They reached the base of the Demon host just as the sky bruised with dusk.
The air reeked of sulfur and old magics; black mist curled over the ground like living smoke. For a week the army had marched, and now the true scale of what they faced revealed itself — a ruined valley filled with shrieking stones and broken towers, a place where even the wind seemed to bleed.
Aeriswen halted the column. She called out, voice carrying clear and sharp over the roar of distant drums.
"Stop! Send word to the Palace — we have reached the Demon border."
Her order was obeyed instantly. Messengers bent their heads and sprinted back through the ranks toward the World Tree, carrying the single, terrible line: We have reached the Place of the Demon.
In the hour that followed, the ground behind them swelled with life. Thousands of elves poured into the plain — then ten thousand more — drawn by the horn and the silver banners. Campfires burned like constellations across the waste as the great host formed. This was not a skirmish. This was every blade they could muster forming a wall against the abyss.
Three figures cut through the tide of banners and bowed to the crown of assembled commanders. Their presence made a hush ripple through the ranks — elders of the highest order, their auras older than the fields themselves.
> Valyklae — High Elf, Level 80, the first elder.
Bryvelyn — High Elf, Level 81, the second elder.
Levyvian — High Elf, Level 84, the third elder.
Each moved with a quiet that carried command. Armor and robes embroidered with runes clung to them like living light. Soldiers who had never seen their faces before fell to a knee; captains tightened grips on spear and bow.
Aeriswen stepped forward from the line. The chatter died the instant she took the ground. Even the lesser nobles swallowed and straightened — when the First Princess moved, the field listened.
She raised her head; her robes fluttered in a wind that seemed to answer her. The crowd went still as stone. The crown — a ring of woven silver and living leaves where the elders stood — watched the princess with something like expectation.
> "I am Aeriswen Velyrion, First Princess of the Silver Grove," she said. Her voice carried, not strained, but resolute. "By command of King Illendir and the will of the World Tree, we have come to strike at the root."
Her eyes swept the plain — to the tens of thousands of faces turned toward her in the fading light. She did not speak of glory. She did not hide truth behind banners.
> "I know many of you will die in this battle," she said quietly, but every ear heard her. "This is no small raid. The Paradox spreads like rot. If we do not cut it now, it will eat this continent and every life upon it. We have one path: to press forward, to sacrifice what must be sacrificed, and to end this."
A murmur rolled like thunder through the ranks — grief and resolve braided together. Some clasped hands, some looked away, and others simply gripped their weapons until knuckles went white. The elders inclined their heads, each placing the weight of centuries behind a silent agreement.
Aeriswen's gaze landed briefly on the lone figure at the back — Haru, the outsider wrapped in the robe of the World Tree. For a second something unreadable crossed her face: anger, respect, fear, maybe all three. Then she turned back to the army.
> "Remember," she called, voice rising like a blade. "We fight not for conquest, but to save what is left of our world. For home. For family. For the World Tree. Advance on my signal. Hold fast, and do not falter."
When she finished, the valley answered with a low, unified roar — a sound like the planet itself preparing to breathe in and strike back.
The banners snapped. The elders looked to one another. The plain braced.
Haru stood very still. Around him, the elven host readied itself — and somewhere within the thousand-strong tide of light and steel, a thousand small stories braced for the sentence that might be their last.
The march forward began.