The summons came swiftly, a terse order from Captain Karl Volgunder. Liam, still feeling the lingering fatigue from his magical exertion and the subsequent dream-encounter with Kael, found himself ushered into the crowded command tent. The air inside was thick with tension, the flickering lamplight casting long shadows on the grim faces of the assembled leaders. Brian, Brad, Lia, Elara, Anayis, and Khel were already there, gathered around the rough-hewn table, their expressions a mixture of weariness and apprehension.

As Liam entered, all eyes turned to him. It was an unsettling sensation, this sudden focus, this weight of expectation. He was no longer just the awkward, untalented younger brother, hiding in the shadows. He was… something else. Something more. And they all knew it.

Karl wasted no time on pleasantries. "We've received reports from the scouts," he said, his voice gravelly. "The Rubak army is on the move. Twelve hundred strong, heading this way. They'll be here in fifteen days, at most."

A murmur of unease rippled through the tent. Fifteen days. It wasn't much time. Not nearly enough.

Karl continued, his gaze sweeping across the assembled faces. "We're outnumbered. We're outmatched. And we're trapped. But we're not defeated. Not yet." He paused, his eyes settling on Liam. "Liam," he said, his voice surprisingly neutral, "you've seen more of this… enemy… than any of us. You've fought them. You've… felt them. What do you think? What can you tell us?"

Liam swallowed, his throat dry. He felt a surge of… something. It wasn't confidence, not exactly. It was more like… clarity. The dream, the encounter with Kael Volgunder, had shaken him, yes, but it had also given him a sense of purpose, a sense of understanding. He was no longer just reacting, stumbling blindly in the dark. He had pieces of the puzzle, fragmented though they might be.

He took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. "I have four things to say," he said, his voice steadier than he expected. The words came, not with the hesitant stammer of the boy he had been, but with a newfound authority.

The assembled leaders listened, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and skepticism.

"First," Liam continued, "the demonic energy… it's a shield, of sorts. It protects them from normal weapons. But… mithril… mithril seems to… disrupt it. My sword… it was the only thing that consistently caused them damage."

A murmur of surprise went through the tent. Mithril. A rare, precious metal, known more for its beauty and lightness than for any specific combat properties.

"Second," Liam said, "weapons enhanced with magic also seem to be effective. I… I used a technique, a burst of my own ice magic, to strengthen a dagger. It… it worked. But," he added, his voice faltering slightly, "that's… that's something only I can do, at least for now."

"Third," he said. "They are using something… someone, to empower them. The Rubaks I fought at the Serpent's Pass, the ones with the strongest demonic protection… they were being fueled by… something. A medium. Like… like the Rubak leader, the one I…" He trailed off, unable to quite describe the brutal finality of that encounter.

"Fourth," He took a deep breath. My magic. I have tested it. "Orb of the Frozen Warding," I could only create a small one, and for a short time. It's better. It's now a sphere, ten meters in radius, and i can held it up to sixty second, with all my best. I... I will train to make it stronger. I will try."

Brian watched his brother, his expression a complex mix of pride and concern. He had known Liam was intelligent, observant, but he had never seen him speak with such… authority, such… presence. It was as if the boy he knew had been replaced by someone… older, wiser, more… dangerous.

Karl, his face still grim, but with a flicker of something that might have been respect in his eyes, turned to the others. "You heard him," he said. "Mithril. Magic. And a… medium. We need to consider all of this." He paused. "Does anyone here… carry a mithril weapon?"

Silence. Liam knew the answer, of course. Mithril was rare, expensive, typically used for ceremonial objects or decorative hilts, not for practical weapons.

"I do," Liam said, his voice quiet but firm. "My short sword. It… it belonged to my mother."

Brian nodded, confirming the statement.

Karl's gaze shifted to Anthony. "Anthony," he said, "check the armory. See if any of the soldiers, any of the relief parties, have mithril weapons. Anything. Even a dagger."

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Anthony saluted and hurried out of the tent.

The silence stretched, broken only by the crackling of the oil lamps and the distant murmur of voices from the camp. The weight of Liam's words hung heavy in the air, a mixture of hope and dread. Mithril… could it be the key?

Then, an idea struck Karl, a desperate gamble born of necessity. "If we could… melt down a mithril weapon," he said, his voice thoughtful, "we could use the metal to… to tip our arrows. Give our archers a fighting chance."

A murmur of agreement went through the tent. It was a radical idea, sacrificing a valuable weapon for a potentially decisive advantage. But it was also their best, perhaps their only, hope.

Before anyone could respond, Anthony returned, his face pale. "Captain," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "We… we found some. Ten blades in total, counting your's, Liam. Five daggers and Four short swords. And…" he hesitated, "…and one longsword. A family heirloom. It belongs to… Darwin Vangoria."

Darwin. Liam knew the name. He was a veteran warrior, a respected figure from a noble house, one of those who had answered the Volgunder's initial call to arms. He was older, past his prime, perhaps, but still a formidable swordsman.

Karl nodded, his expression grim. "Bring him here," he said. "Immediately."

A few moments later, Darwin Vangoria entered the tent. He was a tall, powerfully built man, even in his late fifties, with a shock of silver-grey hair and a weathered face that spoke of years of hardship and battle. He carried himself with a quiet dignity, a sense of inherent nobility. And strapped to his back, its hilt wrapped in worn leather, was a longsword, its blade gleaming faintly in the lamplight.

"Captain Volgunder," Darwin said, his voice deep and resonant, offering a respectful nod. "You summoned me?"

Karl stepped forward, his expression serious. "Darwin," he said, "we have a… situation. A serious situation." He briefly explained Liam's findings, the effectiveness of mithril against the Rubaks' demonic defenses. He outlined his plan, his desperate gamble: to melt down mithril weapons and use the metal to tip their arrows.

Darwin listened, his expression unchanging, his eyes fixed on Karl.

"And so," Karl concluded, his voice heavy, "I must ask you… we need your sword, Darwin. Your mithril longsword."

Darwin didn't react immediately. He simply stood there, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his gaze distant. It was clear that this was no ordinary weapon. It was a part of him, a part of his family history.

"My sword," Darwin said finally, his voice quiet, "is already yours, Karl. For the defense of Drakonia, it was always yours."

Karl and the others were visibly taken aback. They had expected resistance, argument, perhaps even refusal.

Karl recoverd quickly. "Let me rephrase that. I need the mithril from your family's longsword."

Darwin's eyes flickered, a flicker of… something… crossing his face. Pain? Regret? Resignation? "What for?" he asked, needing more than just a general request.

Karl explained, he needed the Rubaks' weakness to be exploited. He explained the plan.

A long silence followed. Darwin's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.

"It… it was a gift," Darwin said finally, his voice barely a whisper. "From my wife. Before… before she passed." He looked up, his eyes meeting Karl's. "It's all I have left of her."

Brian stepped forward, his expression sympathetic. "I understand, Darwin," he said. "It's a… a difficult request. I'll buy it from you. Name your price. Any price."

Darwin shook his head, a faint smile touching his lips. "It's not about the money, young Volgunder," he said. "It's… it's about the memories. The… the sentimental value."

Liam, who had been silent until now, felt a surge of empathy for the older man. He knew what it was like to lose someone, to cling to the few precious reminders they had left behind. He looked at his own short sword, the mithril blade gleaming faintly in the lamplight. His mother's sword. The only tangible connection he had to the woman he had never known.

He stepped forward, his voice hesitant but firm. "You can use this, Karl," he said, offering his short sword. "Melt it down. Use it for the arrows."

Brian started to protest. "Liam, no! That's—"

Liam cut him off. "It's the only thing I have left from her, yes," he said, his voice gaining strength. "But Darwin shouldn't have to sacrifice his memories when I am not prepared to do the same. We cannot ask of others what we will not do ourselves." He looked at Darwin, his eyes filled with a sincerity that transcended his youth.

Darwin studied him for a long moment, his gaze searching, assessing. He saw the boy's resolve, his courage, his willingness to sacrifice something precious for the greater good. He saw, perhaps, a reflection of his own younger self, of the ideals he had once held so dear.

He sighed, a long, slow exhale of breath. Then, he unstrapped his longsword and held it out to Karl.

"Take it," he said, his voice firm, though a hint of sadness lingered in his eyes. "Use it well. This… this is what she would have wanted." He smiled, a bittersweet smile. "Just… make sure it works, eh? Otherwise, I will be asking for compensation."

Brian stepped forward and, in a gesture of respect and gratitude, offered Darwin his own longsword. "Use this, Darwin," he said. "It's not mithril, but it's a good blade. And it will serve you well."

Darwin took the sword, hefting it, testing its weight and balance. He nodded, a flicker of appreciation in his eyes. "Thank you, young Volgunder," he said. "I will."

The tension in the tent eased slightly, replaced by a sense of grim determination. A sacrifice had been made, a difficult decision reached. And now, they had a chance. A fighting chance. The fate of Drakonia, perhaps, rested on the edge of a mithril arrow.