered prayers, their breath forming clouds in the chill air. Others fiddled with their weapons, the motions repetitive and desperate, as though they could sharpen themselves into courage. Among them, Seeker’s people stood in uneasy clusters, their emotions raw and unguarded in the cold.
He let his gaze drift over them.
Liora gripped her spear so tightly her knuckles had turned pale, the frost creeping up her hands unnoticed. Her lips moved in a silent litany, words that were neither a prayer nor a command, but something in between. Seeker approached quietly, watching her for a moment before speaking.
“What are you saying?” he asked softly.
Her head jerked slightly, startled, but she didn’t let go of the spear. “I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice small and strained. She glanced at him, then back at the ground. “I think... I’m asking it not to be today.”
He frowned. “Asking what?”
“The end,” she said simply, her voice hollow. She shook her head, the frost at her fingertips crackling faintly. “But it doesn’t matter. It never listens.”
Seeker didn’t reply. Instead, he placed a steady hand on her shoulder, the faint hum of the storm in his chest passing between them like a shared heartbeat. She met his gaze, and though her eyes were full of fear, there was something steady beneath it. She gripped the spear tighter.
Nearby, Sarra checked the tension on her bowstring, her movements methodical but uneven. Seeker crouched beside her.
“You’re going to splinter it, pulling like that,” he said, his tone light but firm.
Her hands froze, her breath catching in her throat. She glanced at him, a faint tremor in her fingers. “It’s the only thing that listens,” she muttered, releasing the bowstring with care. “I pull, it holds. Everything else feels... loose.”
Seeker nodded, resting a hand on his knee. “It’ll hold because you’ll hold. That’s all we need right now.”
She laughed softly, a bitter sound that vanished into the cold. “That’s a lot to ask for, Commander.”
“And yet you’re still here,” he replied, his voice quiet but steady. “That’s more than most.”
She looked at him for a long moment before nodding, her expression hardening into resolve.
Gale leaned against a shattered tree stump, his knives gleaming faintly in his hands. His eyes flicked constantly toward the horizon, restless and watchful, like a wolf searching for a hunter it couldn’t see.
“They’ll come straight at us,” he said as Seeker approached. His voice was calm, but his fingers tapped nervously on the hilt of his blade. “It’s too obvious. They’ll hit us with what we can see, and something worse from where we can’t.”
“You’re not wrong,” Seeker replied. “But that doesn’t change where we’ll stand.”
Gale smirked, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Never does, does it?” He twirled the knife in his hand, the motion quick and fluid. “You know, this would feel better if I didn’t think half these idiots were going to run the second they hear the first horn.”
“They’ll surprise you,” Seeker said.
“I’d rather they surprise the Elves,” Gale muttered, tucking the knife away. “Still, if we’re all dead by nightfall, at least I won’t have to listen to Marlen’s infernal muttering anymore.”
The freed slaves were the hardest to watch. Some stood straight, gripping weapons too heavy for hands that had known only chains. Others fidgeted, their eyes darting to the safety of the fort behind them or the banners of the Elves ahead. Seeker approached one of the younger men, barely more than a boy, whose thin arms quivered under the weight of his borrowed sword.
“Commander,” the boy said, his voice trembling as he straightened.
“What’s your name?” Seeker asked, keeping his tone calm.
“J-Jaren, sir,” the boy stammered, his breath fogging in quick bursts.
“Jaren.” Seeker crouched slightly to meet his eyes. “Where are you from?”
“Torvald, sir. The lower quarters.”
“And what did you do before?”
Jaren hesitated, glancing at the sword in his hands. “I cleaned stables, sir,” he said, his voice low, as if the words themselves were a confession.
Seeker tilted his head slightly, studying him. “And did you run from the smell? Did you quit when the muck was ankle deep, or when the horses kicked?”
The boy blinked, confused. “No, sir. That was the job.”
“Exactly.” Seeker crouched slightly, his voice lowering but growing sharper, each word cutting through the boy’s uncertainty. “You kept going because you had to. Because it needed to be done. That’s not just work, Jaren, that’s grit. The kind it takes to stand here now, holding that sword, knowing what’s coming.”
Jaren’s brow furrowed, his grip tightening on the hilt. “But I’m not a soldier, sir. I’ve never... fought before.”
Seeker’s eyes softened, though his voice didn’t lose its edge. “Fighting isn’t about the sword in your hand. It’s about the ground under your feet. You stood your ground in those stables, didn’t you?”
The boy nodded slowly.
“Then you already know how to fight,” Seeker said, standing. “Today, you’re not standing in filth. You’re standing for yourself. For the others here who need you. Remember that, and the rest will come.”
Jaren’s shoulders straightened slightly, the spark of understanding flickering behind his wide eyes. “Yes, sir.”
Seeker stepped back, his gaze sweeping over the rest of his people. The weight of their hope and fear pressed against him, a heavy storm in his chest.
The sun has risen, faint and pale against the heavy clouds, but the moons still lingered low in the sky. Elthis, the larger of the two, hung like a pale sentinel, its surface pocked with shadows that seemed to shift as he stared. Beside it, Vehril, the smaller moon, was a faint crescent, its edges tinged with a silvery glow. Together, they seemed out of place, an impossible echo of the night refusing to give way to the day.
Seeker’s eyes were drawn to them, the faint shimmer of the celestial pair a quiet hum against the storm inside him. He exhaled slowly, letting the chill air settle in his lungs.
“They don’t belong here,” he murmured, the words slipping out unbidden.
“Neither do you,” said a soft, lilting voice near his ear.
He turned his head slightly, catching the faint shimmer of the fairy perched on his shoulder. Her tiny frame glowed faintly in the muted light, her wings catching the first pale rays of the sun. She looked at the moons with an expression he couldn’t quite name, part amusement, part sadness, as if their presence carried a meaning just out of reach.
“Two moons in the sky,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. “One too stubborn to leave, the other too small to matter. And yet, they linger. Do you know why?”
He shook his head, his shadowed eyes still fixed on the celestial pair.
“Because they can,” she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Because sometimes the world doesn’t follow its own rules. Just like you.”
The storm inside him stirred, restless and alive, its edges fraying like an untethered thread. But her words settled over it, holding it in place for the moment.
“You think you’re ready for this,” the fairy continued, her tone softening, taking on a weight he wasn’t used to hearing from her. “And maybe you are. But what’s coming isn’t just another battle, Seeker. It’s something... heavier. Like those moons. Something that doesn’t leave when it should.”
He frowned, his voice low but sharp. “What are you saying?”
She turned her gaze from the moons to him, her small face suddenly serious, her bright eyes gleaming like distant stars. “You’re going to leave a mark today,” she said. “The question is what kind of mark it will be. The big one that casts shadows? Or the little one that shines quietly, unnoticed by most but never forgotten by those who matter?”
“I don’t understand,” Seeker said, the words coming out heavier than he’d intended.
“Yes, you do,” she replied, her voice a near whisper. “Elthis is the big one, the obvious power. It looms, and its shadow falls long. You can see it from anywhere, and when it moves, the whole world notices. Vehril is the little one. Smaller, subtler, but bright in a way Elthis never will be. It doesn’t try to be noticed. It just... is.”
Her wings fluttered faintly, catching the light. “Both matter, Seeker. Both have their place. Elthis teaches us strength. Vehril reminds us to endure. But you have to decide which one you’ll be today, because once you choose, that mark will linger. Long after the battle. Long after you.”
Seeker didn’t reply, the weight of her words pressing against him like the wind before a storm. His eyes returned to the moons, their twin presences unmoving against the pale sky.
“Why can’t I be both?” he asked finally, his voice low.
The fairy tilted her head, her smile softening. “Maybe you can,” she said. “But not at the same time.”
Her words settled over him, cryptic and sharp as frost, pulling at the edges of his thoughts like a thread waiting to be unraveled. He opened his mouth to reply, but a distant sound cut him off, a faint, rising note that carried across the field like a warning.
The Elven horns.
The Elven horns echoed through the stillness, long and mournful, as if mourning the lives they intended to take. The human soldiers around him stiffened, their breaths quickening, their hands gripping weapons tighter.
Seeker turned back to his company, his shadow falling over them as the horns faded.
“It’s time,” he said, his voice steady despite the storm in his chest.
The soldiers of the right flank braced themselves, their eyes turning toward the enemy. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, the frozen ground waiting to be broken.
The moons lingered above them, silent and watchful, as the two armies prepared to collide.