The story unfolds along the contested borders of Renolva and Arguand, where a desolate battlefield stretches across the barren land. Here, the remnants of war are scattered—hundreds of knights, soldiers, healers, elves, dwarves, and ghouls lie fallen, their once vibrant forms now reduced to lifeless husks. Amid the wreckage, bodies lie dismembered and mutilated, their identities erased by the violence of war. It is a grim testament to the unrelenting cost of war.

Just two hours away, the sounds of battle rage on. The forces of both kingdoms clash in a brutal fight for dominance. In the thick of this chaos is Jeffrey, his figure drenched in blood. Once cheerful, his face is now sombre, marred by a deep gash on his cheek that exposes his back teeth. With a firm grip on his longsword, he fights with practised skill, each strike swift and decisive. In one fluid motion, he drives his blade into the chest of an elf, killing him in an instant, before his own exhaustion begins to overtake him.

On the blood-soaked ground, surrounded by a scene void of any greenery, the battle rages on. Jeffrey, weary and drained, struggles to rise but can only manage to kneel, his ragged breathing breaking the air. Memories of Tyka, the blacksmith’s son, and the comrades he had befriended on the battlefield, flicker through his mind, haunting him amidst the carnage.

Grief, sorrow, and regret etch themselves into Jeffrey's face as he mourns his failure to save Tyka, a weight too heavy to bear. His gaze sweeps across the battlefield, only to stop in horror as he looks to his right. A fresh wave of pain courses through him as he sees the lifeless body of Edmund, his closest friend, sprawled near a bloodied tree, a sword plunged into his chest.

Struggling to stand, Jeffrey stumbles repeatedly, collapsing each time. But despite his weakness, he crawls toward Edmund, his voice breaking as he cries out in denial, repeating "NO" with rising desperation.

At last, he reaches Edmund, pulling his friend’s lifeless form into his arms, tears streaming down his face, his sobs mixing with the chaos of battle.

As Jeffrey clings to Edmund’s body, a ghoul knight from Arguand approaches silently from behind. His face is blank, devoid of any emotion or purpose, and with his sword raised, he prepares to strike the grieving Jeffrey, who remains unaware of the danger that looms just behind him.

A young knight approached silently, catching the ghoul off guard and swiftly ending his life. The sudden noise jolted Jeffrey from his daze, and he turned to see Captain Rhothomir by his side, a remarkably young knight for such a title. Rhothomir spoke urgently, rallying him with the words, "Jeffrey, rise! Our brethren need us!"

Jeffrey met Rhothomir’s gaze, his lips parting wordlessly. Despair and the endless bloodshed had stolen his voice, leaving him paralyzed, crushed by the loss of his comrades.

Rhothomir took in Jeffrey's broken state, then briefly glanced at the chaotic battlefield before refocusing on his comrade. After a steadying breath, he knelt beside him and spoke calmly, "Jeffrey?"

Jeffrey nodded frantically, teetering on the edge of losing himself to the surrounding horror. Unshaken, Rhothomir pointed southward and said softly, "Our camp lies ahead. You remember the way, don’t you? Go now, while you still have time."

Jeffrey followed his gesture, then looked back into Rhothomir’s eyes. A reassuring smile spread across Rhothomir's face as he continued, "You’re a good man, Jeffrey. You owe it to your family and friends to live. This isn’t desertion; it’s survival. We’ve suffered great losses, but I must stay and help those who remain. Go, live."

Without words, Jeffrey stared as Rhothomir nodded and sprinted back into the fray, leaving him standing alone.

With trembling hands, Jeffrey gently laid Edmund’s body on the ground, softly brushing his hair before letting go. He retrieved the sword embedded in his friend's chest, his gaze shifting toward the ongoing battle. Slowly, he stood and began to walk. Pausing, he glanced back at Edmund, his face hardening with resolve. His voice low, he whispered, “Rest now, Edmund. I’ll… I’ll bring you home.”

Away from the raging war, night had already fallen over Goven village. Ominous clouds blotted out the moon, and the air thickened with the promise of rain as darkness cloaked the land.

Within the safety of their homes, the villagers settled in for the night. Titus, the young guard, patrolled the quiet streets, making sure the peace and security of the village remained intact.

In Gostave’s modest house, Beatrice and Joe sat down for dinner, the warm glow of the hearth filling the room with a comforting light. Beatrice's smile was full of gratitude as she said, “Your help at the blacksmith’s forge has been great, Joe. Thank you.”

Joe returned the smile and nodded. “I’ll do whatever I can to support us,” he said earnestly.

Beatrice nodded, her thoughts turning to their neighbours, many struggling without any support from the kingdom. Despite the hardships, the women and elderly of the village were working tirelessly to provide for their families.

After a moment, Beatrice spoke again. “Thanks to your work spreading the word about our village, Kaelen was able to benefit from passing merchants. You even helped some of the women find opportunities in noble houses, especially with so many of the men off at war. You’ve made a real difference, Joe. You’re a hero.”

Joe’s smile grew wider, his heart warmed by his mother’s praise. He looked at her hopefully. “Do you think I’ll grow up to be someone everyone loves, mother?”

With a gentle smile, Beatrice pulled him into a hug. “Of course you will, Joe. You’ve got a good heart.”

Meanwhile, at the village gate, Urien sipped from a large goblet filled with his latest concoction. As Titus approached, he nodded and sat down beside him. “Sir, everything is quiet and peaceful as always,” Titus reported.

Urien nodded, finishing his drink. After a deep breath, he advised, “Stay vigilant. You never know when things might turn for the worse, just as I’ve always told you.”

Titus nodded in agreement. They both picked up books, each diving into their own interests. Titus began reading a tome on magic, eager to learn about a subject he had never experienced firsthand. Urien, on the other hand, read about ideal retirement destinations, planning for the day when he could finally step away from his long-held post, a thought he often entertained.

Urien, like Jeffrey, was only 31. After 15 years of fighting bandits alongside Jeffrey and their companions, Urien had seen firsthand how people could become monsters when armed and given too much freedom. That realization had been enough for him. Over the years, he had saved a considerable amount of money from their campaigns. Meanwhile, though Jeffrey hadn’t fought continuously, he had dedicated himself to protecting the village, keeping it safe to the best of his abilities.

Urien smiled warmly as memories of his father surfaced. His father had been stern and demanding, shaping Urien into the man he was. Tragically, a bandit had killed his father just outside the village. Afterwards, Urien, then a young warrior, stepped in to fill that role, devoting himself to the village’s protection. Despite the numerous injuries and the physical toll of years of service, he remained as resilient as ever. Urien mused that his father's strict discipline had proven valuable after all.

Pausing from his reading, Urien looked toward Titus. "Be brave, young lad," he said.

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Titus set his book aside and focused intently on Urien as the elder continued. "Running will haunt you for the rest of your life. Stand firm, protect those who can’t defend themselves, offer help whenever you can, and be a pillar of support for others. Someone will eventually do the same for you. Remember that, young blood."

Titus nodded, tapping his chest armour instinctively. Urien’s words stirred something deep inside him, igniting a sense of purpose. Now all that remained was for Titus to live out these lessons in action.

Meanwhile, in the herbalist’s home, Kaelen was lost in his reading, the dimness of the room inconsequential. As a dark elf, he could see clearly in the dark.

Placing the book back on the shelf, Kaelen gazed at the moon through the window, his mind drifting to memories of his father. He vividly recalled the day he learned of his father’s death, at the age of 23. His father had died on an adventure, killed by a monstrous witch corrupted by ancient magic. This malevolent witch had terrorized merchants and villagers near the borders between the demon kingdom and Renolva, forcing the adventurers’ guild to put a bounty on her head.

Kaelen's father met his end after killing the witch, ensuring the survival of his comrades—two elves and a ghoul. Together, they solemnly transported his body back to the underground realm, carefully laying him on a cart.

When they reached the cave near Roxana city, three dark elf guards awaited them at the entrance. The two elves felt uneasy, given the strained relations between their race and the dark elves. Dark elves, known for their aloofness and arrogance, were often antisocial, even toward their own kin.

The trio of guards approached, their eyes cold and watchful. Stygi, the ghoul leading the group, stepped forward and nodded respectfully. "My friends, we’ve lost one of your kin. I must enter the city to deliver him to his family."

The guards remained silent, inspecting Stygi and the cart with a piercing gaze before finally opening it to view Kaelen’s father's body. After a long pause, one guard gestured for them to proceed, still without a word.

Stygi nodded, gently snapping the reins to move the horse forward. Nocture, one of the elves, sighed with a hint of relief. "At least they didn’t give us any trouble. Though, only three guards? Seems a bit thin, doesn’t it?"

As they ventured deeper into the vast cave, they became aware of more dark elves lurking in the shadows. Around twenty guards stood watch, their eyes following every movement of the newcomers. Though the atmosphere was tense and the stares felt hostile, Stygi and the elves maintained their composure, ignoring the glares to avoid provoking any trouble.

Meanwhile, in Kaelen’s home, his mother, Dep, sat engrossed in a book, as was her custom. Across from her, Kaelen busied himself, organizing his collection of herbs, lost in thought. The quiet was broken by a knock at the door.

Kaelen rose to answer, only to be momentarily blinded by a sudden burst of light as he opened the door. Instinctively shielding his eyes, he heard Stygi exclaim, "Apologies! I forgot about your aversion to light!"

With a flick of his magic, Stygi extinguished his torch, and the two elves followed suit. As darkness enveloped them, Kaelen turned his gaze toward Stygi and the elves. His eyes shifted to the cart, and he started, "Is Father..." but let the words trail off.

Stygi answered without hesitation, "Yes, your father deserves a respectful burial."

Kaelen nodded, walking toward the cart. With help from Nocture and Stygi, they carefully carried the body inside the house, where the family would soon gather for a traditional magical ritual before the burial.

Once indoors, Nocture leaned toward Stygi and whispered, "Sir, are you sure we should stay for the burial? There will be many of them, and I can hardly see anything in this darkness!"

Stygi replied firmly, "Yes! He gave his life to take down that witch and save our skins. That's how adventurers honour their fallen comrades!"

Kaelen, overhearing the exchange, spoke up. "They won’t arrive for hours. You’ve done your part. You can leave now—our traditions are for our own."

Nocture quickly nodded, turning to Stygi. "You heard him. Let’s get going!"

Stygi hesitated, weighing his decision, then sighed. "Fine, you two can head out. I'll stay tonight. We’ll meet at the guild tomorrow."

Thalorien, the other elf, grumbled, "Damn it! I’m staying too."

Nocture groaned in frustration, slapping his forehead. "I can’t just leave you two behind. I’m staying as well."

Watching the trio, Kaelen felt a wave of curiosity and confusion. Why were they choosing to stay? They had no obligation to witness the burial. This behaviour seemed odd to Kaelen, who kept his thoughts to himself, his expression unreadable.

Three hours later, Kaelen’s father’s body lay in the garden, draped in a long blue shroud inscribed with the ancient language of the dark elves. Forty family members stood in solemn silence, surrounding the body. At the front, Kaelen and his mother whispered in their native tongue, offering their final farewells.

Stygi and the others stood at the back, keeping a respectful distance. In the dim glow of the garden candles, Stygi observed the faces of those gathered. He noticed something strange—the absence of emotion. Even Kaelen and his mother seemed stoic, devoid of grief.

Turning to his companions, Stygi muttered, "Didn’t he have a closer relationship with his father?"

Thalorien overheard Stygi's question and replied, "That's just how dark elves are. They don't show emotions, or some say they don't have any. Their culture revolves around power, arrogance, and strictness, even with their own kin. It's best not to cross them."

Stygi nodded, his mind drifting to memories of Kaelen's father, pulling his focus away from the ceremony unfolding before him.

After the burial, the family members conversed quietly in their native tongue, while Kaelen escorted Stygi and the elves back to their cart.

Before departing, Stygi turned to Kaelen and said, "Thank you for letting us attend. He was our friend, after all."

Kaelen glanced at him, his face unreadable, as he asked, "Friend? He was an adventurer; death is part of the job."

Stygi met Kaelen’s eyes, searching for any hint of feeling as he asked, "Do you feel nothing for your father?"

Kaelen's confusion was apparent, though his tone remained flat. "He was weak. Dying for a ghoul or elves tarnishes our name. Why sacrifice yourself for anyone other than our own?"

Thalorien and Nocture listened quietly from the cart. Stygi's expression grew sombre as he pressed further, "Is that really how you feel?"

Kaelen hesitated briefly, then replied, "It’s what I believe."

Stygi nodded, grasping the cold essence of dark elf pride—stoic and unyielding. Yet he had known Kaelen’s father, known the man’s courage and honour. Tears welled up in Stygi's eyes, an unexpected wave of sorrow overcoming him. Kaelen, caught off guard by this display of emotion, kept his surprise hidden as Stygi's voice broke with grief. "No, your father… he was more than that."

Kaelen said nothing, watching as Stygi and the elves departed. He stood still for a moment before returning to the house, where he began preparing food for the family members who had gathered that day. Two long days passed, filled with guests paying their respects and Kaelen tirelessly working as the family’s chef. Finally, exhausted, he settled into a chair to read, while his mother retired to her room, lost in her own book as usual.

Kaelen reached for another book he had kept beside his bed for the past three years—a tome about herbs that didn’t grow underground. He had held onto it, waiting for the day he would finally leave home, as he had always planned.

His thoughts drifted to his father, whom he remembered vividly. A tall man, wielding a single magical sword, with black hair, deep blue eyes, and a missing left ear. He could still see his father looking at him when he was just three years old. Then, Stygi’s tearful words echoed in his mind, "Your father..."

Kaelen sat quietly, contemplating a question he couldn't answer. "Why? Why did you sacrifice yourself for those people? Was it a sign of weakness? Or a mistake?"

He reflected on the core principles instilled in all dark elves, thinking, "Kindness invites weakness, power ensures prosperity, mercy invites destruction, tradition upholds our foundation."

Two weeks later, as his mother, Dep, sat reading, a knock sounded at the door. Without looking up, she said, "Come in."

Kaelen entered and approached her. "Mother, I'm leaving for the outside world to start my herbalism business, as you know."

Still engrossed in her book, Dep responded, "Yes, I know."

Kaelen nodded and moved towards the door, but paused. Turning back, he gazed at his mother, still absorbed in her book, and asked, "Did you ever feel sadness about Father’s death?"

Dep finally looked up and replied in a cold voice, "Your father was weak, wasting his life protecting worthless people like those adventurers who brought him back. He was a disgrace, as always. He was a..."

Kaelen nodded as he left the room, making sure to close the door securely behind him. As he walked away from his house, he glanced back at his mother's window—it was closed, a sign that she had likely gone to sleep.

He continued towards the cave entrance, passing guards either sitting silently or patrolling, some reading or practising with weapons. Near the exit, he raised his arm to shield his eyes from the light. Lowering it, he muttered to himself, "Out in the open now. Better get used to it."

In the present, Kaelen reflected, "The sun was harsh. I remember needing a potion from a witch to adjust to it more quickly."

He muttered quietly, *I've always been self-sufficient, never needing anyone. But I wonder... did I secretly hope my mother would look out the window? Is she alright now? What happened to the adventurers? And my father…?*

His thoughts were abruptly cut short by the sound of women screaming and the stench of smoke. He ran to the door, only to see the village consumed by flames. Shocked, he heard Urien's voice rise above the chaos, "BANDITS!"