Year 7002 A.A. | Archen Temple – Inner Sanctum, Dawnlight Hour
The sacred temple of Archen Land sat nestled upon a quiet hill, far removed from the noise and celebration of the capital. Built from pale stone worn smooth by centuries of devotion, it stood like a silent watcher over the valley below—a place where the winds did not scream, but whispered, as if mindful of the prayers they might interrupt.
Within the temple, the air was thick with the solemn perfume of incense, curling upward in gentle wisps that caught the light of flickering candles. It was not just light, but a kind of living glow—the sort that warmed the bones and stilled the heart. Shadows danced lazily across the tall arched walls, falling upon ancient tapestries woven with depictions of Asalan, the Celestial Lion, and the great Tree of Dawning at the edge of the world.
The rhythmic toll of a meditation bell echoed softly, its tone neither commanding nor meek, but something in between—a sound that asked for silence, not out of force, but reverence.
Seated in concentric rings upon woven mats were the Temple's attendants—Tracients of the rabbit clans, each robed in simple flaxen garments and veiled from brow to chin. Their posture was still, their expressions hidden, yet a hush of serene unity surrounded them, as though even their thoughts bowed in reverence to the presence at their center.
There, seated upon a raised cushion embroidered with silken threads of gold and blue, was High Priestess Hompher.
She wore no veil.
Her fur, once snowy white, had begun to grey around the ears, but her presence was undiminished. The gentle rise and fall of her chest matched the cadence of the incense smoke. Her paws were open and rested upon her knees, and her eyes, though closed, seemed to see deeper than most could with sight.
The others breathed in time with her—slow, deliberate, silent. Each breath a thread in a great unseen tapestry. Each moment a tiny stitch toward stillness.
Hompher's mind was not empty, but vast.
She drifted within the deep waters of thought, far from the noise of the world. The temple, the kingdom, even time itself seemed distant. She hovered in that sacred place between silence and voice, where only Asalan's whisper could reach.
And somewhere—somewhere beyond the candlelight and prayer mats and arches—a change was coming.
A stirring.
The stillness shattered like brittle glass.
Without warning, a gust of wind, bitter and unnatural, surged through the sanctum—not from any open window or doorway, but from the very heart of the room. It roared silently, like something old and angry exhaling after centuries of sleep. The candle flames flickered once, then vanished, swallowed by a breath of cold that smelled not of incense but of ash and grave-earth.
Incense bowls clattered against the stone floor, spilling embers and sand as if in protest. The delicate spirals of smoke that once wove through the air were torn apart, dispersed by the invading wind like frightened birds.
The meditating Tracients startled, their composure broken, veils flapping wildly about their faces. Their eyes darted toward the center, where the High Priestess remained frozen—until her body suddenly arched forward with a ragged gasp.
"High Priestess!" one of the attendants cried, scrambling to her side.
Priestess Hompher clutched at her chest as though something within her had been pierced. Her fur, once tranquil in its stillness, bristled violently, and her veined hands trembled with unnatural tremors. Then, from beneath her eyelids—still closed in forced meditation—a slow, steady trickle of red emerged.
Crimson tears.
They rolled silently down her cheeks and dropped, one by one, onto the embroidered cushion beneath her knees.
Another attendant cried out, her voice quivering. "She's bleeding!"
The gathered acolytes surged forward, robes rustling, hands reaching not in panic but in sacred duty. They moved as one, holding the frail figure of the Priestess upright, forming a ring of protection around her. But no chant, no rite came to their lips—only silence, stricken and raw.
"High Priestess," one whispered again, softly this time, afraid even to hear the answer. "What did you see?"
Hompher's lips moved, but no sound came. Only the taut trembling of her frame spoke, as though she were caught in some storm no one else could see.
Then, at last, a voice—fragile and broken—tore its way from her mouth like a ghost made flesh.
"I must…" she breathed, her voice the faintest thread. "I must meet with the King. Immediately."
The attendants glanced at one another, fear and awe flickering in their eyes. None questioned her. They didn't need to. For even though her gaze remained blind and unseeing, there was something deeper behind those bleeding eyes.
Something she had seen.
And it had shaken even her.
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Valoria — The Throne Hall of Archen Land
Evening Light through Western Windows
The last light of day spilled through the towering stained-glass windows of the royal throne room, dyeing the marble floor in hues of soft amber and crimson. It illuminated the fur-lined mantle of King Darius where he sat, golden light catching the sheen of his milky fur and throwing a crown-like halo about his massive form. The throne beneath him—carved from Arkenroot wood and banded with metal older than memory—seemed almost too still, too grounded, for what now stirred in the air.
Before him stood the High Priestess.
The blood had dried on her cheeks, but its presence remained—faint, but visible, like a warning carved in flesh. Her veil had been removed, her solemn eyes fixed unblinkingly upon the King, though they saw nothing in the mortal world. Her sight lay elsewhere—beyond walls and time.
"High Priestess," Darius said, his voice rumbling through the throne hall like a distant thunderclap. "To what do I owe this unexpected visit? Surely, if you needed an audience, you could have summoned me."
It was not rebuke he offered, but something gentler, a weary curiosity befitting a ruler who had long since learned that uninvited messages from the Divine seldom came with comfort.
Hompher bowed slightly, her aged frame shaking like wind-blown cloth. "Your Majesty, I am aware. But this matter is too crucial. I could not wait."
Darius leaned forward slightly on his throne, his green eyes narrowing with interest. The burnished sigil of the Boga Clan, embedded in the marble dais at his feet, caught the dimming light and glinted like fire in deep water.
"Very well," he said. "Speak, my lady. What troubles you?"
Hompher laced her fingers together, gripping them tightly as though to hold her trembling voice steady. "I have been praying, Your Majesty," she began, her voice carrying the careful cadence of one long-practiced in relaying the words of heaven. "In solitude and in sanctity, I have sought Asalan's blessing upon our warriors, and guidance for this coming storm."
She paused, her lips parting slightly, as if tasting the memory of what she'd seen. Then her voice dropped, becoming quieter—but far heavier.
"But the signs… they are unlike anything I have ever encountered."
Darius's expression darkened. Beside him, Kopa Boga shifted, the antlers upon his brow casting long branching shadows along the throne's steps. His expression was unreadable, though his eyes flickered momentarily with caution.
"The constellations are shifting unnaturally," Hompher continued, her voice growing steadier, stronger. "The stars no longer sing in harmony. They whisper of discord. Of betrayal. Of defiance."
She paused again, swallowing.
"In my vision, I saw the Order of Fostus—those of the eastern firmament—led by Lord Romandu… assaulting the court of Lady Alambil. Without her leave. Without her sanction."
At this, Darius rose to his feet. Slowly. Quietly. But the hall seemed to shudder beneath him.
"That," he said, his voice cold and even, "is unthinkable."
Hompher nodded, her blind eyes shining faintly. "Indeed. It is a sin. An abomination. The very heavens recoiled at the sight of it. And now, they turn against Romandu. He is… being punished. And the stars burn red with shame."
The room fell into a terrible hush, as though even the wind outside dared not intrude.
Darius lowered his gaze, eyes narrowing in thought. "If such a rebellion has touched even the heavens, then what are we—creatures of dust and breath—supposed to do?"
It was Kopa who spoke next. His voice, typically sharp and quick, was cautious now—gentle, like the first tremor before an avalanche. "What does this mean for us, Priestess?"
Hompher turned her face toward him, though her eyes could not see. "It means," she said with reverent weight, "that the very structure of fate is unraveling. That chaos is no longer coming. It is here."
She took a breath, as if each word now cost her dearly. "The winds of fate are shifting against us. And unless we act with clarity and faith… we shall be swept away in them."
The silence that followed Hompher's words seemed to stretch across time itself.
Darius remained standing, motionless, his broad shoulders squared and firm, though his eyes had drifted to the floor as though searching for a foundation in a world that had just shifted beneath him. The stillness in the hall was thick and breathless, as if even the stones in the walls strained to hear what would come next.
The golden glow from the torches flickered uncertainly, as though the very fire had grown hesitant.
Finally, the King spoke, his voice lower now—weighted. "Is there anything that can be done, Priestess Hompher?"
The question sounded simple. But it wasn't. Beneath it lay centuries of tradition, the gravity of command, and the whispered hope that perhaps, just perhaps, fate was still negotiable.
Hompher did not answer immediately. Her blind gaze remained lifted, her breath still shallow from the visions that had shaken her soul.
Then came the answer.
"This war…" she said softly, "…must not happen."
The words struck the room like a thunderclap without sound.
Kopa's frown deepened. Darius, still standing, drew a slow breath—but his hands gripped the armrests of his throne, knuckles pale beneath his golden fur. There it was—the fatal sentence. Not veiled in metaphor or cloaked in mystery. Not open to interpretation.
It was a declaration.
Darius closed his eyes for a moment, letting the words settle in his chest like stones in deep water. He remembered the banners—his banners—unfurled as his armies marched out just days prior. The prayers sung, the horns sounded, the hopes rallied behind them. It had already begun.
"My lady," he said finally, careful and even, "you know the army has already been dispatched. The Lord-Generals ride with them. The Tracients… the warriors of Narn's hope…" His voice faltered slightly, almost imperceptibly. "Just days ago, they rode beneath your blessing."
Hompher's head bowed, shame flickering across her expression like a passing shadow. "I did not yet see it then. The heavens were veiled. But now…" Her voice trembled. "Now the veil has torn."
Beside the throne, Kopa took a step forward, his voice lower but edged with reality's cruel blade. "Even if we sent riders now, they wouldn't reach the army in time. Our forces have already reached the borderlands. If we call them back, Razik will strike with full force. He'll read our retreat as fear."
"And if the Children of Shadow are truly present," Kopa added, his voice darkening, "the cost could be more than blood. It could be annihilation."
The word hung heavy.
Hompher's hands clenched at her sides, the tremble in her fingers betraying what her voice tried to suppress. "I understand, my King," she said. "You are trapped. As are we all."
She turned slowly, lifting her head to the great arch of the throne room where the open ceiling revealed the darkening canvas of the sky. The stars—once constant in their alignment—now seemed subtly wrong, their positions off by a breath. A constellation that had once formed a sacred arc now curved too far. One that guided seers now blinked irregularly, like an eye full of tears.
A cold wind spilled down from the heavens, rushing into the chamber as though summoned by her words. The flames in the sconces flinched. So did Darius.
Kopa's antlers twitched as he shivered—though he was a warrior seasoned by frost and steel.
Hompher's voice came one final time, soft but unwavering.
"The winds of fate cannot be deterred once they start to blow."
And indeed, they were blowing.
Somewhere beyond the throne, beyond the palace, beyond Archen Land itself—gears unseen had begun to turn. Constellations shifted. Heaven's old laws trembled. And the world would remember, too late perhaps, that no war begins without first awakening the stars.
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Northern Border Encampment – Outskirts of Razik's Territory | Nightfall, Under a Pale and Waning Moon
Talonir's eyes snapped open.
His chest rose and fell in frantic rhythm as he bolted upright, heart hammering as if trying to escape his ribs. The cold air of the tent bit against his soaked fur, his breath fogging into the dimness around him. For a moment, he simply sat there—still and silent—letting the pounding of his pulse fade into the low rustling of wind.
Another nightmare.
They were becoming more frequent now, and worse—sharper, more visceral. Like claws tracing unseen warnings across the walls of his soul.
He sat on the edge of his cot, shoulders hunched forward, hands braced against his temples. The vision had already begun to dissolve, as they always did—images bleeding into fog, voices reduced to echoes. He tried to catch it—just one phrase, one face—but the dream slid away like frost melting beneath the dawn.
Only one thing remained. One feeling.
Dread.
Cold and sour in his gut. Not fear of the battle to come—Talonir had long since made peace with war. No, this was something different. It was as though time itself had blinked and found him watching.
He drew a slow breath and stood, reaching for the feathered cloak draped beside him. Its plumage shimmered faintly in the moonlight that spilled through the tent's entrance—his clan's Arcem woven into the feathers like living memory. He wrapped it around his shoulders, its weight a quiet comfort, though it did little to steady his soul.
The night air hit him hard as he stepped outside—clear and bitter, slicing across the ridge like the blade of a quiet sentinel. Snow crunched beneath his boots, the silence so complete it felt reverent.
He walked alone toward the edge of the ridge, toward the place where the wind met open sky and the earth sloped downward into the frozen valley below.
From here, he could see the enemy.
Across the frost-bitten land, the faint flicker of distant firelight shimmered—Razik's encampment. Dotted along the opposing ridge, the camps of the Hyenas and their ilk glowed like smoldering embers on the breath of a sleeping giant. But sleep was not what Talonir saw when he looked toward them.
No. What he saw were teeth. Bared teeth. Coiled muscles. And shadows that moved too deliberately to be cast by flame alone.
His golden eyes narrowed.
He had seen war. He had watched friends fall beneath broken skies. He had flown above the dying breath of kingdoms. But tonight… this was something else.
A hush had settled across the valley. Not peace. Something older. The stillness before a storm that didn't come from weather—but from prophecy.
Something terrible was coming. He could feel it in the wind. In the air. In the stars, if he dared to look up.
He wrapped the cloak tighter around himself, feathers rustling softly. His voice came low, barely above a whisper, but the words felt like they were drawn from a deeper place than thought.
"…Asalan, what is it we've awakened?"
He stood there for a long while, watching the lights of the enemy like a sentinel carved in frost and breath.
Behind him, the camp slept.
But Talonir did not.
Not tonight.
Not anymore.
The sound of approaching footsteps broke the silence, light but measured—familiar to Talonir's ear before his eye confirmed it.
Kon.
The younger Tracient moved with the quiet precision of a seasoned warrior, yet even in his ease, Talonir could see the tension behind his calm face. The silent calculation. The weight of command carried like invisible armor.
"Can't sleep?" Kon asked, his voice steady, but not devoid of concern.
Talonir gave a low grunt in response, not turning away from the enemy fires flickering in the distance. There was little need for words between them. Not here. Not now.
Kon stepped up beside him, his arms crossed as he gazed out into the same black horizon, where light danced like illusions on ice. A wind stirred around them, rustling Talonir's feathers and the edge of Kon's tiger-striped cape.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Only the wind answered.
"Get some rest, Master," Kon said finally, his voice quiet, almost gentle. "You'll need it the most for tomorrow."
It was spoken with that rare deference Kon showed only in private—the kind that suggested reverence, but never submission. Then he turned to leave.
"Kon."
Kon paused, glancing back.
"Yes?"
The older Tracient's voice came low, as though dredged from somewhere deep and burdened. "Do you think we can do this? Can we… win Narn back?"
There it was—the fear behind the feathers, the tremor behind the strength. He hadn't meant to ask it aloud. Not really. But it had clawed its way free before he could stop it.
Kon's eyes sharpened. For a moment, he said nothing—just let the question sit between them like frost. And then, with the certainty of stone, he nodded.
"We can," he said. "And we will."
The simplicity of the answer struck Talonir more deeply than he expected. Not because of its content—but because of the conviction behind it. Kon didn't flinch. He didn't second-guess.
But Talonir… he wasn't so sure.
He watched the young Lord disappear into the darkness, footsteps swallowed by the snow.
'I want to believe you, Kon,' he thought. 'I truly do.'
But as he turned back toward the horizon, his chest tightened. The enemy fires had begun to flicker lower—but they still burned. Like eyes that refused to blink.
'Then why,' he wondered, 'when I think of this war, do I see not victory—but Archen Land burning?'
A quiet dread stirred beneath his breastbone, clawing at his reason. Was it merely the remnants of the dream? Or a whisper of something more?
His breath misted into the cold. Then, drawing in a slow exhale, he reached within—beyond words, beyond form—and extended his will like a tether of thought through the unseen realm.
A telepathic link formed.
His mind brushed against another's.
"Hey," Talonir projected calmly, but firmly. "You can hear me, right?"
A pause. A mental nod.
"I need you to do something for me."
There was no further explanation—not yet. But the presence on the other end waited, attentive and silent.
Because Talonir knew, deep in his bones, that something was coming.
And he wouldn't be caught sleeping again.