Graveloth’s thoughts raced like a thundering avalanche, each one crashing into the next with chaotic urgency. The very idea of raiding a tomb—an ancient, forgotten tomb. Guarded by one of their best forces—sent shivers down his spine.
He could almost feel the weight of history bearing down on him, the silent whispers of the past echoing through the corridors of his mind as the ancient alarm intertwining with the howling wind and the deafening crackle of flames, creating a symphony of impending danger that filled the air with an ominous tension.
He immediately rushed through the top of the holy mountain, as he tried to think of anyone who would dare do such blasphemy. Images of the kind of people who would dare to venture into such forbidden territory. Were they desperate souls driven by greed and desperation, willing to risk everything for a chance at untold riches? Or were they something far more sinister, creatures of the night drawn to the darkness like moths to a flame?
His pulse quickened with each passing moment, the adrenaline coursing through his veins like wildfire. He knew he should feel fear, should feel the weight of impending danger pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket. And yet, all he felt was a gnawing sense of curiosity, and duty.
He looked at it as some of the soldiers that he passed along the way, whom did not know how to react. Understandable as no one would even dare do what just happened.
He wasted no time, rallying his men with a thunderous command. “All able men with me! We have to stop whoever is behind this at all cost!” his voice bellowed as he mounted a nearby horse, a small contingent of warriors falling into formation behind him.
As they ascended the mountain, the glow of flames grew ever brighter against the night sky. His heart clenched at the sight of the ancient tomb engulfed in fire. It was his duty as Lord Paramount to protect the Kra’ens and safeguard their heritage, even if it meant preserving an old tomb.
Closing in on the source of the blaze, his gaze narrowed as he spotted a cloaked figure standing defiantly in their path. Anger surged within him at the sight of the desecrated tomb and the mysterious trespasser who stood before it, shrouded in darkness.
Drawing his blades with a hiss of steel, he confronted the cloaked stranger. “Who are you?!” he demanded, his voice laced with fury. But the figure remained silent, its only response the eerie glow of its maroonish eyes.
Before he could react, the stranger began to weave a spell, conjuring a pentagram in the air with arcane precision. Sensing danger, he tapped into the power of the wind, summoning a cyclone to propel him forward with unstoppable force.
But as he closed in on the cloaked figure, he was met with unexpected resistance. With a swift gesture, the stranger halted his advance, binding him in place with an unseen force. He struggled against the invisible restraints, his movements sluggish and unresponsive.
Through the haze of his struggle, he could see the glowing eyes of the cloaked figure, its identity obscured by shadows. “Who are you?” he repeated, his voice strained with effort. But still, the stranger remained silent, a silent enigma in the midst of chaos.
Meanwhile, his men charged forward, their swords raised in defiance, ready to defend their lord against this mysterious adversary.
“Get back! It’s dangerous! Get back!” his warning echoed through the chaos as he desperately struggled against the unseen force holding him captive. With horror, he watched as the cloaked stranger summoned a swirling mist that enveloped his men, freezing them solid in a matter of seconds.
Helpless to intervene, he could only watch as the cloaked figure circled his frozen comrades, its dark presence looming ominously over them. With a touch, it shattered one of the soldiers, sending a jolt of fear coursing through his veins.
“Stop this!” he cried out, his voice choked with desperation. But his pleas fell on deaf ears as the invisible shackles tightened around his neck, constricting his every movement.
The enemy’s gaze flickered towards him briefly before turning its attention to his closest friend, Ouraq. His heart clenched in agony as he witnessed the brutal demise of his comrade, helpless to intervene as Ouraq crumbled to pieces before his eyes.
With each fallen soldier, his anguish grew, his spirit consumed by rage and despair. “Don’t you dare touch them!” he screamed, his voice raw with emotion. But the cloaked figure seemed indifferent to his suffering, reveling in the destruction it wrought.
One by one, his comrades fell, their shattered forms littering the ground like broken dolls. His fists clenched with impotent fury as he struggled against his invisible bonds, his heart heavy with grief for the fallen.
Then, with a sudden burst of energy, the cloaked figure hurled him through the air with terrifying force, sending him hurtling towards Mathron. As he soared through the night sky, a sense of helplessness washed over him, mingling with the bitter taste of defeat.
With a final glance at the cloaked figure, now enveloped in a shimmering pink aura, he braced himself for the impact, his mind consumed by thoughts of vengeance and justice. But even as he plummeted towards the earth below, he knew that the battle had only just begun.
He fought against the invisible bonds that held him captive, his muscles straining with every ounce of strength he could muster. With a surge of determination, he pushed against the oppressive force, feeling it relent ever so slightly. Inch by inch, he regained control of his own body, the sensation of freedom flooding his senses like a rushing tide.
But victory was short-lived as darkness descended upon him like a heavy shroud, enveloping his consciousness in its cold embrace. The last vestiges of awareness slipped away from him, leaving him adrift in a sea of blackness.
In the depths of unconsciousness, fragmented images flickered before his mind’s eye—a blur of movement, the distant sound of battle cries, and the looming presence of their supposed reinforcements. But try as he might, he couldn’t grasp hold of the fleeting memories, the threads slipping through his grasp like sand through an open palm.
And then, there was nothing. No sensation, no thought, only the void of oblivion stretching out before him. Time lost all meaning in that timeless realm, each moment bleeding into the next until it became an indistinguishable blur.
When he finally awoke, the world around him swam into focus with painful clarity. His head throbbed with the remnants of his ordeal, his body protesting with every movement. But even as he struggled to sit up, the memory of their supposed reinforcements lingered at the edge of his consciousness, a tantalizing mystery waiting to be unraveled.
“What happened?” he demanded, his voice hoarse with urgency. “How long was I knocked out?” His frantic questions echoed through the chamber, met with the concerned gaze of the attending servant who tended to his wounds.
“You were out for two days, My Liege,” the attendant replied softly, her voice a soothing balm amidst the chaos of his thoughts. His brow furrowed in frustration as he attempted to push himself upright, determined to regain control of the situation.
“I need to get out now,” he insisted, his muscles protesting with each movement. But before he could make another attempt to rise, the lord councilor entered the room, accompanied by a retinue of other councilors.
“I see that you are doing well,” the lord councilor remarked, a warm smile gracing his lips as he surveyed his condition. The councilors murmured their agreement, their expressions a mix of relief and concern.
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“How are the preparations for the march? Are we still on schedule?” he inquired anxiously, his mind racing with thoughts of the attack from two days ago.
The councilors shared a knowing look before answering. “Do not worry, Lord Paramount. Everything will be taken care of,” the lord councilor reassured him, his tone confident and reassuring. “By tomorrow, you should be able to march, I suppose?” The Councilor clarified, glancing towards the attending servant for confirmation.
“Good to know,” he sighed, a wave of relief washing over him at the prospect of imminent action. But even as he settled back against the pillows, his mind remained troubled by lingering questions.
“Do you have any idea why that old tomb was raided? I assume that it was investigated.” he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity. “Is there something there of great importance?”
The councilors exchanged solemn glances before one of them spoke up, breaking the tense silence. “There’s no need to rush yourself, Lord Paramount. Right now, your priority is to rest and recover. We’ll take care of investigating the identity of the attacker. We’ll be on our way then,” he said in a reassuring tone.
As the attendant turned to leave, he halted her with a request. “Wait. Before you go, I need you to deliver a message to an old friend of mine,” he instructed, his voice firm yet weary.
The following morning, he emerged from his tent feeling refreshed after a restful night’s sleep. In his hands, he carried an old book, its weathered pages hinting at the secrets it held within. The Kra’en Army bustled with activity as preparations for the march to Termosad continued. Smiths toiled tirelessly at their forges, forging weapons and armor for the united forces.
He observed the scene with a sense of determination, knowing that time was of the essence. As he settled into his tent to eat supper, he found himself unable to muster much of an appetite. The memory of the shadowy attacker and the destruction it wrought weighed heavily on his mind, casting a pall over his thoughts.
Pushing aside his untouched food, he turned his attention to the old book he had brought with him. Its leather-bound cover showed signs of age, yet it remained remarkably well-preserved, a testament to the meticulous care taken by the records keeper of the Iron Kingdom. With gentle hands, he brushed off the dust that had accumulated on its surface before opening it to its first page.
The last howl of the Snow Wolf.
The history of the noble people that was wiped out of existence. The people whom wrongfully received such judgement, bestowed upon them by their lesser kin.
History was not so kind to the people of the Kra’en’Ur. Their race blessed with command of the wind, in a terrain of such unforgiving chill. Only the wind was their shield and protector.
Much of these ancient people’s art and literature was the same as those of their lesser kin, the Kra’ens. But both had the same affinity and love for craftsmanship, mining and forge. It was passed down to them by the Race of Men, long gone from this world, as judged and seen by the Grand Elves of Old.
Many wars were fought amongst each other because of differences, with one being the greatest and one being the weaker. The Kra’en’Ur had a good homeland at the foot of the mountain as they have shielded themselves with the wind from the harsh blizzard and weather of their realm. The lesser beings were forced to live with the nightmares of the land given to them by their Gods and Animos.
They did not take this kindly. This was the very contention point that was always the reason for their war.
The other had enough bounty and blessing that they could grow food that never should, while the other had no choice but to fend harder for food and hunted for the meat of a goarac.
His stomach churned at the mere thought of consuming goarac meat. How could anyone stomach such a thing? Yet, as he delved deeper into the pages of the book, he began to understand the underlying reasons behind the centuries-old conflicts that had plagued their land.
Turning the pages with a mix of apprehension and curiosity, he sought to uncover more about his people’s tumultuous past. Each page revealed new insights, shedding light on the intricate web of events that had shaped their history.
Before the Old War, the old king of the Kra’en’Urs finally decided to assimilate their lesser kin, in an effort to heal old wounds and to be one with their brothers and sisters.
There were those who agreed to it and welcomed it with open arms. While there were those who disagreed, saying that they will be taken advantage of, and the most vocal of this voice was Krongrad, the Snow Wolf Prince of the Kra’en’Urs.
He saw through the deception of his lesser kin as they started to kill, with his father’s leniency and false advisers of the lesser kin.
He could see right through their lies and deception of these so-called advisers, as they ill-advised his father to the point that he got banished because of it.
At that point, he knew that this false unity was the tipping point and it would be irreversible if he did not intervene. He threw his father and took up arms against him. He gathered all of those who view the threat of this false unity and began to plot to overthrow the so-called rulers and to correct the mistake that his father was told to be just for the sake of unity, he was advised.
He waged a terrible war as the Great War unfolds around them. Against his own people and the lesser kin. But it was already far too late. Soon, the lesser kin massacred every single city and town. His own soldiers lost all hope. Even with their blessed gift of the wind, it was not enough to protect them from within.
He was killed in the city that these people ransacked. Their Great Animos Nuragod, angered and grief stricken, decided for the winds to stop. Thus, the once lush city that they called home was abandoned and buried in feet of snow.
His emotions churned like a tempest within him as he closed the ancient tome. The weight of history lay heavy on his shoulders.
Before he could dwell further on his conflicting emotions, a soldier interrupted his reverie. “Sire, we are ready to move,” the soldier announced, snapping Graveloth back to the present.
“Very well. Begin the march. We join our comrades,” he commanded, his voice firm with resolve as he emerged from his quarters.
As he stepped outside, he was met with the awe-inspiring sight of the Iron Kra’en Army assembled before him. They stood as a formidable force, their determination palpable in the air. With a sense of grim determination, he gazed upon the army, their ranks stretching as far as the eye could see.
His fingers moved with urgency as he summoned an Owl Handler. The weight of recent events pressed heavily upon him. With a swift command, he initiated a connection to Aderon, the Grand Commander of the Unibeltrasian forces.
As the connection established, his voice was resolute, yet tinged with apprehension. “Aderon, it’s Graveloth. We’re on the move,” he began, the words tumbling out in a rush.
But as he spoke, a gnawing sense of unease gnawed at him. There was something lurking in the shadows, something sinister and unseen. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were mere pawns in a larger game, manipulated by forces beyond their comprehension.
He paused, a troubled furrow creasing his brow. “Listen, Aderon,” he continued, his tone grave. “I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to all of this than meets the eye. Keep your senses sharp. There’s something brewing, something bigger than us.”
His brow furrowed as he listened to Aderon’s voice through the Owl Handler, a deep sense of concern etched into every line of the Grand Commander’s face. The crackle of the magical connection underscored the gravity of their conversation, the urgency palpable in the air.
“Do you think there’s more to this?” Aderon’s inquiry hung heavy in the air, echoing the unspoken fears that danced between them like shadows in the night.
His gaze drifted to the snow-covered landscape outside, a veil of uncertainty shrouding his features. “I’m not sure,” he admitted, the weight of the unknown pressing down on him like a leaden cloak. “But something doesn’t sit right.”
Aderon’s eyes widened, a flicker of realization crossing his face.
“Have you consulted with Tamiron? Or Everess, perhaps?” he pressed, his voice laced with curiosity and concern.
“Why, Everess?” Aderon’s question cut through the static of the Owl Handler, demanding an answer.
His mind raced, connecting the dots with a dawning sense of clarity. “The enemy that attacked us two nights ago—it was an Orderian,” he revealed, the pieces of the puzzle slotting into place before his eyes. The implications hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over their conversation.
Aderon’s expression darkened, a storm brewing behind his eyes. “Have you shared this with anyone else in our group?” he inquired, his voice low and urgent.
He shook his head, a sense of unease settling in the pit of his stomach. “No, not yet,” he admitted, his words weighted with the gravity of their situation.
His voice cracked with emotion, his words tinged with sorrow and frustration. “Aderon, you don’t understand,” he began, his gaze fixed on the snowy expanse beyond the camp. “I lost a friend to that thing.”
The Grand Commander’s expression softened, a flicker of empathy crossing his features. “I’m sorry for your loss, Graveloth. I understand your pain,” Aderon replied, his voice heavy with sympathy. “But we need to tread carefully. If word gets out before we have all the facts, it could lead to panic and chaos among our ranks.”
His fists clenched at his sides, torn between loyalty to his fallen comrade and the responsibility he bore as a leader. How could he honor his friend’s memory while keeping silent about the truth? The weight of the decision pressed down on him like a leaden cloak, threatening to crush him under its burden.
“Aderon, I can’t just stand by and do nothing,” he insisted, his voice tinged with desperation. “I owe it to my friend to seek justice—to uncover the truth behind his death.”
The Grand Commander’s gaze softened, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. “I understand, Graveloth,” Aderon said quietly. “But for now, we must trust in our abilities to unravel this mystery together. We owe it to your fallen comrades to find the answers we seek.”
With a heavy heart, Graveloth nodded, his resolve hardened by the weight of his friend’s memory. As he watched the Iron Kra’en Army prepare to march, he vowed to honor his fallen comrade’s memory—to uncover the truth, no matter the cost.
End of Chapter XV