“These are who are meant to protect our king?” Odlig barely heard the voice beside him over guttural chanting and the clamor of fists being struck against armor rhythmically.

Odlig regarded the elf next to him, Scéadu. As much as Scéadu seemed less than confident of the coming results, the commander of the then called Hidden Legion observed the scene perhaps even more studiously than Odlig himself.

That close, Scéadu’s garb was a deep blue of shifting patterns cut with thin, disappearing and reappearing lines of black like an encroaching tide. His light brown hair matched well with his eyes and gently tanned complexion.

The center of the commander’s collar had a single ivory icon of a scorpion, shined in those years of peace when wartime would have seen it dulled so as to not betray him with a flicker of light.

Necessity led to designs, surrounded by such patterns led to ideas that furthered such developments. Scéadu’s gear was born from a generation exposed to war, fortunately, he had been surrounded by the old designs and retained aspects of the beauty of old.

Between the two, they displayed the three sacred colors in conjunction. Blue meant peace as the calm sky offered no difficulty and the red sun granted life while white reminded them of the tribulation of foaming waters. Odlig’s own tunic was bright red with patterned sections of white. One such colorless section was over his heart where a ruby raven seemed to fly, pinned into place. Odlig’s icon, the raven, marked him as the first and only individual to succeed the title of commander, taken in memory of his predecessor.

His dichromatic fashion broke at his waist, severed by a gilded and bejeweled girdle. It was his first great trophy as a commander, the belt of the officer he outmaneuvered, modified however slightly to fit his slender frame and the jewels rearranged into a rainbow pattern. The thinned and shortened the golden cord made the ornamentation all the more prominent. The yellow of gold reminded him faintly of dead grass so he was happy to find the large gems practically dominated what remained.

He offered what he did not use to his former master. The gold had been twisted into a flower that would never wilt at her gravesite.

The commander of the Undying, Odlig, was not yet his ideal image of himself but had the bearing of a warrior, shaped by necessity rather than choice. He was already working to correct that, exercising in ways to distribute muscle where he would find it most useful so he might be the sculptor of his own existence rather than be someone carved by his experiences. That was how he was trying to place the war behind him, so he did not see it when he saw his own reflection.

The dwarves’ name for themselves translated to children of stone and at times the elves could have been convinced their enemies were wrought from earth and metal rather than flesh and bone. Hammers and axes damaged earthworks but venom undid those of mortal flesh. Scéadu chose the scorpion to remind his enemies that dwarves were indeed had blood flowing through their veins.

Scorpions were almost a matter of myth for most, tales from their time with Marine Elves who journeyed afar. However, if one scouted near enemy territory in the southeast where the mountains met the sea as Scéadu had, there were rare scorpions to be found in the crags.

To that day, they were still discovering new wonders. The land was vast, too vast for them with their current numbers to truly occupy but they had fought for it, defined by the waters of the north and south and mountains to the east and west. Their homeland, an island, a large island but an island all the same was smaller and sustained their people’s full population before their migration.

“We at least know they are our best fighters,” Odlig stated neutrally. “We will have to see how they serve as protectors.”

“An age from now, hopefully,” Scéadu remarked.

That earned a nod of agreement and a smile from Odlig. “Hopefully.”

Scéadu smiled back to reveal perfect, unmutilated teeth. The commander of the Hidden Legion was unarguably handsome with the subtle hints of musculature anyone who used a bow required. His company proved calming in the presence of the violence still unfolding before them.

The two returned their attention to the spectacle. What had been a melee of hundreds of candidates had been reduced to a score of one on one duels, the defeated forming circles around the ongoing struggles, cheering the very ones that brought them low so they might at least know they lost to the strongest of their number.

The morning sun had lifted the darkness to outline the silhouettes of warriors that had been fighting through the night. Most of what might have appeared to lesser eyes as shadow would not be so easily banished by illumination. Encompassing most if not all of them was a layer of dirt, blood, and mud like a second layer of skin, broken and repaired as fists met flesh.

The embattled warriors were called the Wolf Pact. One could not deny that Vernigen once had a sense of humor to have called them such. The term “wolf pack” was something that inspired dread for those that endured the first cold winters and hungry wolves. The Wolf Pact were originally those that hunted the very animals they were named after and in doing so became more like those beasts. The wolves of the land were large and possessed hides to match so arrows were not as effective as one would hope.

That the Wolf Pact before him wore blue as their secondary color beneath their collected mire led to no small amount of dissonance for Odlig. To the Wolf Pact, the blue was a threat directed at their enemy, a declaration that there would be peace after the crushing, tumultuous white.

The competition had been ongoing for four days. Four days of ceaseless fighting. It was in essence a game of survival but it was also decided by the number of “kills.” Passivity was not a trait the warriors of Vernigen cultivated; their prestige was won by competition to encourage aggression.

Even after days of ceaseless battle, they continued. Some part of Odlig craved the exhilaration of combat, their frantic movements reminding him of the way his heart would race. Elves were resistant to most substances be they sedatives or stimulants and the few that did affect them paled in comparison to the raw adrenaline flowing through their veins at the height of a life and death struggle. It was alluring to him, at the same time disgusting to him, something one endured in the worst of times yet somehow could be missed. To try to understand that seemed to Odlig the doorway to lunacy so he took efforts to avoid dwelling too long on such reminders.

Odlig and Scéadu were not the only observers. There was a large audience, primarily comprised of the young though. Many of the older souls that remembered peace were not eager to be reminded of conflict.

The Wolf Pact’s surroundings were as dismal and beaten as the warriors themselves if not more so. Still green grass was torn away in ugly, sporadic patches to reveal naked soil and their white and blue leather were likely irreparably stained. Beneath coats of mud was skin reddened with irritation and tension with unsightly purple spots where fresh bruises still healed and black scabs of dried blood. Not a single one, no matter how skilled had remained uninjured.

The ground was muddy, covered in gashes in the turf from them pushing or dragging each other across the field. It being so near a slope left it slick from distant rain that might have travelled down but the more imaginative could believe as easily that it had been watered with sweat and blood.

The experience was not purely visual. The scene was an assault on every sense except touch, even then Odlig imagined a distinct tension in the air like the static energy that heralded a lightning strike. Not for a moment did silence reign between the shouting, smashing of fists against torsos and skulls, and endless chanting of names and howls. One of Vernigen’s first orders to his warriors in what seemed like an age ago was for them to sing and shout rather than run and hide. They suppressed their fear of death with words of courage and rage. Pieces of that tradition survived in the boisterousness of his warriors and their howls.

The metallic scent of blood and unkindly tilled earth mixed obscenely and threatened to creep onto one’s tongue as one spoke. Fortunately there were no corpses, though the grass and other unearthed things had four days to decompose but not to the horrifically familiar odor of rot.

The first day, they did not even have food and water as they turned the surrounding area into a battlefield. All illusion of nobility dissolved as they clawed and bit each other. All was tolerated as long as the warriors used only their bare hands. Fortunately, the number of severe casualties were low though that it went that far at all was concerning. The “survivors'' were able to receive rations on the morning of the second day, most quite literally throwing the food into their mouths with a sip of water before they divided into the singular duels and a few more confident ones enjoyed their meal even as they traded punches and kicks. The individual duels could easily last hours by foreign measure but they had a sense of urgency compelling them into a violent frenzy to end such matters as decisively as they could.

Vernigen had demanded that he be the one that chose which warriors would take watch of their lord. Odlig accepted with a counterdemand that only ten warriors be chosen or else he feared Vernigen would mobilize an army. Not even Vernigen argued with the proposal. That left Kírous as the one that decided the location of their camp while Scéadu selected the charioteer that would meet Ceronus and their lord. The choice of charioteer proved a heated subject as every one of the commanders except the elder expressed an eagerness to meet the king. The commander of the Hidden Legion defused the situation by selecting a former ranger.

Of the ten that would serve their lord, the final selection seemed inconsequential to Odlig. They were not anticipating battle and there were no threats from within to consider. If anything, the warriors themselves in their fervor seemed greater hazards than what they were meant to protect from.

Odlig would have thought Kírous’s Vigilants were better suited for the task. Unfortunately, Vernigen had a low opinion of the Vigil. Kírous’s soldiers did their best, but they did not always keep everyone safe.

The greatest way to protect others was to fight battles far away from them. The Hidden Legion, Wolf Pact, Undying, and the rangers fought so those that chose not to, did not have to. The Vigil existed for if such efforts failed, they were both a defensive force and surveyors to ensure no enemy drew close. They were both guardians and scouts.

The four remaining armies as they called themselves consisted of the Wolf Pact, the Vigil, the Undying, and the Hidden Legion remained intact. The fifth army, the Queen’s Rangers, disbanded at the loss of the queen. At the time, they did not appreciate military scale and still thought any large deployment was worthy of the title of army. It would be later that they acknowledged their forces as mere parts of a singular military and retitled themselves regiments.

Though of those four, the Wolf Pact were the ones that remained most active followed by Kírous’s Vigilants who performed the mass exhumation and relocation of the dead with assistance from Odlig’s Undying and Scéadu’s Hidden Legion. Odlig and Scéadu’s soldiers insisted that they be the ones that handled their fallen. The Wolf Pact as a whole were less concerned with their dead but at least a few helped perform the rites. The Vigil even then in such cases were still performing the task of digging and proved the most outspread.

With the responsibilities of defenders and funeralists, the Vigil seemed to be comprised of primarily of two extremes, those that were calm and desensitized or the disturbed. They saw the least violence, but they were serving as defenders when the battle came to them, it was in the most dire of circumstances and they as the ones performing the rites were the ones that lingered among the dead while others moved forward.

The Wolf Pact were not guardians but warriors and arguably not even soldiers. There was a distinction between warriors and soldiers. Most of the time the terms were interchangeable as one could easily be both at once.

Warriors were those that excelled on the battlefield while soldiers like Odlig's Undying were part of a greater whole, their coordinated efforts brought about what could not be accomplished alone.

The motivations of soldiers varied but they were united in a goal, not a cause but an outcome. They could disagree but they trusted each other to fulfill their part just as they trusted him to do everything he could to have them leave the battlefield alive.

His previous commander taught him that it was better to retreat and try to take an objective at a later time than to break upon the enemy. It was a proper elven outlook, though one that rarely reached proper balance as waiting forever would accomplish nothing and being too cautious might let one’s best opportunity slip by.

The Undying were even then called the Undying for their low attrition rate and with Odlig as commander, it also referred to how it continued even without their founder. The enemy discerned their pattern and the Undying fell back into a trap. Surrender would have meant capture and every soldier caught would be one less to battle in the future or a tool for the dwarves to use. Odlig’s commander made the decision that would cost the least lives while still allowing them to continue the war. Odlig still missed her and certainly always would.

Fortunately, the Undying may never need to mobilize again. Odlig gave his attention to the fights among the Wolf Pact if only to assess the general composition of the king’s future retinue. Most were the exemplars of strength he came to expect to arise from the barehanded brawls they chose to settle the matter with. No ranged capabilities were to be considered in such brutal contests but about a third or less of the remnants consisted of those renowned for agility. Being able to hit an opponent was an important, perhaps the most important, factor in combat as what was strength without being able to apply it. However, those lacking sufficient power or technique found themselves punching and kicking or worse trapping with opponents rivaling dwarves in endurance that may as well have been trees.

One needed to be precise or one needed to be ferocious. Even if measured pound per pound, their enemies were stronger and better equipped. One needed to be able to bend iron and tear away plates or strike between those defenses.

Odlig was not sure if Vernigen's warriors felt the same way but to him proficiency in war did not mean a love of war. As paradoxical as it may be, effectiveness could be the pathway to ending the nightmare of war or perhaps the means of not seeing it come about again. If nothing else, one needed to survive the nightmare to see it end, those unskilled in it would never come to awake to see its conclusion. Though if that violent path did not lead to peace then it could as easily lead to annihilation, or “Vernigen” as Odlig was yet to discover the dwarves named such phenomenon.

Even without the promise of warfare, a large part of him remained ill at ease. His subconscious assessed the landscape, checking for signs of an approaching army and where would be the best place to meet them, how he would hold the slope he currently resided at or move forward into the banks of a distant river winding or flee into the surrounding forests beyond.

The treeline of the region as a whole was like a broken circle with the forests encroaching from the lands outside. The center to that day remained sparse of woodlands. The west was primarily populated with deciduous trees of similar stock to the unwelcoming, neighboring forest but if not ordinary then less aggressive once cut off from the rest by the mountains and subject to the harsh local winters.

The northern coast was populated with evergreen pine forests that came from eastern lands that stretched further north. Fortunately, deciduous growths still found root in the east near the middle and further south. Elves preferred leaves to needles and pine branches rarely stretched and twisted together as elves often liked. Though the sight of green during winter was welcome.

Of their camp’s current location, Kírous chose the open terrain that sloped towards the land’s central peak furtherer west. He chose one of the few steep areas so their backs would have been to the summit while offering a particularly spectacular view of the realm. It also happened to provide a space for such an affray the Wolf Pact.

Camp was no longer an appropriate word, they used to be more tightly knit but the peacetime afforded more distance. They were now better described as a mobile community, the largest concentration of their population. Tens of thousands of souls planted across the distance of several leagues. Battlefields taught Odlig that spaces a fraction of such distances could contain such numbers but they were no longer in such desperate times. Their homeland of Olmvan, being an island, limited how far one could venture from others but even the closest of neighbors afforded each other some breadth even in the few cities they had. They had long enough lives a short walk for a morning’s greetings seemed inconsequential. The war made Odlig’s people far more closely knit, one would want to be close enough to hear a sentry’s warnings and rush to the aide of their kin during a raid.

Few elves had yet to settle. They had been chased for too long, fought too much to believe it was safe to establish roots.

They still had at least a few souls residing at the distant peak to keep watch. The place was supposedly cursed, both sacred and reviled for how many lost their lives there.

The hereafter had been a rarely discussed matter of philosophical thought in Olmvan where death seemed an impossibility for those that remained ashore. In their new home, the subject became unavoidable and resulted in division and multiple interpretations. The most common sentiment assumed that souls were everlasting like their bodies were assumed once to be thus their spirits persisted. It was where those spirits went that led to arguments and tears.

The previous king and queen supported the idea that the departed were still with them. Odlig silently followed Vernigen's interpretation of "We should not want them to be here." Odlig would be comforted by the prospect of the fallen still being at his side but at the time he would have hoped the dead at least found rest somewhere far away from discord.

Elves rarely conceived and needed three years to be carried to term but the prospect of death resulted in higher birth rates. Once his people grew accustomed to warfare and less were lost while the number of new births remained steady if not ever increasing as youths born into the war came of age convinced they might soon depart, resulted in the population rapidly growing as generations other races would have lost to time remained. Their population was now beginning to steady again with war no longer on the horizon though with the inevitable gradual incline of new births.

Vernigen and Odlig had both proposed mass military training but Alfar and Narcissa insisted that such needed to remain voluntary. Vernigen, after his mind returned, argued "No one remains a noncombatant. The battlefield comes for everyone."

Odlig wanted everyone to be able to fight, not actually be involved. Dedicating more than what was necessary would be its own hazard; everyone needed to be ready as Vernigen stated.

Elves benefitted from deploying smaller numbers consisting of those prepared for combat. Their first major engagement with larger numbers proved disastrous from lack of basic understanding of warfare against a well armed and well drilled force. If the elves had repeated such mistakes, they would have quickly been extinct. Their population would have been shorn away like the Wolf Pact before him who were now so unapologetically intent to reduce themselves to ten.

Odlig and Scéadu watched the number of duels dwindle as sets closed and circles merged together as victors confronted each other with only the slightest moment of respite before engaging again. Each fight proved long lived for the time they had remaining, these were not something that could be settled in a few minutes, the Wolf Pact were slow to yield, especially in such situations. They had to beat each other to unconsciousness or force their opponent outside the surrounding circles of those that already lost. Slowly, the circles stopped growing as the final ten battles came to pass.

Two winners were already decided when Odlig’s attention was drawn to an audible wet smack. One of the fighters held his taller opponent’s head beneath his arms where the knee had a straight course to their opponent’s face if they only raised their leg. The stillness of the moment made it clear a vital strike had already been made.

However, after an instant of motionlessness the one being held down began to stir. What came next was a flurry of knee strikes to the head like a dwarf’s hammer rapidly beating hot metal into shape. That time, the one being held remained unmoving as the one now recognized as the third victor took a moment to lower his heavier opponent to the ground before flipping his fellow warrior so the unconscious one did not lay face down in the dirt.

The black hair common to their people peaked through in the few places the winner’s hair was not matted with mud like all his fellows. Odlig recalled seeing him win through sheer speed and determination before, recovering quickly from what few hits he received and striking three times with jabs for every swing someone else might throw. The traits to draw attention to him was his silver eyes and how his full leather outfit covered in barely concealed his lean yet toned physique compared to his larger compatriots.

Or rather silver eye. His nose and right eye socket had collapsed under some violent blow and the residing eye had been reduced to a pulp. There would be no healing of that eye, it had ruptured into a revolting mass with no traces of its original shape. He would have to grow or claim a new one, which would not take long but not before the king arrived.

Odlig could have sworn he saw the silver eyed one earlier moving to dodge before an incoming attack had the time to be telegraphed. Odlig prided himself for his own style and was impressed to see reflexes that rivaled his own. Dwarves tended to not be as swift as elves, it was recognized that it was better to strike before they could but Odlig found it difficult to land a fatal blow against a fully armored dwarves in a defensive formation, one needed to know the opportune time.

Strength and agility did not exist at the exclusion of the other though there was a correlation, the larger the individual the more power one required to begin motion yet the longer one’s reach, like with the swing of an axe, the faster a distance can be closed. So there were a number of factors to consider. Vernigen was a giant but that did not mean he was slow for all the force he could muster so neither were most of his warriors, they just happened to be slow only in comparison to the silver eyed one like how that warrior was slight in frame only in the company of his fellows.

“I do not recall him being in the upper ranks,” Odlig said aloud. Scéadu directed his gaze to match Odlig’s as the commander of the Undying gestured to the warrior.

Scéadu remembered faces well. Though one would not be surprised if the victor went unrecognized with a quarter of his face broken and the rest covered in grime and blood.

Scéadu regarded the warrior and the features of the warrior became more apparent as the victor wiped his face and set his nose back in place and pushed the fragmented pieces of his skull together as his skin and muscle constricted to reconstruct his crushed eye socket.

“He was in the upper middle ranks,” Scéadu recalled.

The candidates had entered in order of recognized rank. Most of those that remained after the first day were from the earliest numbers, though some of them eliminated each other once the initial brawl ended.

Odlig tried to understand how such a person might be of the level Scéadu remembered. The silver eyed one's display of skill varied too much for Odlig to form an accurate assessment. His reactions seemed extraordinary but his execution needed work, especially when compared to those around him that showed no such hesitation or delay.

The number of strikes the victor had finished his match with had been excessive. If Odlig did it, he would have been able to do it with one knee strike. Either the victor was somehow inept or holding back, making sure to decide the matter with a quantity of weaker but still devastating kicks rather than a singular, potentially fatal strike.

That had been the victor’s final bout so rather than search for a new opponent, he crouched and waited patiently for his opponent to revive.

The silver eyed one rested a fist over his opponent’s chest as his fellow warrior woke and said something. His opponent said something back and they both laughed.

His opponent wiped his hand on some grass and with no further preparation or ritual plucked out his own eye and offered it. The one with the silver eye accepted and slipped it into his empty socket, leaving him with a pair of mismatched eyes.

Such exchanges had been performed by the defeated to their conquerors so the victor at least continued in some recognizable shape. Odlig had witnessed at least one case where one with a shattered hand received a new one as pulverized bones did require time to mend.

Even internal organs could be traded if they survived the process. A gutted elf could receive donations from a comrade though the methods were still crude. Rarely were such situations viable before the war they had lived lives of relative peace that would have never even led them to consider such possibilities.

The closest cases to rejection were simply matters of mismatch, pieces that did not fit well in place at first, but the body inevitably assimilated the foreign flesh into the whole and one would find no trace of a graft in time.

Eventually six victors had been decided so that only four matches remained undecided. In the heat of it all, a voice rose from the crowd behind Odlig. Most of the bystanders had been silent but invested observers, following the etiquette of hunters to quietly approve and congratulate, compared to the unruly cheer that swelled from half of the gathered Wolf Pact and disappointment of the other half with each victory decided.

The raised voice corresponded with one of the fighters striking her opponent in the throat with a speared hand. The fighter remained cleaner than most, though that meant she was still disheveled and begrimed rather than blanketed completely in dirt. Her dexterous movements would have meant little if she grappled and wrestled her opponents down.

If there was a near universal advantage an elf had over a dwarf, it was reach. Odlig would be shocked to find an adult elf with shorter arms than a dwarf, their naturally lithe forms afforded them at least that advantage.

She fought as one that utilized that fact, even against her own. Her every movement seemed to extend her range further than one expected, her hands stabbing out like spearheads followed by kicks once her opponent was worn down or vulnerable.

Most of her strikes were aimed for the throat or eyes. Aiming for the center of the body of someone so large without a weapon would turn into a battle of attrition especially with how she struck with her hands flat like a blade with the finesse of someone accustomed to slipping between plates rather than beating away with fists. When she did hit the chest, she struck the lungs. The larger the opponent, the more breath they needed. One of the key basics of battle would be mastering the correct rhythm for breathing.

Odlig had noticed a pattern, each time she won or made an impressive strike there was a distinct commotion from those behind him.

The commander took a backwards glance. He finally located the one raising the cheer as the last articulation escaped from the mouth of one with auburn hair and wide, light brown eyes like thin syrup. It was all but confirmed as the scene behind him unfolded to have her cheer again as Odlig heard faintly the now familiar sound of a knee striking flesh. The celebrant was a young adult, perhaps a few years older than their king at most as Odlig could tell she had at least a few years left before she would stop growing. An elf’s growth slowed once they entered adolescence as if their body was gradually slowing its advance before ceasing at adulthood. She would have only spent her first few years alive safely encamped during the war, she could be considered part of the new generation where such troubles could hopefully be forgotten.

Their eyes met and Odlig gestured for her to join him. She hesitated for a moment as she searched for someone in red and white that he may have been instructing to approach. He dissolved her doubt as he pointed directly at her and nodded.

“You do not seem to enjoy the sport but you cheered louder than anyone else not initiated,” Odlig assessed with equal parts curiosity and warmth as she approached cautiously. “Would you tell me what I should thank for such high spirits?”

It took a moment before her eyes brightened as she realized his words were more akin praise than scolding. “I am here to watch my sister,” she answered.

Odlig indicated to the contender. “Am I right to assume that would be her?”

The girl nodded.

“May I have both your names?” he inquired before he remembered the war was finally over. “My name is Odlig,” he offered, hoping perhaps his position held no relevance in this peaceful time.

To his disappointment, the adolescent bowed her head. “I know you, sir. My name is Hílainno and hers is Vláth.”

“Would you also know me?” Scéadu halfheartedly teased to remind her there were two commanders present.

Hílainno bowed deeper to Scéadu, moving her whole back in clear recognition. “You are Scéadu of the Hidden Legion, sir.”

“No need to bow,” Scéadu alieved as his attention was drawn to Vláth. “I knew your sister. She was a ranger like I once was.”

“She is still a ranger,” Hílainno corrected politely but with an unconcealed sense of pride and boldness from having an audience of two commanders.

The rangers in their prime did have a firm self-regard about them. They were led directly by the queen so their command structure was absolute and undiluted compared to how Odlig and Scéadu attributed their power being granted to them and could supposedly be taken away just as easily.

There was in that time still a distinction between combatants and noncombatants. The king and queen did not originally give the commanders power over all citizenry but the loss of the lord and lady left the commanders and the judge set by the queen in the highest of positions. One could be easily forgiven for not recognizing the judge, Nylim.

Nylim suited her responsibility to heart and seemed uninclined towards attachments and her role became more and more compartmentalized as the war turned more and more disputes into “military matters” so she was rarely called on for her role. Odlig and Kírous assured she had a place in the recent discussions but she insisted upon neutrality in their affairs to the extent she may as well have been excluded. She excused herself though with the demand that she have an exclusive audience with the king at a later time. That placed her outside of their conflicts and it seemed fair that she demanded less of their lord’s time but his undivided attention when she did receive it.

It was accepted that the enforcer of the public law was the judge but even most those that abstained from combat came to accept the commanders as heroes for what they saw as bringing the war to an end. The only commander with distinctly different treatment was Vernigen who had the support of the few unsatisfied with how it concluded.

That Vláth was a ranger explained Títania’s prior participation in spite of her being an outsider. Vernigen did not allow favoritism to guide his decisions. At least the champion claimed he did not. Vernigen would have allowed anyone that was devoted to the task to participate. Unfortunately, Vernigen likely would not have extended the offer to most of the Undying, the Vigil, and the Hidden Legion by association with their commanders but Odlig could imagine the champion ignoring such connections if they met the same standards he set for his warriors. Anyone who could survive the Wolf Pact was worthy of the Wolf Pact. However, the rangers demonstrated their devotion through their own dissolution and were likely informed if anyone outside of the Wolf Pact were actively called to participate.

Odlig examined the contender anew, searching for resemblances between the ranger and Hílainno. Beneath the coating of mire, Vláth’s eyes that were a deeper shade than her sister’s still shone and what glimpses could be given of her long brown hair beneath the matting of refuse matched that of a deer’s fur. The soft purity of color found in those glimpses made her sister’s auburn shading seem dirty in comparison like the mud mixed with blood the Wolf Pact fought in.

Vláth soon enough won, as most of the Wolf Pact would prefer to claim victory against another, from her opponent being unable to continue. Normally that would mean death, that death was less likely though certainly not impossible under such circumstances made the Wolf Pact all the more determined. They would not be excused from giving their all by life’s extinguishment, they would have to live by the example of themselves they made that day.

The Wolf Pact had to have each faced Vernigen in a trial of submission or a battle at least once to be counted among the regiment. That Vernigen was still their leader meant each and every one lost or else they would be the commander. Every soul gathered already knew the sting of defeat.

Anyone that already made it that far would be unwilling to surrender so close to their prize and the ring of fallen fighters would catch anyone to push them back into the ring if someone was ever thrown out of bounds. Every soul gathered came to an unspoken arrangement to only accept complete victory or utter defeat. Instead of leaving a broken and battered opponent, hers was gasping before passing out from exertion bordering on suffocation.

With Vláth already counted among the victors, the young Hílainno’s investment in the ongoing struggle was met. The girl dismissed herself from the commanders, rejoined the crowd, and blended in among them now that she was not cheering along to her sister’s battles.

Eventually the duels all concluded and the victors were decided. The ten that remained gathered, becoming an artificial locus as the rest of the Wolf Pact surrounded them. There had been cheering with every victory but with no more battles, those counted among the defeated finally grew quiet as if anticipating something.

The ten undefeated started to discuss something. It started with a false calmness but all of them likely still had their hearts beating to the rhythm of combat and the air quickly grew think with tension as their interactions became more intense.

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“Do not tell me they will now fight each other,” Scéadu dreaded.

“It would not surprise me,” Odlig commented. “But I would still be disappointed.”

It was their way to compete. Another set of fights seemed ready to ignite to establish who was best even amongst the remaining ten. Odlig noticed the silver eyed one sat out of the argument with two others, Vláth included in that number, crossing his legs as they watched their seven other comrades quarreled.

Odlig had hoped they were beyond such extremes. The war was over, they could finally rest but even after winning such prestige they were ready for further conflict.

However the uninvolved three’s abstaining ceased soon enough as fists were raised and teeth bared among the seven others. Then the three leapt to their feet and walked between the nascent battle. It started quietly at first, a tune too soft and distant for Odlig to appreciate but the other seven slowly started to calm and even joined.

The song grew in volume as all ten raised their voices and then swelled into a rumble as every warrior present seemed to join them in a deep resonant drone. Vláth, the former ranger, did not seem to know the words but seemed to follow their example.

Of baseless fear

Say no words

Vanquish all obstacles

Within and without

Trepidation and gold

Will undeniably melt

Before the flames

In our hearts

Claws break stone

Teeth draw blood

Slay doubt now

Begin the hunt

On this day

Ends our disgrace

Odlig never heard the Wolf Pact say the last two verses. They had an assortment of vows and pledges. That one in particular was short and apt for something born of elves, something meant for be performed a moment before engaging.

That moment of unity seemed to reaffirm the Wolf Pact’s sense of comradery. There was still a faint tension in the air but now if they started to dissent, they would be the first one to sever the connections they spent a war nurturing between each other. Even if they were each other’s rivals, they were also the ones that fought alongside each other.

So, rather than breaking into more infighting, their eyes gathered to the only one amongst the ten that lacked that shared history. They took a moment to pause as the nine other victors regarded the former ranger.

Those that she defeated gathered behind her, swelling like a wave as the veterans of the Wolf Pact acted out their procedures and customs as if by instinct. Vláth did not seem to know what was happening and the other nine shared words with her. They probably neglected to tell her, to tell an outsider of the proceedings would have been the same as entertaining the possibility that the best of the Wolf Pact could be defeated.

Odlig had seen this ritual before. They lacked a wolf that Vláth claimed with her own hands for her to skin and place over her shoulders. But she was surrounded by wolves.

Those she bested cut their hands and placed them over her until she was practically coated in their collective ichor, reborn as one of their own through the defeat of their own.

Odlig had to wonder if she would still need to fight Vernigen or if that requirement had been abandoned in the last decade. Odlig would later learn Vernigen already fought every candidate before the contest even began. If the champion had not whittled them down, there would have been far more participants. He had brawled with the outsiders in groups for something he casually labeled as “practice.” The outsiders earned the right to participate but had not earned their pelts.

A howl emerged from the Wolf Pact as a whole, a synchronized welcome that tapered out slowly only to be followed by a short silence as they waited for a sign. Then Odlig heard what had to be the former ranger’s lone howl. What followed was a disorganized assemblage of celebrations, most from those she defeated with some exceptions, their losses validated by her ascension but there was scattered about the gathered force others recognizing their new comrade or satisfied their regiment could still grow in number.

“Should they be glorifying war days before their lord’s return,” Scéadu wondered.

“Is that what you see?” a mellow voice came from behind them. “Is war that organized, that simple, and that fair?”

Scéadu and Odlig turned to be met with aged honey-colored eyes. Kírous, if only upon the surface, appeared least affected by the years of war in how he returned to dressing like an augur in soft, unbroken blue. His army’s colors had been blue swirling in equal parts with red and it might have been forgotten he was a commander if not for how he still tied his long black hair back in a simple ponytail. He did not even bear his iconography of a serpent as if those years never occurred to him. The snake was the closest creature to elves in nature as far as the elves were aware. Snakes could shed their skin and thus were seemingly born anew, the closest a known mortal creature approached immortality.

In spite of so recently speaking, one would have thought Kírous never uttered a word for his wooden expression. If Kírous was not being dour he often looked disinterested. He gave the sense that everything bored him as if every jest, thrill, and horror was already known to him. Only the most extreme of circumstances or moments of reminiscence coaxed apparent expression from him.

The most often times Odlig saw the elder react was when he was at command and he received unanticipated news and was outmaneuvered by their enemies. That elicited a varying degree of amusement or anger, though what decided if his enemy earned his approval or scorn remained a mystery, him reacting differently to similar situations at times.

At least in regards to warfare, he seemed to have had learn it the same as Odlig and Scéadu though the elder seemed to have accepted the concept second fastest among them all.

“What are they glorifying if not war?” Scéadu inquired politely though his inattentive expression told the two he was not expecting an answer.

To both of the younger elves’ surprise, the elder stepped closer to watch the spectacle’s unwinding. “A few undoubtedly might be acting as you assume,” Kírous observed passively. “But ask yourself what they are doing now as they intend to in the future and had done so in the past.”

“They were intending to be bodyguards,” Odlig voiced. “They are supposed to protect the king.”

Kírous spared Odlig a glance. “And how will they do that?”

“Fight as they always do,” Scéadu replied without further thought.

Kírous did not confirm or deny and Odlig remained silent. It seemed so simple an answer that it could not be wrong. But Odlig saw not how that related to Kírous’s initial statement.

Then it came together in Odlig’s mind. The ones they were battling with were each other, they were reveling in the fight itself, that they were the ones fighting. In spite of appearances, the display was not as chaotic as a battlefield where all things were allowed in the moment, there were rules, understandings in how it became one on one and no weapons.

They would fight so the king would not have to. In combat, one primarily only thought of the preservation of oneself and the destruction of others. One could not be distracted by dreams or high ideals and expect to live. Still, before a battle, one might feel a sense of relief that they might not need to worry about others venturing into that same hell.

The Wolf Pact were departing, following the pattern of their most elite units forming a spearhead with other groups flowing behind them though this time the initial spearhead was the ten victors followed by blocks of those they personally defeated then all sense of organization reverted to their ranks from before the four day battle. They exited the field that way but they did not hold their cohesion for long, breaking apart into individuals once they moved past what they recognized as the boundary of the battle where the ground was undisturbed.

The elves did not need to march in rank and file like dwarves. The Wolf Pact in particular liked to surround their prey so a clear formation benefitted them little and only helped them be noticed. They would scatter and reunite in a designated location then form into packs to attack.

The other forces acted similarly. Before most of them were soldiers and warriors, they were hunters. A large hunting band scared away their quarry so they would move individually and come together at a gathering spot.

Odlig looked to Kírous once half of the Wolf Pact had dispersed and the rest would soon follow. “Are the preparations you spoke of complete?”

“No, I thought I would see who would surround the king before invoking powers,” Kírous explained.

“Are you satisfied with the outcome?”

Kírous’s lips lifted weakly into a forlorn grin. “Would it change anything if I was satisfied or not?”

Odlig and Scéadu did not give voice to their shared answer. It was Vernigen’s decision so the answer would have been a near undeniable “No.”

“Have you told either of us where we are to meet?” Scéadu inquired as the elder moved to depart. “You told me the time but not the place. Are you aware Odlig?”

“If I was told,” Odlig replied to the latter question. “It slipped my mind.”

“I will see you both at the base of the slope, come noon,” Kírous claimed. ”You will know where we are to meet when you see it.”

“I would like to join you now if I may,” Scéadu entreated. “You say the preparations are not complete. I would not mind witnessing your work.”

Kírous’s smile seemed more genuinely bright if only a little. “Would you rather witness it or be a part of it? A soldier is rarely a spectator for their own battle. If so, the battle is truly dire. No, stay and tell Vernigen where we are to meet. You do not need to explain to him the nature of our gathering. I will enlighten him if he chooses to be there.”

Vernigen had not been seen for three days. He had not engaged in the competition. He did not need to. That he was still a commander was proof he was the strongest among them. Of the commanders, Vernigen was the only one that jeopardized his own position, offering to surrender his title to anyone that could defeat him in a game of submission. He received less challenges as time passed until the proposal seemed all but forgotten, his record spoke for itself.

The champion stayed for the first day then as Odlig was to later learn, decided from those that already lost to accompany him on a hunt through drawing lots. Whether the champion’s daughter, Títania, was selected through luck or choice like the others would remain unknown.

Maybe Vernigen’s still competing warriors noticed his departure but the only words Odlig noticed the champion spare them were for them to fight one on one after the first day. It was a mystery if Kírous was equally ignorant but Odlig and Scéadu did not even know he left and only took notice for his absence. Fortunately, Títania had at least the consideration to tell her mother the nature of their mission and word reached the commanders that that the father and daughter went hunting.

Títania’s name once had a gentler spelling and pronunciation. When Vernigen heard news of her existence, he either misheard or mispronounced her name. Elves had traces of old legends, whispers of ancient names and in that moment the title of primordial gods were invoked in a distant tongue, a titan.

That slip of the tongue perpetuated itself and in her few years of service her comrades called her such with respect and affection. She even changed the spelling of her name to match it.

She was not one of the Wolf Pact. That she participated at all in the first day was strange. She was too inexperienced to be placed among their company while the war waged. For a youngster to be placed among them would have been considered suicide but was able to serve for a few years under Odlig. It had been Vernigen’s own suggestion, the champion likely never would have chosen Kírous so it was between Odlig and Scéadu and the champion trusted Odlig to give her the opportunity to grow before she was thrown into the circumstances Vernigen would have led her into. Now, with the war gone, she had more than a decade of whatever education Vernigen saw fit to provide her directly.

Títania lost on the first day. Odlig expected a lot from her but doubted she would have made it to the final ten at her age. It did her no favors that she immediately engaged the strongest members of the pack. Though that very approach was common and Odlig would not be surprised if the final outcome would have been different if those that thought themselves the best did not so quickly challenge those that proved the best from the beginning. How many were removed from consideration for lack of affinity or the slightest difference in skill and luck? Just as the elements could be strong and weak against each other by merit of their different natures rather than magnitude, so too was combat often decided.

Dwarves claimed an affinity for the still bones of the world, metal and stone. Elves possessed a kinship with the flows of life, animals, plants, water, wind, and even rare understandings of fire.

The closest to the cold, silent discipline of stone was the wisdom of trees. However, history made clear how the trunks of trees fared against dwarven axes. Still there were those that sought to emulate the toughness of bark. Títania was one of those souls. It was not a technique that could be easily practiced on the field as failure would invite death and its very nature was weak against their enemy, so none had mastered the concept to be able to turn away the heavy blades of their enemy.

In spite of how it would appear at first, Vernigen was more than just muscle. He knew where to strike and how for the most devastating effect. Vernigen himself likely barely realized the significance of his own movements, they were created from success in battle and transformed into a habit rather than something purposefully practiced and exercised.

The two remained as they were as the field cleared and the audience that came to watch also returned to their homes. Their elven sense of time could have had them wait there for days but they were freshly reminded of the march of time by the promise of a meeting at noon. That only gave them a few hours by mortal measure.

“What if Vernigen does not arrive today or when he does return it is evening?” Scéadu began with the faintest hint of annoyance. “Do we have any news of when he will be expected?”

“It would have to be soon for Kírous to tell us to wait,” Odlig answered. “Our lord is returning any day now. Vernigen would not miss the opportunity to finally meet King Ordelas.”

“Kírous is the one that suggested a ritual yet he is having us wait to offer a place for Vernigen.”

“I welcome the delay. Even if Vernigen says no I would not want to commence a rite without at least inviting him.”

“Kírous should at least be the one to make the offer,” Scéadu half argued.

Odlig nodded slightly. “But we both know he can not.” That Kírous was avoiding voicing it to the champion meant the elder truly wanted Vernigen there.

So, the two continued to keep watch, something they grew accustomed to by both nature and career. There were lulls in wars, no matter how intense, especially how they had waged the war. They could not afford a war of attrition and the dwarves required logistics to chase after them. Any army of free people needed to consider expense and morale as well as food. The battlefronts moved across the map and there were times where they were unengaged. Armies required orders, strategies needed to be reassessed, key points had to be identified.

Soon enough Vernigen and his party appeared in the distant horizon their vantage point afforded them, still leagues away. They hailed him from afar and he lifted a hand in reply before turning to his small party. Two Wolf Pact pulled something large and dark on a sled behind them and the glint of blond hair marked Títania.

The hunting party did not sprint but they certainly did not walk, moving at the swift and steady pace of pursuers with a clear trail trying to tire their prey even while carrying a load. For at least those without the burden, it would have been a gentle jog to them covering at least the span of two leagues in the time it would take walking to cover one.

The very closing of the distance revealed one of the elves’ strengths against the dwarves. On the surface at least, the elves had better mobility and ranged capability. Bows were not meant for enclosed passageways so dwarves seemed in short supply of such tools. Fortunately, being able to shoot between tree limbs meant most master hunters could hit nearly any target they could see.. The dwarves had siege engines but bringing those to bear against camps that could collect their tents and depart at the the sight of danger proved a wasted effort. The elves on the other hand lacked the means to easily unmake fortified structures though they could certainly climb them but the dwarves were not limited to the surface. The dwarves while not masters of stealth on the surface especially on the surface knew of routes the elves were ignorant of and were patient, rather than stalking they could wait or undermine. The result was a long war.

Scéadu and Odlig shared further words while Vernigen closed the gap between them as the sun rose to midmorning. “I know it has not been that long,” Scéadu began. “For at least you and the others, only a decade or two but we have not seen the king since the day he was born. It will be good to reunite with the Ordelas.”

“It has been longer for Vernigen,” Odlig assessed as he watched the champion, grateful Vernigen could not hear them from such a distance or else be freshly reminded of their transgression against him. “He never met our lord.”

“Unfortunately, our king’s return takes away a reason for peace,” Scéadu considered. “The dwarves no longer have him as a hostage.”

“We should be happy they returned him at all,” Odlig replied. “For that, we owe them some good faith, another reason to trust their ingreity than to resent them.”

“I have no love for dwarves but if peace is possible, I will happily accept that it remains so. There are better pursuits than war. If they keep to themselves, it would be more troublesome to fight them.”

Odlig smiled warmly. “I thought I was the one that knew the value of peace.”

Odlig remembered their homeland but Scéadu was too young to have been part of those simple days, when their people believed conflicts could be swiftly resolved.

Scéadu grinned back. “I would like to see what a world without war looks like.”

Odlig smile dipped however slightly into a frown. He had served with Scéadu but he never asked why his fellow commander volunteered for the war effort. It had all been voluntary but there were any number of reasons for one to become a warrior that it seemed senseless at that time to ask.

“Why did you join the war, Scéadu?” he asked a question he should have voiced years ago.

“I never told you?” The commander of the Hidden Legion froze and closed his eyes to search his mind. Scéadu almost seemed to wince, struggling to recall an event that never occurred. “Surely, I would have told you.”

“I never asked.”

Scéadu opened his eyes and smiled in relief as he leaned forward to study something in the distance. “I wanted to see the sights the older ones talked about but I could not do that while contained in the camp nor could I venture safely on my own.”

“That sounds like you,” Odlig observed. “You never did seem the type drawn to a battlefield.”

“It would be strange if what I said did not sound like me. Though should I interpret it as a slight for a commander to not be drawn to a battlefield?”

“I meant the opposite,” Odlig answered swiftly as he raised his hands in apology for the unintended insinuation.

Scéadu seemed to dislike war, or at least combat. Like for all it was something to endure yet fear for one’s otherwise endless life. Though for a soul like him, it was not some strange phenomenon. To him, it was a mundane labor, a chore. So, Odlig noticed the younger commander entertained himself while he executed his tasks when older souls who knew what came before were often horrified by what those born into the war thought to be ordinary.

There were things Scéadu did that Odlig tried to forget, rationalizing that war brought out the worst in all. Scéadu kept his position because he was willing to do things others were not, terrible things. At the time, in the fires of conflict, it seemed if not palatable then at least justifiable. Except not all the horrors of war were on a battlefield.

Odlig had seen war and death yet still bile rose to his throat when he first witnessed what the Hidden Legion might do to break their enemy’s spirit. A dwarf’s resolve was an adamant quality, to bring that folk to yield like trying to split a mountain yet the Hidden Legion made such attempts and delved deeper than any other in that pursuit. The Wolf Pact were content to break bodies but chose to bolster their own resolve than to try test the will of their opponents.

Such terrors had to be aberrations. The queen herself raised Scéadu to his position and she valued no such acts and he had ceased such extremes at her instructions.

Fortunately, none would have to see that side of Scéadu again, Odlig hoped. His art could inspire joy instead of revulsion as it did before he took up arms.

At the time, Kírous’s Vigilants and the rangers served the role of scouts. The Hidden Legion specialized in misdirection and ambush, being the equivalent of special forces, pressing an advantage in a moment of weakness. Odlig also implemented ambushes but he tended to withdrawal once the enemy reorganized to strike again at a different location but Scéadu could potentially overextend himself.

Scéadu’s legion, like the Wolf Pact, sang. When they sang they implemented a chorus, repeating verses compared to how ancient elven songs were more often woven to be like tales, rarely repeating lines. Scéadu’s forces developed that system because they were singing to their enemy and the chaos of battle might drown out voices at key moments. The Wolf Pact actually adopted that approach from the Hidden Legion. Vernigen’s forces were the first to sing but they had at first carried on in the old convention.

The elves were not the only ones that sang during battle. The more hardened companies of dwarves also sang, battlefields often became filled with voices trying to drown the other side out.

The two commanders went silent as the hunting party drew near. The most apparent attribute of Vernigen, even from a distance, proved to be his height. He was tall even for an elf, the second tallest of their population not of his family came only to his chest. His shoulders were broad as well to correspond with his height with a statuesque build instead of being tall and thin like a tree. A far less obvious feature that went barely noticed was that Vernigen from his time in the woods was the palest of the four commanders as if already progressing towards their future ideal of aesthetics. Vernigen’s ebony hair flowed behind his shoulders where it reached its end near his hips. His grey eyes seemed always to be looking forward like a beast on the hunt.

Vernigen’s features were difficult to read. The champion’s expression even at the calmest of times seemed to be some varying degree of anger. The last decade proved even more difficult, the most common “kind” expression the champion could muster to Odlig and the other commanders was a tense tight jawed demeanor like he was clenching his teeth.

Through a mix of physiology and diet, most elves possessed little body fat, resulting in their subtle musculature to be prominent against slender frames and limbs but Vernigen appeared to have muscle compounded upon muscle. It might have even been unappealing to some accustomed to more subtle forms but he carried himself with such confidence and the weight of his presence seemed to demand such a figure as if his body was made so massive in order to contain his very soul and anything less would have been broken.

Size did not correlate to aggression. Many larger animals were herbivores or at least gentle in nature like some whales, though there were always exceptions. Vernigen and most of his warriors were such exceptions. Vernigen himself proved to be an oddity in his own family far away in Olmvan who were similarly large but gentler to strangers.

Vernigen’s tunic was ripped and besmirched, strips of cloth hung from bloodstained tears where large claws might have dug into his upper chest but his body had already healed. The only other sign he had been in a struggle was the dirt at the cuff of his sleeves.

They approached him as he drew close. It was only the slope that had them not cast in his shadow as the sun had not reached its zenith. All souls stopped, even the Wolf Pact behind Vernigen, as the champion studied the two in a moment of silence then looking to the settlement ahead as if trying to discover something amiss. He did not betray a sense of fear but a cautious foreboding and irritation to see both standing in his path.

Then without saying a word, Odlig stretched his arms wide in welcome. Vernigen’s lips raised however slightly in mimicry of a grin as he stepped forward and opened his own arms as he accepted the greeting. They shared a stiff embrace as if the contact might restore what good graces they once had with each other. Vernigen barely touched Odlig as if the champion’s arms were floating above this fellow commander. It felt distant rather than hostile, as if the gap could one day close. Scéadu did the same as Odlig and received the same treatment.

Among the champion’s retinue was Títania with a clear bald spot along her brow and long streaks along her head where practically golden hair was torn from her scalp but the skin had since healed. The rest of a sleeve was missing from just above the elbow as well.

What had been a mysterious large mass from leagues away proved to be the body of a giant wolf. It was a decent specimen of its kind, not the greatest in scale for certain but larger than a pair of foreign horses combined and being carried even on its sled by two elves was no small act of labor.

Títania’s undisturbed eyes like clear water would convince anyone bereft of the clues of the torn garments and dead beast would have thought nothing of significance had occurred. In the years the king was away from them, she reached her full height, reaching past her father's chin when most would be astonished to reach his neck. She had been considered particularly beautiful in that era. She still would in later times but for different reasons.

“You were waiting for me?” Vernigen finally spoke as he regarded them both while his fellow commanders shared nods with his retinue. His resonant voice rolled from his mouth slowly but as unfaltering as the advance of a glacier.

“Indeed, we were,” Scéadu confirmed respectfully.

“You should have greater responsibilities than to wait for me.” Vernigen stepped forward and gestured for his company to follow. “You can tell me why you are here while we walk.”

“I believe we are owed an explanation for your vanishing before we owe you our reasons for why we are here,” Odlig replied politely but firmly. The champion seemed in a fair mood if not in good spirits, it seemed best not to speak of Kírous’s proposal while Vernigen still had an unknown objective in mind.

Vernigen gave Odlig a sideward glance, almost a glare. Odlig made sure not to show any signs of faltering. The champion’s expression cracked into what could have been a reluctant smile to Odlig’s stoicism. It was far from a gentle expression, resembling a beast baring its teeth in warning but it was a friendlier one than Odlig would hope to expect, as the champion’s eyes did not carry a hostile gleam. “Very well.” He looked to his Wolf Pact and a silent command passed through his eyes as he stopped.

The two elves pulling the sled brought the wolf before the commanders. Odlig would have thought it was alive if not for its deathly stillness. The wolf’s hide was pristine, spotless, not a single wound or blemish.

“We ventured to hunt,” Títania added as if anticipating their evidence to somehow be unsatisfactory or to spare any others of her company needing to voice something so simple and obvious. Títania’s voice was restrained and collected though suggested an unsubtle impatience.

Odlig ran his hands over the neck and spine and failed to notice any broken bones. Odlig then observed the champion and examined the pattern of cuts Vernigen had healed. Vernigen’s clothes had been marked and torn as if every wound the wolf should have suffered had been transplanted onto him.

The champion had strangled the beast, leaving the hide undamaged as possible. That it did not have bruises, it had to have been a patient and undoubtedly fierce undertaking.

If Odlig observed the smaller details, Scéadu took that time to appreciate its size. “I did not believe us to be in need of meat to warrant a hunt,” the commander of the Hidden Legion evaluated.

There were two conjoined customs in their homeland. Only those that have at least once participated in a hunt could eat meat and all that has been killed must be eaten. The former was so anyone asking for such a meal understood a life was taken and the latter so no life was taken in vain. Both rules had been suspended through the war, the former because the inexperienced could not be expected to safely join a hunt and the latter because of fears and rumors that the principle was being applied to the most literal of interpretations. The rumors were connected to the Wolf Pact though Odlig knew most of such wild imaginings to be false but for reasons he almost wished he did not comprehend. Vernigen hated the dwarves far too much to consume them. It was supposed to be, in a twisted way, an insult to have a life end and the death to contribute to nothing.

The Wolf Pact in general took no trophies, kept no count, and left no mark of the enemies they killed. There were exceptions but as a whole their concept of etiquette against a hated foe was to treat them as if they never existed, their still breathing foes were the targets of their ire. Unfortunately, they also seemed eager to forget their own fallen rather than be slowed to mourn though Odlig noticed at least a few of the Pact carrying scrimshaw tokens. A deeper inquiry led Odlig to discover the bones were from their dead comrades.

“I thought it would make a good coat,” Vernigen clarified humorlessly.

“For yourself?”

Vernigen glared at Scéadu. Odlig silently thanked his compatriot for initiating what he himself would not. Odlig was likely equally confused if not more so. Ignorance could shield one from some misunderstandings. Scéadu’s concern was likely a matter of aesthetics as the fur was not one of the sacred colors but Odlig’s mind struggled with another notion.

“But-” Scéadu began.

“It is black,” Odlig finished for him so the champion knew that Scéadu was not the only one unsettled by the champion’s decision.

Odlig knew Scéadu’s range of knowledge was primarily based on the artisan’s personal interests and the tactics of his enemies. Scéadu probably would not even know the basic psychology of his opponents if it did not prove necessary. However, Odlig had some understanding of the enemy’s less observed customs. Was it a coincidence that Vernigen happened to secure a creature dark as midnight, the funerary color of their enemy?

Scéadu sometimes wore dark colors but out of necessity. He could not be leader of a Hidden Legion if he garbed himself in vibrant tints. He found at least a way to intertwine shades to make his pattern more distinct when closely examined but pure black would likely be anathema to his very nature the way his namesake would be outlined in light.

“Impressive as the beast is, I find it difficult to envision how one wolf concluded in this?” Odlig added if only to divert from the subject as he gestured to Vernigen’s ripped tunic and Títania’s state.

“There is rarely one wolf,” Títania reminded him.

Odlig met her glassy eyes. Her blue eyes were so clear they seemed to barely reflect anything. She said no more though. She followed her father’s example not to proclaim her own deeds. If it was worth sharing with others, it would be told by others.

“She held off the others so I could focus on my kill,” Vernigen said as if to dismiss his own deed.

Títania smiled inconcealably, her teeth not too dissimilar to the dead wolf’s though more awe worthy than threatening for the danger they would have suggested if she had bared them in a different moment. A sideways glance at Scéadu made it clear to Odlig his fellow commander was memorizing the rare sight.

In spite of her father's history she showed no signs of his madness or lunacy. She was uncouth and difficult at times but she was undoubtedly of sound mine. Lunacy as the elves were calling it at the time was a separate condition from the mindless madness that once afflicted Vernigen. Vernigen was once devoid of higher thought, lunacy was a corruption of thought, a hysteria.

The symptoms for the lunacy were difficult to isolate or even address when Vernigen's own warriors performed similarly yet were praised for their behavior. It was not Vernigen's madness of rage but what appeared to be hysterical joy, sometimes even accompanied by laughter. Those afflicted undoubtedly seemed to enjoy what the battlefield allowed. It was more than the rush of energy Odlig was familiar with, or at least he hoped there was more to it as that would mean he was potentially already under its influence.

Vernigen's warriors indeed laughed and sang which was disturbing but it felt like what they did needed to be done. The zeal banished away darker impulses and was pursued because otherwise they would face a grim reality but there were those that sought pleasure in the battlefield for the pleasure itself. Scéadu's legion, it being comprised primarily of youngsters, appeared to have the highest rate of lunacy.

Another terrible fate could be shock. It was a powerful enough force to claim their queen’s life along with others, either instantly at the loss of a loved one or be paralyzed in a battlefield after taking a life for the first time only for an enemy to claim theirs. Odlig learned one of the best ways to prepare the unblooded and inoculate them to the potential shock was to tell them the stark truth repeatedly during their training in all its severity. He told them they would kill people, remind them until it was simply a fact. After such a routine, most perform their tasks to go to sleep anticipating some surge of feeling only to feel nothing. They already carried out their duty in their minds, it already happened for them, it simply became actualized. The methodology was derived from the more esoteric approach of Kírous's Vigilants who practiced meditation.

Scéadu's forces, on the other hand, to avoid shock and hesitation treated the dwarves like animals, creatures destined to die anyway. Vernigen and his warriors drowned such complexities beneath rage.

“Now that you know of my hunt,” Vernigen stipulated. “Tell me what it is that had you wait for me.”

“We are to meet Kírous at the base of the slope,” Scéadu replied. “We would extend an invitation to you.”

Vernigen’s eyes narrowed as he regarded them warily with a poorly suppressed grimace. “For what purpose?”

“It would one of Kírous’s project,” Odlig added as if that was explanation enough or rather excused a lack of explanation.

Vernigen’s lips pulled back in a snarl but at least they had his attention. Instead of saying any other words, Vernigen extracted a glimmering knife from his sash. A moment of silence passed before he slowly drew out a whetstone with his other hand. Rather than threaten or posture with it, he sharpened it ominously with a near mechanical precision. For a long moment, it seemed he only saw the blade and whetstone.

The crystal knife was born entirely by elven hands, displaced from the reef that surrounded their old home and washed ashore long before they ever departed. It seemed to be if not a variant of clear quartz then certainly related in some way. The hilt was leather wrapped around a handle of otherwise naked crystal.

He smoothed the cutting edge until it seemed slick as glass. Odlig could at least appreciate the precision with which Vernigen brought it to as close to a perfect finish as it could reach. It needed to be sharp but not so thin that it was brittle.

“May I join you, father?” The only one brave enough to speak to him at that moment was Títania.

Vernigen gave her a backwards glance before returning his attention to his work as he raised the knife to examine it. “No.” His face held as close to a neutral expression the other two commanders had seen in years as his seemingly perpetually clinched teeth relaxed for a moment before returning to his more common disgruntled expression. “It would not be worth your time.”

The champion turned and pushed the knife into her hands before making a simple nod to the dead beast. “Skin it for me,” he directed evenly.

“Father,” Títania halted Vernigen as he raised a foot to backtrack down the slope. Out of Vernigen’s hands, the blade seemed far less menacing. The crystal had been carved before the war and was indeed a tool not a weapon, meant for utility over bloodshed. “May I have some words with you?”

Vernigen paused. “What do you have to say?”

She stepped forward and stood on her toes to whisper directly into his ear, she was one of the few people who could do so without the champion having to lower himself.

The champion frowned as the words passed then picked at one of the slashes in his tunic. For a moment it seemed like he was exploring the hole itself but Odlig followed Vernigen’s eyes to see how his fellow commander examined the bloodstain.

“You are right,” he answered her almost reluctantly before regarding the other two commanders with a sideward glimpse. “I will return.”

The champion did not rush but his long stride made even his walking pace cover distance swiftly as he ascended the slope. Odlig’s last sight of Vernigen was the leader of the Wolf Pact entering the camp.

Títania lingered with the remaining commanders but directed the Wolf Pact members to finish their delivery to the camp. She may not have progressed into the final selection but neither had they. To them, she either spoke as Vernigen’s representative or a fellow warrior. Odlig suspected the latter, she may have been removed but she fought against the best and lasted against such opponents longer than most could boast or everyone’s measure had been tested during their hunt.

Now alone with the commanders, she regarded the two commanders with a reservation bordering on being guarded. She had the years that the king had been gone to hear whatever grievances her father might have been willing to voice when he was alone with her. Though Odlig would have to wonder if Vernigen ever said anything about his fellow commanders behind their backs. Vernigen did not need to whisper out of sight, when he spoke to them last time he was loud enough that most of the public knew his opinion well enough. It would be more a question of which reclusive souls at the edges of their society did not know.

Vernigen said little in the last decade, at least to Odlig, though his silence spoke of his grudge against the other three remaining commanders. The only strong voices that seemed ready to wage war once more was Vernigen… and Ceronus. Fortunately, the two while having similar goals could agree to little and Ceronus was equally guilty as Odlig, Scéadu, and Kírous if measured by their crime on the day of the king’s birth.

Títania lowered her head stiffly as if the rest of her body resisted the act. “Thank you for inviting my father.”

It heartened Odlig to see she retained some manner of discipline. She seemed ready to say more but her jaw strained to bite into her tongue before anything more could be said.

“Should we interpret that as Vernigen’s own appreciation?” Scéadu asked.

“Do not assume I speak for him,” Títania replied coarsely.

“The one you should thank is Kírous. If those are your own words then it is the elder you should say them to,” Scéadu spoke as if not quite addressing a subordinate but not one that was his equal with hint of respect enwrapped with caution that her father might hear such words later.

“Then the elder should set an example to follow by.” Her voice carried all the lack of delicacy of a boulder grinding the stones beneath it into sand. “I did not see Kírous waiting here but you two. He could have intercepted us if he made the effort.”

Títania may not have her father’s madness but she had aspects of his personality. Odlig knew that better than most. The primary difference between her and her father was she at least tried niceties but once that proved insufficient or conflict began, she proved to resemble him keenly.

Her time with the Undying gave her the discipline to show greater patience. She was still young and thought on a scale different from her seniors. Odlig worried her extended time with Vernigen’s blunt conversations would thin the layer of patience the Undying worked to reinforce, though he was not ready to test her further.

“But I will keep that in mind,” she assumed the veneer of diplomacy. “If Kírous would confess to being the one to offer this invitation then I would thank him.”

“How is your family?” Odlig moved to another subject rather than risk disturbing the fragile compromise with further conversation.

“They are… satisfied with current circumstances,” she answered courteously after a short pause. She was perhaps historically unless some scandal unfolded in their homeland beyond their knowledge the first elf to be recognized as a half sibling. “How fare your Undying?”

Elves were immortal, when they promised each other eternity, they had the means to do so. Hence why it could easily take centuries to court and marry in peaceful times as what was such a span in comparison to an indefinite future?

Even if one or both of the pair happened to have affairs with others, something almost unheard of but not beyond their comprehension, it would prove difficult to prove a child was born from such a union. However, Títania had to be Vernigen’s child. The father of her siblings was dead before her conception and no one could deny her resemblance to the champion in spite of her inheriting hair neither Vernigen nor her mother displayed.

“I can not speak for all but most are adjusting well. We have gatherings to discuss how we are adjusting and knowing another might be having the same difficulty has proven a comfort. You are welcome to rejoin. You are missed in spite of everything. If you can forgive them then they can forgive you.”

“I would not believe myself missed for who I am if I would still be called “Little Títania,”” she replied with thinly veiled displeasure. “Or are they calling me traitor now?”

Many among the Undying that knew her had called her “little” while they still could. Anyone aware of her heritage knew she destined to never be called that ever again. One was often called little by friends and family throughout one’s passage into adulthood to represent they still needed assistance, that they were still growing and were welcome to any aide. However, being the second tallest of the entire population made that term prove awkward.

Their people was a small enough community before their population growth that their bonds were strong, trust was implicit. However, their immortal lives also strained those very bonds; one could trust another, know that they were reliable, yet still remember a particular slight. War, being a life or death matter was swift and there were arguments, arguments that the war did not give the circumstances for those with an expanded sense of time to resolve easily so there were still sores, wounds upon their fellowships that still bled to that day.

“I do not believe they would still call you by your old title,” Odlig declared. “Though I would make no promises, it has been only a decade or two, if you have been a stranger as they said, some might still remember you for who were you were and say that perhaps once. For the latter, we have not called you traitor.”

Títania softened however slightly. “I could forgive once.”

“That would be all any of us could ask.”

Títania’s eyes turned up to the camp.

Vernigen was returning, garbed in padded, light blue leather like ice. It was almost white but not quite. Odlig recognized it to be the gambeson for Vernigen’s set of armor. Completed with the polished white plate, it would display the heraldry of the Wolf Pact. It could also serve as armor in itself, the armored jacket was the closest the elves knew to such protection before stealing dwarven metal while also providing camouflage, as little as the champion used such a tactic, it blended with the skyline of mountaintops.

Scéadu traded a look with Odlig and they both shared a silent sigh of relief the champion had not retrieved his armor and left his weapon behind. The champion did not need a tool to kill or threaten someone but this was what the two came to recognize as Vernigen being “civil.” Even in attempts for peace talks with the dwarves, Vernigen came fully armed. He bared his hostility openly with an earnestness bordering on pride.

He walked right past them then stopped as they watched him stride with such clear direction they felt no need to guide him.

“Are you not accompanying me?” the champion asked.

“Do you know where we must go?” replied Odlig.

Vernigen tilted his head down the slope to direct their gazes. “You said it was at the base of the slope. He might have been out of your line of sight, beneath your view as you watched me but I noticed him along my way here.”

He continued forward and the other two followed him to their shared future.