In the dark, Luenor stood amid the rubble of Fort Gelran immersed in sleep. The stench of blood and roasted wood assaulted him. Broken stone towers jutted like the bones of an enormous carcass. Elven bodies lay all around him—warriors he had shared laughter with and children clinging to their mothers.
He walked awkwardly through the ruin, his boots crunching on the rubble. He knew each face. Each death stamped a wound in his heart.
There was Telmar, an arrow through his throat. There was Faren, chest caved-in by a warhammer.
He whimpered as he stumbled forward. In the brisk air gray wisps danced with the fog of his breath. "No... no…"
Then he saw them.
Hera. Rhea. His father.
They lay in the shadow of the fallen tower. Hera's face was a tp of flesh and ruined meat, torn and ripped as though by a monstrous claw. Rhea's hand was outstretched, tears frozen on her cheeks, seeming to reach for him even as her eyes stared at the sky.
Arhenius, spitting blood, his eyes still fierce even as blood poured from his lips. He looked Luenor in the eye as if to lacerate him from the sight around them.
"Remember the path of fire," Arhenius wheezed. "You must ... remember ..."
His head sagged. The words reverberated in the ruin like a funeral knell.
Luenor screamed, a wail that made the very heavens tremble. A white light rose up around him, consuming everything completely.
In the material world, Thalanar stood outside the healer's hut, speaking in hushed tones with Faren and Telmar. The shock of the blast was still echoing in the air, like thunder clashing.
"He killed them." Faren's voice was soft, almost not believing. "He warned them, but he still ... killed them."
Thalanar's jaw clenched. "He did. But he did not do it out of malice, he did it because he could not hold it back anymore. That kind of power ... it's like a rising tide."
Telmar's voice was firm. "The bandits don't care why. They'll come back. They want blood."
"I know," Thalanar said grimly. "We need to be ready."
Telmar shifted uncomfortably, "Fight for humans? This isn't our war, Thalanar. We've lost enough already."
"This is our war now." Thalanar spoke with a quiet steel in his voice. "This village is our home. We cannot abandon it."
Later, Thalanar spoke to Eamon at the far edge of the square, near the fountain.
"The bandits will come," Thalanar said. "They don't care if you give them everything they'll burn, kill, and take until there is nothing left."
Eamon dropped his head and hunched his shoulders. "I have seen enough death. I can't... ask my people to die for this."
Before Eamon could say more, a voice broke the silence, hoarse, slightly broken but clear.
"Running won't save you."
There stood Luenor, dirty, his skin smeared with dried blood, with sunken eyes, rolled back in red, from tears. "They'll chase you. Just like they chased my family. Just like they chased the elves. If you want to be free. Truly free. You have to fight."
Eamon swallowed hard, and his lips quivered, "Fight... with what? We don't have an army."
"You have us," Luenor said. "Elves that will stand up with you. Valdrak. And... you have your own hands. Your own courage."
For a moment, there was only silence. And when Eamon moved, his eyes looked somewhere far away. "When I was your age," he said quietly, "I wanted to be a knight. I wanted to fight back. But dreams... dreams are a fragile thing".
Luenor stepped closer. "Then dream again. We'll stand with you."
Eamon took a deep breath. He straightened his shoulders. "Fine. I will talk to the village council. We will plan... and we will fight."
He and Thalanar moved off together, heads bent, voices barely audible, but steadfast.
Luenor watched them leave and feel the weight of his decision settle into his chest.
"Luenor?" a soft voice at his back inquired.
He turned to see Lyssari with wide, worried eyes. "Are you... alright?" she asked. "You're shaking."
He managed a small smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I'm fine," he lied. "There's too much to do to think about... anything else."
He reached out and gave her hand a gentle squeeze, then stepped back. "I need to help the healer with Hunter. Before the bandits get here."
In an instant, he turned away and left Lyssari standing in the dust, her eyes following him with a mixture of hope and fear.
Luenor entered Rhea's hut shoulders tight, eyes bright. Rhea rushed him, wrapping him in her arms before he could speak.
"My son," she said, pushing his dirty hair back. "You have done enough. You do not have to go back in there."
But Luenor held her gaze coolly, his voice calm and quiet. "Mother, he has to fight too. He is - perhaps, he is more than a man in pain. He is a symbol. When the bandits see him standing with us... they will know we won't kneel."
Rhea tensed. "You are just a boy, Luenor," she said. "You won't have to carry this burden."
They looked on each other, the air between them thick with words unspoken and a thousand fears.
Then, her shoulders slumped. She moved in and wrapped him in a fierce hug, tears filling her eyes. "You are just like your father," she murmured.
He held her for a moment, before pulling away. "Let me help," he said gently.
Rhea nodded softly and allowed him to pass.
In the adjacent room, the elven healer waited, already rolling his sleeves up. Hunter lay still, his breath flat but even. Mana still flickered weakly beneath the surface of his skin, but it was no longer the chaotic storm it had been.
Hera and Rhea flitted around the room gathering dressings and water. They were quiet, but moved with a soft certainty and care.
Luenor rested his hands on Hunter's central chest, his eyes closed as he reached for the tides and eddies of mana which still coiled through the older man's being.
"Are you ready?" the healer asked quietly.
"I am," Luenor nodded. His voice was low but there was determination and steel in it.
They began.