Edrin Fal
I think they're gone,I suppose.
Go… run. Was your courage hiding in the shadows? You buried two of my soldiers in the soil. This debt will be paid — I'll see to it.
One of them was young. I still remember his face — I must remember it. Forget men like him, and you cease to be a commander.
I cut down four of them. That number means nothing; vengeance doesn't sate the soul — it only postpones the hunger. But these men… they weren't just assassins. There was a blind faith in their eyes. And that pendant… the Moon Goddess.
In this age? On this land? I thought that cursed faith had long been buried. So the ashes still breathe. How foolish — we raise blades against each other when we should be one.
Two of my men are dead. They were my burden. Perhaps I should've moved faster. Perhaps there was another way. A commander looks to himself first — that's what I was taught, and that's what I teach. Now the weight sits inside me like a stone.
I should return to camp. Deliver the report. Restore order. Give the people faith. That's what a soldier does: first blood, then duty, then pain when the night falls and no one's left to hear it.
I mounted my horse. The ground was still wet with dew, yet I could smell iron — blood. The wind wasn't cold, but I was.
Did these men really have to die? If this is the gods' game, what kind of justice is that?
We once stood as one. Now everyone hides behind an idea, a fear. Thalrien used to say: "Hard times create strong elves; strong elves create easy times." So the times must be about to grow harder. There's little left of the old soil here.
Until the Provincial King arrives, this land rests on my shoulders. Whoever stands before me — I'll be the hand that holds the blade. I'll keep walking.
I can still hear my father's voice: "If you swing with hesitation, you've already failed."
Maybe I'm getting old. Maybe I'm just tired. But I can't stop. If I stop, I'll fall. If I fall, the people fall. And I won't fall. I'll walk with my fear — as always.
When I reached camp, everyone who saw the blood on my armor and the lines on my face rushed toward me. Questions, panic, whispers… But I stood tall. I have no right to tremble. I'm not fearless — I just walk despite fear.
I spent hours in the command tent, drawing plans, setting restrictions to contain the sickness. Then a young lieutenant entered, his voice trembling as he reported both my men's and the attackers' bodies had been recovered.
"Bodies," he called them? They were soldiers. They had names. Faces. The word fell from my mouth, and I found myself at war with my own thoughts. Is this what aging feels like? Wait for me — I'll join you once I've taken my cloak. My green cloak; the color of my homeland. They give soldiers red and gold now, but I'm still a child of the old soil.
I stood over my fallen soldiers. Their names faded in my memory, but not my sorrow. I prayed for them — and wondered if perhaps someone else's prayers had killed them.
I ordered their bodies to be burned, as the Sun Faith demands. Flesh returns to light.
Later, I walked toward the part of the camp I disliked most. The festive air of the previous night was gone. Strangely, that comforted me — grief shared is the seed of unity. Then I entered the infirmary and saw the four corpses lying on the floor.
They were strong — easily mistaken for soldiers. I began to study them.
Two were archers. Resin traces on their fingers, worn bowstrings — identical arrowheads, identical craftsmanship. Same source, same artisan. The shoulders bore the marks of long carriage, the arms streaked with dried sweat.
The other two were knife-men; oil stains on the scabbards, concealed grip wear on the hilts. Mud on their soles — riverbed clay. They'd come along the water routes. The pattern under their boots belonged to a specific stream.
Looking closer, I saw two had faint moon marks on their backs — fresh sigils, or tattoos perhaps. And one had a torn string at his neck, a small metal fragment still clinging to his collar. This wasn't a random attack — it carried meaning.
Not peasants, but trained men. Their movement, coordination, and precision — disciplined cells, not wanderers. The archers' synchronized timing, the assassins' silent strike — all of it deliberate.
Malliya Forests – Road to Lumenor
The sun fought the morning mist as it rose over Malliya Forest.
Once alive with birdsong, the path now echoed only with hoofbeats.
The soil was hard, the air heavy, yet the army marched with resolve.
At the front rode Luther Aurelien; behind him, the glory of the Sun Empire — banners of gold, and hundreds of armored soldiers.
Their armor reflected not light, but judgment.
Every village they passed knelt in silence.
Some whispered prayers; others simply watched.
The army marched not for death, but to save life — though none knew it yet.
As the king passed, faces showed both fear and awe —
as if the sun rose upon them, not above them.
At the roadside, a small boy clung to the branches of a tree, terrified by the thunder of the approaching host.
When a soldier stepped forward, the child climbed higher, branches trembling.
Holf Aurelien dismounted and raised a hand to halt the troops.
His voice was calm, his tone gentle:
"If there's a child in this realm afraid of the Sun Empire, then the shame is ours."
The words spread with the wind,
and for a moment — even the king — fell silent.
A captain helped the boy down,
and Luther looked at his son.
A quiet pride filled him,
followed by sorrow —
for every pride carries a shadow: even eternity fades.
Varin Keldor noticed it; he knew that look well.
Loosening his reins, he turned to Holf with a faint, teasing smile.
"If you ever become king, I doubt the palace will mean much to you."
Holf caught the edge beneath the jest.
He measured his words before answering softly:
"Become king? That's something my father and I never spoke of.He always favored Nedved — not me.I think too much. Thrones demand quick hands, not long thoughts."
Varin said nothing.
Saren Vael quietly fell back, sensing the tone shifting.
But the king broke the silence, slowing his horse.
His voice carried the weary wisdom of a father:
"If you knew what this weight truly feels like,you'd wish to be a common soldier, not a king.Ruling isn't for everyone.Between poetry and power lies an ocean — and not all who swim survive."
Holf raised his head, a sad smile forming.
"There's a difference between healing and ruling too, isn't there?I'm used to steering, father — but following the captain's course isn't easy for men like me."
Luther chuckled, low and tired but warm.
"Well said.I only hope I choose before death chooses me.I haven't decided yet… and I'm not ready to die."
Silence followed.
The last green branches of Malliya quivered;
ahead, the sky darkened.
Luther looked up — the Lumenor Forest loomed like a black veil on the horizon.
No birds sang.
Even when wind passed, the trees didn't rustle.
Saren rode forward and murmured:
"Majesty… the forest isn't breathing."
Luther said nothing.
He only tightened his grip on the reins.
His horse's breath steamed in the cold air.
No one spoke again.
The Sun Legion marched onward into the heart of darkness.
Every step felt like a quiet prayer.
And behind them, the light of Malliya faded.
Lumenor Forest
An hour later, color itself seemed to die.
Green turned gray; gray, to black.
And beneath the soil, a dull pulse — the ground itself alive, but in pain.
Saren Vael led the vanguard, each step measured.
When his hand touched the soil, his fingers burned faintly.
A thin haze rose from his armor, refusing to disperse in the wind.
"Majesty," he said, "even the sun here gives warmth without heat."
Luther listened to his own breath in the silence.
Then bowed his head.
"Then we are the ones who must bring the light."
He gave a signal — fires were to be lit north of the clearing.
As the flames rose, the trees seemed to reflect not fire, but memory.
Varin approached, eyes scanning the shadows.
The golden crest on his hilt glowed faintly like a dying star.
"Edrin Fal should be here," he said. "Smoke rises from the northwest."
Luther nodded.
"Then let's move.Darkness is expecting us."
The army advanced again.
The scent of pine had faded — ash took its place.
And there, where even the wind dared not pass, lay Edrin Fal's encampment.
It was immaculate; even silence had discipline.
Fires extinguished, guards standing like carved shadows.
And in the center — hands clasped behind his back, face carved with patience and steel —
Edrin Fal.
When Luther approached, none knelt.
Not from disrespect, but because the moment itself bore all the gravity of ceremony.
Edrin lifted his gaze to the king.
"Majesty," he said quietly but clearly,"This soil no longer accepts the light."
Luther dismounted.
Neither spoke.
The camp held its breath.
Then, with a voice like a chisel breaking stone, Luther answered:
"Perhaps it is the light that seeks us now."
Edrin stood by the camp gate.
Dust swirled as the golden banners of the Sun Empire emerged through the haze.
As Luther drew near, Edrin bowed briefly.
"It's good to see you all, Majesty.You've brought the Sun here.These lands have known only the Moon of late."
The words were plain,
yet the tone carried something unspoken.
Luther caught it — a glint of understanding, or warning — but said nothing.
Only nodded.
Holf and Saren stepped forward, greeting Edrin with firm, respectful handshakes.
To the younger soldiers, he was a living legend of the provinces;
to himself, he was simply a servant of duty.
Varin dismounted as supply carts rolled in and tents were raised anew.
The entire camp stirred — light reawakening within order.
"Majesty," said Edrin, "the war table is ready.There are things you need to hear."
Luther nodded again.
As they walked, the flicker of torchlight caught the faint tremor in the king's shadow.
No one noticed, but when Edrin had spoken the word "Moon," that shadow had grown longer.
The wind brushed through the camp, shivering the flames —as if some unseen force had branded a dark seal beneath the sun itself.
Inside the command tent, silence reigned.
Maps, reports, blood-stained parchments — all lay before Edrin like evidence at a trial.
Luther said nothing. He listened.
With each word, his face grew harder, colder.
Eventually, no one wrote anything — there was nothing left to record.
When Edrin spread the final map, the wind hissed through the seams of the tent.
The flame flickered, died, then revived —as though even the Moon was listening.
When it ended, Luther kept his hands on the table.
A long silence.
Then, only this:
"We're no longer fighting the shadow, Edrin.The shadow now walks ahead of us."
Night settled over the camp.
Fires burned low; sentries took their posts.
And for a long time, nothing happened.
It was as if even time itself was waiting.