On the battlefield, Thalanar stood obstructed by the bandit queen Mira; bright silver hair like thorned snow glimmering under the midday sun. It was tough to harness her beauty as cold and terrible as that was; in her hands, the spear shined with cruel motion in her practiced, refined strikes.
"You can't save your forest," she hissed, her dark hair flying wildly.
Thalanar matched the striking motions with the grace of the ancient wood, his staff extending patterns of deflection and counter-strike. "The forest is with those who respect it," he said with deliberate intensity. "You do not."
Steel hit wood in a shower of sparks with the two leaders locked in a deadly dance.
Burizan, the fat vice leader, watched with sweat dripping from his face. The tide had turned. The courage that lay dormant in the hearts of the villagers exploded forth with pitchforks and axes. The elves, too, moved under a calmness that belied the murderous execution of every strike.
And then there was Valdrak.
The white tiger carved through the bandits like a storm, his roar rattling the very ground.
Burizan broke. He turned to run, his weight crashing through the brush as he fled from the battle.
Back in the village, Luenor raised his head. The mana was gone, spent in the quiet surge that flowed, infusing strength into the hardpan before their feet.
The clash of battle roared around the square, but at its center, the duel between Thalanar and Mira burned bright as a star. Mira's spear danced in silver arcs, each blow fueled by her Intermediate Four-Star Knight strength. With each one of her movements, her attacks executed with precision, fueled by mana that split the earth below her.
Thalanar had been backed, always with his staff creating defensive shapes in the air, absorbing the fury of her attacks; every impact shaking his bones, but his eyes stayed calm. Like the ancient forest behind him, untouched by storms.
Faren saw potential danger and rushed forward, blade raised to fight.
Mira caught him charging and let out a snarl. She turned throwing her fist encased in green mana, slamming it into Faren's chest. She blew him off his feet and he cried out in pain facing the dirt.
But all Thalanar did was narrow his eyes together. His voice dropped low, whispering leaves against each other. "You are not welcome here."
He planted the end of his staff into the ground. Mana poured out of him like roots going into the soil, flowing out green light in spirals up the ancient wood of his staff. Vines tightened around the staff, the air thickened. Powerful; the words held great importance. Ancient forest magic would answer him.
Mira's spear hit a barricade of bramble and the thorny weeds sprang upward from the ground as Mira grunted and hacked her spear into them, but they just grew more and tangled around her limbs and pulled her down.
Valdrak, smeared with blood and bellowing, shredded what remained of the bandit ranks. His claws were red with it, his eyes were cold and bright. The few remaining bandits turned and ran. The square was empty, except for Mira and Thalanar's conflict.
Luenor, panting with exertion, raised a bow stolen from an elf warrior. His last ounces of stored mana shimmered at his fingertips as he fired an arrow that felled a bandit near the edge of the square. His chest nearly convulsed with exertion of the fight, his sweat and tears mixed on his cheeks.
Next to him, Lyssari stood-watch, naked worry in her eyes.
"Don't worry," Luenor said with a fierce smile. "It's over. Almost."
Valdrak's ears twitched. He stood still, his body as still as stone. A low growl rumbled in his chest.
That aura…
He had felt it once before. When the beast of mana came spilled from the cracked gates of the forest. When the boy in golden armor —George—had stepped onto the elves' glade.
Now, it crested the edge of the battlefield, awaiting like a storm ready to strike.
Valdrak turned, narrowing his gaze, his body shifting to a defensive position.
Mira, gasping for breath, felt it as well. Her body hesitated, dropping the spear an inch, and she turned to look.
Thalanar did not waste the opportunity. With a flick of his wrist, a green light came forth from his staff. Vines erupted from the ground, snaking around Mira's arms and legs. She let out a scream as she got pulled down, the roots keeping her in place.
"It's over," said Thalanar, his voice a whispering finality.
A figure approached from the edge of the village.
Hunter Gardan.
He walked with steady strides. He was still wearing the weight of exhaustion on his slumped shoulders, but he was an unmistakable presence. Though matted and pale, he had the quiet strength of a man who had faced death and returned. His eyes burned with a fire unto themselves.
Rhea, Hera and Eldarin walked behind him, each pale and slack-jawed with disbelief.
Luenor gasped. He turned toward Lyssari, and his laugh rang out like a bell. "Don't worry," he said again, a fierce joy leaking through at the edges. "That man... he is the Guardian of Sureva."
Hunter's eyes roamed around the square, seeing battered villagers, distracted elves, and Mira: bound and broken at the center. He said nothing, but the heaviness of his color gave a weight to his presence: a promise.
It was over. The fight for Eclion was out. The silence held, as if the forest itself was holding its breath for the next mystery.