The survivors of Orion's Gate returned not with victory, but with silence.
No songs. No banners. Only ash on their boots and grief in their eyes.
In Lyothara, the Great Tree shed golden leaves like tears. They fell slowly, soundlessly, and turned to dust before touching the earth.
King Aerion called the High Council that night—not in the Hall of Light, but in the Chamber of Roots, where the Tree's oldest boughs wept sap like blood.
All Four Martial Houses were present. So was Prince Kaelin. And Lira Valtharis, clutching the breathing book wrapped in shadow-cloth.
"The city is lost," Darien said, voice raw. "But worse—the enemy now stands at the threshold of the Five Cities. Frosthaven is next."
Thorin slammed his fist on the stone table. "Then we fortify! We dig trenches! We—"
"And watch our people turn to ash while we hide behind walls?" Elyar cut in, eyes burning. "We tried steel. We tried light. We even borrowed dwarven runes. Nothing stops them."
A heavy silence followed.
Then Malrik spoke from the shadows: "There is one path left."
All eyes turned to Lira.
She unwrapped the book. It pulsed faintly, as if sensing the weight of the moment.
"The Unlight is not evil," she said, voice steady despite her trembling hands. "It is balance. But to wield it… the user must sever their bond with the Tree. Their blood will darken. Their children may be born without light. And if they lose control…" She swallowed. "They become like the orcs—empty. Hollow."
Prince Kaelin stood. "Then we cannot use it. To save our bodies, we would lose our souls."
Darien looked at him. "And if we do nothing? We lose both."
The King closed his eyes. "Is there no other way?"
Lira shook her head. "The book says: 'Only the willing sacrifice can hold the Unlight without breaking.' It must be chosen. Not forced."
Another silence. Longer this time.
Then Darien stepped forward.
"I will do it."
Every elf in the room froze.
"You don't know what it will do to you," Thorin said hoarsely.
"I know what waiting will do to us," Darien replied. "I am the Warden of the Four Houses. If purity must be broken to save our people… let it break in me first."
The King opened his eyes—filled not with approval, but sorrow.
"Once you walk this path, Darien… you may never return to the light."
Darien bowed. "Then I will guard the threshold between."
That night, in a hidden grove outside Lyothara, Lira prepared the ritual.
She drew a circle of black salt mixed with crushed Voidstone shards (gifted by Malrik from his dwarven journey). At its center, she placed the acorn given by the dryad—now sprouting thorny roots.
Darien stood within the circle, stripped of armor, wearing only a simple tunic.
"No weapons," Lira instructed. "No wards. You must come empty."
He nodded.
She opened the book.
The glyphs glowed violet.
"Speak your name."
"Darien Valtharis," he said.
"Renounce your light."
He hesitated—then placed his palm on the Great Tree's distant root that surfaced here.
"I release you," he whispered. "Not out of hatred… but love."
A shudder ran through the earth.
The Tree's light above flickered.
And in Darien's chest, something unraveled.
Cold fire flooded his veins. His vision sharpened—suddenly he could see the threads of magic in the air, the pulse of life in every leaf… and the hollow void inside the orc camps far to the east.
He gasped.
Lira watched, tears in her eyes. "It's working."
But then Darien's right hand began to turn gray—like ash given form.
He did not cry out.
He simply clenched it into a fist.
And for the first time, he felt power that did not come from the Tree.
It came from himself.
In the distance, the drums stopped.
As if the enemy had just felt something new in the world.
Something dangerous.
Something… elven, but not.