As the first light of dawn painted the sky in golden hues, the city stirred to life. Warriors gathered at the training grounds, equipping themselves with wooden spears, stone-tipped weapons, and shields crafted from layered wood and reinforced fibers. Though they lacked metal, their spirits burned bright with purpose.

Rhaelor stood at the front, overseeing the preparations. His heart was steady, yet the weight of responsibility pressed upon him.

Meanwhile, in the elven district, the dwarves and the Chief were still asleep. They had spent the entire night reminiscing, laughing, and exchanging old tales.

However, one of the youngest dwarves had managed to get a full night's rest. When he woke and saw the others exhausted yet content, he shook his head, both embarrassed and amused. The elves, too, were flustered—yet they all understood the depth of their old friendship.

Vaelora and Rhaelor had stayed as well.

Rhaelor, ever the outsider to their traditions, simply observed in confusion and awe. Their bonds ran deep, yet they expressed them in ways he had never seen before.

But there was no time to linger.

The warriors were ready. The journey would begin.

Before Rhaelor could step away, Vaelora suddenly grabbed his wrist.

With a quick motion, before anyone could notice, she leaned in and pressed her lips softly against his.

A brief moment. A whisper of warmth.

Then she pulled away, her face turning red as she quickly ran off, flustered.

"Come back safe," she murmured just before disappearing from view.

Rhaelor stood there, completely still. His mind failed to process what had just happened.

Heat crept up his face. His heart pounded against his chest.

He hadn't expected this.

His relationship with Vaelora, once a budding friendship, had now taken a step deeper.

With their weapons in hand and determination in their hearts, the warriors of Ashelia and the elves began their march toward the distant western mountains.

At the front of the formation, Rhaelor walked beside the young dwarf, their guide. The boy's short legs moved swiftly, his expression serious despite his youth. He had no name known to the Ashelians yet, but among his kin, he was called Thrain.

"We must move fast," Thrain said, his voice steady. "The mountains are far, but we cannot waste time. If my people still resist, the invaders will punish them soon."

Rhaelor nodded. "Then we move without delay."

The warriors followed in organized lines, their bare feet pressing into the dirt roads that led beyond the city's walls. The elves, graceful and quiet, blended naturally into the shadows of the trees. The Ashelians, strong and disciplined, marched with steady steps.

The sun climbed higher, casting long shadows as they passed through rolling plains and scattered woodlands.

It was a journey that could take more than a day, yet none among them hesitated.

For this was not just a rescue mission.

It was a declaration.

A sign that the people of Ashelia would not stand idle while others suffered.

Vaelora stood at the city walls, her fingers gently gripping the wolf-tooth necklace hanging from her neck. The cool breeze brushed against her face as she watched the warriors fade into the distance, swallowed by the vast forests beyond the plains.

Her heart ached, yet she held onto his words.

"I will return with everyone alive."

A promise she wanted—needed—to believe in.

As the last glimpses of the marching warriors vanished, she lowered her gaze, her lips trembling.

"Keep your promise, Rhaelor..."

Then, in a voice almost too soft to be heard, she whispered, "I love you."

Bringing the necklace to her lips, she pressed a gentle kiss against it, tears slipping from her eyes.

Just then—

"Meow~"

Vaelora flinched, startled by the sudden sound.

She turned, finding a small white cat perched on the edge of the wall's fence. Its pristine fur glowed under the morning sun, and its golden eyes gazed at her with a peculiar warmth, as if understanding her sorrow.

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"Meow..."

The cat purred, rubbing its head against the wooden railing. A soft warmth filled her heart, as if a veil of loneliness had been lifted.

Vaelora let out a quiet chuckle, wiping her tears. "You surprised me..."

The cat flicked its tail, staring at her for a few more moments before suddenly leaping down and running away.

"Ah—!" Vaelora instinctively reached out, but the small creature was already gone.

She let out a small sigh, but somehow... her heart felt lighter.

"Rhaelor will come back."

Unknown to her, the Architect had taken the form of that white cat, silently watching over her. With his task complete, he continued wandering the city, unseen by all but those who needed him most.

The council hall was filled with murmurs as the elders took their seats. The stone chamber, dimly lit by torches, held a sense of gravity as Ashelians and Elves sat together, their expressions serious.

Among them, Miran, Edros, and Althea had joined this critical discussion. The fate of their alliance with the dwarves—and the future of their city—depended on this meeting.

Edros leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His gaze settled on one of the Elven elders, an older elf with silver hair and piercing blue eyes.

"You've had a long relationship with the dwarves?" he asked.

The elven elder nodded. "Yes, for centuries. We lived alongside them in the south, and we traded goods—mostly food and textiles. However," he paused, his expression thoughtful, "they never once traded metal."

Miran frowned. "Not even once?"

The elder shook his head. "No. They never shared their metalcraft with outsiders. It was their sacred art, and they only used it for furniture and tools. Unlike us, they never questioned their own origins. They simply lived as they always had."

Althea tapped her fingers on the wooden table. "Then what happened? Why did you lose contact with them?"

A heavy silence filled the room. Then, the elf spoke again, his voice quieter.

"We thought they had been wiped out."

The words lingered in the air.

"We were invaded, and in the chaos, we lost all contact with the dwarves. For all these years, we believed their clans had perished—until now."

Miran exhaled, his arms crossed. "Now that we know they survived, we need to earn their trust. But if we simply ask them to forge weapons for us, they will refuse."

Another elf elder nodded in agreement. "Their clan leaders are stubborn and strict. They care only for survival. That is their law. They will not make weapons for conquest, only for protection."

Edros smirked slightly. "Then we must convince them that forging weapons is the only way to protect their people."

The room fell into deep thought. The fate of this alliance rested on how well they could negotiate with the dwarves.

The tense atmosphere of the council chamber was shattered by the sudden sound of boisterous laughter. The heavy wooden doors swung open as the Elven Chief and a group of Dwarves barged in uninvited, their voices echoing off the stone walls.

"Hah! We heard every word, lads!" Grumli, a stout dwarf with a thick, braided beard, grinned as he stomped into the room. His sarcastic tone sent a wave of embarrassment through the Elven elders, who lowered their heads slightly.

The Ashelians, however, were completely bewildered by the sudden intrusion.

Miran raised an eyebrow. "What is this about?"

Grumli chuckled, slapping his broad belly. "You lot were worried about getting us dwarves to forge weapons, huh? Bah! No need for all this 'earning trust' nonsense!"

He crossed his arms confidently. "I'll take care of it!"

The dwarves behind him nodded, some smirking while others folded their arms, looking rather amused at the elves' awkward reactions.

Edros glanced at the Elven Chief, who simply sighed and rubbed his temples. "This is why we don't let them hear our meetings..." he muttered under his breath.

Rhaelor and his army pressed forward, their boots crunching against the dry earth as they neared the looming mountain range.

However, a realization dawned on them.

"We've been walking for an hour, yet we haven't gotten tired. Look, there's the mountain already!" One of the soldiers pointed ahead.

The young dwarf, their guide, furrowed his brow. "Now that you've mentioned it, this never happened before. When we first traveled south towards your city, it took us almost five hours. But now, in just an hour and a half, we're already this close to the mountains?"

Rhaelor slowed his pace. The words of the Architect echoed in his mind—the promise of strength, endurance, and protection.

He clenched his fist. "It is the blessing of the Architect. He has strengthened us."

Some of the warriors exchanged glances, feeling their unyielding stamina, their legs not aching as they usually would after such a march.

"Alright now, stay focused," Rhaelor commanded. "Our enemies could be hiding where we cannot see them. I'm sure they will do anything to claim the metal your people have forged."

The young dwarf let out a loud laugh. "Hah! I tell you, they don't even know a single thing about metalworking! I once saw one of them grab a hot ingot straight from the furnace—burned his hand to the bone!"

The warriors chuckled at the thought.

But Rhaelor remained serious. The mountains were close now, and with them, the unknown dangers that lurked within.

Far in the rugged mountains, hidden within the rocky slopes, a group of warriors observed the approaching army from afar.

Their wooden armor blended with the earth and trees, their helmets adorned with intricate carvings, resembling the fierce masks of spirits. Each one of them bore an eastern-like face, their expressions unreadable, yet their piercing eyes tracked every movement in the grassland below.

One of them, standing at the highest vantage point, lowered his gaze and spoke in a foreign tongue—their dialect, unknown to the Ashelians and their allies.

"Gū lóng shì fēn, bù yào dòng dàng." (Stay hidden, do not move.)

The others obeyed, keeping still, watching carefully.

Then, the leader turned to one of his subordinates and gave an order.

"Xiāng tóng yǔ zhǔrén chuánxìn—rén láile." (Send word to our master—the outsiders have come.)

A warrior immediately broke away, moving swiftly through the rocky paths, vanishing into the depths of the mountain to deliver the message.

Rhaelor and his army continued their march, unaware of the eyes watching them from the mountain.

The young dwarf leading them glanced up at the towering cliffs and muttered, "This doesn't feel right..." His keen instincts, honed from years of navigating underground tunnels, told him something was off.

Rhaelor nodded, gripping his wooden spear. "Stay alert. We don't know what we're walking into."

The closer they got, the heavier the air felt. The wind howled between the rocky formations, and the mountain loomed over them like a silent predator.

Suddenly, one of the Ashelian warriors raised a hand. "Wait. Look ahead."

In the distance, just at the base of the mountain, a single figure stood alone in the grass.

It was a man dressed in wooden armor, painted with strange patterns. His helmet covered most of his face, but his dark eyes gleamed beneath it. He held no weapon—only a long staff, resting against the ground.

Rhaelor narrowed his eyes. "Who is he? A messenger?"

The young dwarf beside him clenched his fists. "One of them... The people who took my kin."

Then, the mysterious warrior raised his free hand, palm facing outward, as if to signal something.

The Ashelian warriors tensed, gripping their weapons.

But instead of attacking...

The warrior bowed his head slightly, then spoke in his foreign tongue.

"Nǐmen shì shéi?" (Who are you?)

The words were strange, but the tone was clear—not of hostility, but of caution.