The dust had settled over the battlefield. The bodies of those who refused to surrender—elves who had fought the fraction of the human army with unwavering pride—now lay lifeless at the gates of their once-proud home. Victory was not steeped in glory; the king carried the weight of his missing people in his heart.
It wasn't as though he hadn't offered mercy. The elves, stubborn and prideful, had rejected it outright.
Yet the cost of this triumph lingered. Hundreds of human soldiers had to be left behind to guard the captured town. A similar fate had befallen the southern advance, where The Falling Grin and the army had seized another elven settlement.
The generals' meticulous planning ensured the synchronization of their surprise attacks, sparing them from countless dangers. For instance, messengers from the southern town had sent eagle carriers to warn this northern stronghold, but those eagles—unseen by the elves—had been intercepted and shot down.
Days later, the Eastern Advance converged with the Western Advance, as planned. Within the hour, reinforcements of fifty thousand strong marched unscathed from the Lyon Passage.
—
King Reabron of Leotus stood hunched over a wooden table, his knuckles whitening as he gripped its edges. His face twisted in frustration, unable to mask the turmoil churning within.
"What do you mean there wasn't a single trace of anything or anyone?" he growled, his voice echoing through the chamber.
One of his generals, pale with fear, stammered, "Y-Your Majesty—"
Reabron's grip tightened until the wood creaked in protest. Finally, he released it with deliberate calm—then exploded.
His fists came crashing down, splintering the table in two as its legs gave way.
The king had rarely ever shown that much anger and frustration.
Under the cool embrace of the night sky, Mina sat outside the shared tent, her eyes lost in the infinite expanse of stars. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper.
"It's so peaceful up there…"
Okadio, parting the tent's curtain, stepped out to join her. "You mean the sky?"
She nodded, still gazing upward. "It's as though whatever we do down here has no effect up there. Wars are fought, atrocities committed… yet the sky remains untouched, unchanged."
Okadio lowered himself onto the ground beside her. His deep, rumbling voice softened as he spoke. "In my homeland, the night sky holds the spirits of brave warriors. It's what we orcs believe, anyway." He gestured upward. "See those four bright lights huddled together? That's the Belt of Bogu, the Tenth King. Follow it, and you can trace his arms and even his crown."
Mina squinted, her curiosity piqued. "Wait… I think I see it!"
"Bogu's tale is told across my land. Before he became king, he was the Prince with the Stolen Crown. He journeyed across vast lands in search of it, often gazing up at the stars. As the story goes, one night he looked to the sky and said, 'Among this vast expanse, we are but a grain of sand on a great beach of mystery.'"
Mina's eyes fell to the ground as she echoed his words in thought. A grain of sand…
Okadio's tone shifted, now tinged with care. "Come inside, Mina. Rest up for the night. We've got a long day tomorrow."
She hesitated, her gaze lingering on the sky before softly replying, "Alright." With a final glance at the stars, Mina rose and followed him into the tent, carrying the weight of her thoughts into the quiet of the night.
The next day, the full might of the human kingdom of Leotus, bolstered by an additional 800 men from Pascal, marched resolutely toward their next target: a city east of Eethemor.
This city, Emphium, was no mere settlement. Unlike the smaller towns they had previously encountered, Emphium stood as a bastion of elven skill and resilience. Its defenders were highly trained, and the city itself boasted formidable defenses that promised a true challenge. Yet, the combined forces of Leotus and Pascal were confident in their ability to overcome it. Their overwhelming numbers and a newly developed strategic weapon tipped the scales in their favor. Still, the true test lay ahead—the capital. Emphium was but a stepping stone.
The weather in Emphium shifted with the seasons, as was typical for the region of Minrow. Ilyara, the ninth month on the Celestious Calendar, brought a biting chill that clung to the air. Most elves donned light coats to ward off the cold, though within the city's walls, the dense canopy of everleaf and pine trees provided a natural shield against the harsh winds. Outside the walls, however, the landscape was far less forgiving. The trees grew sparser, and the cold seeped into every corner, relentless and unyielding.
Reemor Rupert exhaled sharply, his breath visible in the cold air as he tied a bundle of firewood with rough twine. The cold seemed to emphasize his isolation. Unlike the majority of his kin, who enjoyed the warmth and comfort of life within Emphium's walls, Reemor lived on the outskirts, where the elements were less kind. Today, he had ventured closer to the city than usual to gather his firewood, a decision that now left him within sight of Emphium's towering white walls and the lush greenery that thrived within.
From his vantage point, the contrast was striking. Beyond the hill where he stood, the city's interior was a verdant paradise, dominated by everleaf trees and the occasional pine. These trees were the lifeblood of elven architecture—thick, resilient, and perfect for crafting homes. Their trunks could be hollowed out without harming their growth, creating natural shelters that blended seamlessly with the forest. Inside the walls, the air was warm, the winds gentle, and the trees stood as silent guardians.
No elf could quite explain how, but the towering everleaf trees within Emphium's walls were unlike any other in the region. They were not native to these lands, yet they stood tall and unyielding, their vibrant green foliage defying the seasons demands. Even as snow blanketed the ground, the trees remained steadfast, their leaves untouched by the frost.
Outside the walls, however, the landscape told a different story. The trees had already shed their leaves, their bare branches clawing at the sky in the season of Harvestfall, a stark contrast to the eternal spring within the city.
Reemor turned his gaze away from the city, his breath forming small clouds in the cold air. "Time to head home," he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible. He hoisted the bundle of firewood onto his shoulder and adjusted the long tail of hair that had slipped over his shoulder.
Just as he took his first step, a voice cut through the stillness. "Reemor!" The call was sharp and clear, echoing across the frost-laden ground. "Hold up!"
Reemor paused and turned to see Farmou, a younger elf, hurrying toward him, his breath visible in the cold air. "Farmou," Reemor said, raising an eyebrow. "Shouldn't you be out patrolling?"
Farmou skidded to a stop, doubling over slightly to catch his breath. "Hold on, will you?" he said between gasps. "Yeah, technically, I should be. But I saw you out here collecting firewood and thought you could use a hand!"
Reemor sighed, his expression softening slightly. "You should know by now that I prefer to live unbothered."
Farmou straightened up, a grin spreading across his face. "Yeah, yeah, you always say the same thing," he said, clasping his hands behind his neck. Despite his casual demeanor, there was a hint of admiration in his eyes.
Farmou was younger, his energy and enthusiasm a stark contrast to Reemor's measured and mature demeanor. The two elves stood in silence for a moment, the cold air settling around them.
Finally, Farmou broke the quiet. "You being away from the city has taken a toll, ya know," he said, his tone more serious now.
Reemor raised an eyebrow, skepticism etched across his face. "Oh? How so? It's been only four years. Is it just now taking its toll?" He couldn't help but feel a pang of doubt. He had always been the outlier among the elves, the one who double-checked everything and never let his guard down. He had never been one to seek approval or recognition.
Farmou's expression grew earnest as he dropped his arms to his sides. "Yeah," he said, his voice steady. "Most elves don't take their patrol duties as seriously as you did." He paused, bending down to pick up a piece of dry wood and adding it to Reemor's bundle.
"A lot of us in the patrol unit have formed a group. We're calling ourselves the Double-Check Squad. We make sure to double-check the work of the lazier elves, and we're trying to follow the example you always set." Farmou clenched a fist, his determination evident, before grabbing another piece of wood.
"Mh, how noble of you all," Reemor replied, his tone carrying a mix of nostalgia and resolve. "I truly miss the patrol unit. However, I made up my mind long ago, and I've decided I won't return."
"Yeah, yeah, we all know about that," Farmou said, shrugging as he picked up his own bundle of firewood and fell into step beside Reemor. "But that still doesn't mean we don't miss you."
The two elves walked in silence for a while, the rustle of fallen leaves beneath their boots the only sound accompanying them. They soon approached Reemor's cabin, nestled deeper into the woods. The structure was modest but sturdy, built from wood in the human style—a design that always struck Farmou as peculiar whenever he visited. Despite its simplicity, the cabin exuded a cozy warmth, a stark contrast to the crisp Harvestfall air surrounding it.
Just before they reached the door, Farmou dropped his bundle of firewood and turned to Reemor with a smile. "You know, it's thanks to you that our city is known as the Home of the Drop Hero. But it doesn't really feel like your home if you aren't there with the people who miss you most."
He paused, his expression softening. Then, with a casual wave, he added, "Well, I better head back. The west is all clear." Without waiting for a response, Farmou turned and began walking away, his hand still raised in farewell.
Reemor watched him go, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. He muttered a quiet "thank you" under his breath, acknowledging the help Farmou had given him. "A good kid," he thought to himself as he carried the firewood inside and added it to the furnace.
As the flames crackled to life, Reemor suddenly realized he had forgotten something important. "Hm… I just added firewood to the furnace, but I didn't gather any food," he muttered, shaking his head at his own oversight.
Most elves preferred a vegetarian lifestyle, though eating meat wasn't uncommon. In fact, Emphium was known for its unique festival, the Lamus Gathering—a celebration native to the city where elves indulged in a sort of thanksgiving feast. Traditional dishes, especially the iconic lamb stew, were central to the festivities. Reemor, however, had no time for festivals or feasts. He needed to eat.
Stepping out of his cozy cabin, Reemor prepared for a quick hunt. The woods were usually teeming with life this time of year, as animals busily prepared for the coming winter. But as he ventured deeper, an eerie silence settled over the forest, making him uneasy.
"Where'd all the animals go?" he wondered, his eyes scanning the ground for tracks. The forest floor was littered with fallen leaves, but there were no fresh prints to be seen. "No tracks near here either," he thought, his unease growing. The absence of wildlife was unnatural, almost foreboding.
Suddenly, a loud clatter shattered the stillness. The noise was so abrupt and deafening that it sent a flock of crows scattering into the sky, their caws echoing through the trees. Reemor's heart skipped a beat. He had never heard such a sound before—it was unlike anything in nature.
His instincts kicked in, and he began moving cautiously toward the source of the noise. It didn't take long for him to realize the sound had come from the direction of the city. His pace quickened, a sense of dread creeping over him as he advanced.
Reemor ran as fast as he could, his vision tunneled on the path ahead leading toward the city. His focus was razor-sharp, his surroundings blurring into a haze of Harvestfall colors. He didn't care about what lay to his sides—his only thought was reaching Emphium. But something moved in the corner of his eye, a flicker of motion that tugged at his attention. He passed the object without stopping, yet a tingling sense of uncertainty crept into his mind.
The colors he had glimpsed—silver, black, and red—lingered in his thoughts. They were too deliberate, too out of place in the muted tones of the forest. Against his better judgment, he turned his head sharply to the right, his eyes scanning the area.
What he saw froze him in his tracks.
A knight clad in dark armor stood amidst the trees, a silver shield emblazoned with a bright blue star strapped to his back. In his hands was a bloodied sword, its blade driven deep into the body of an elf slumped at the base of an oak tree. The knight twisted the blade with a sickening finality, ensuring his kill.
Reemor's breath caught in his throat. The body belonged to Farmou.
The young elf lay motionless, his lifeless form a stark contrast to the vibrant energy he had carried just moments ago. Rage should have boiled within Reemor, but instead, his mind flooded with memories. He recalled the day Farmou had joined the scouts—bright-eyed, silly, and often careless, but with a heart full of dedication. Over time, Farmou had grown into a protector, someone who cared deeply for his city and its people. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to die alone, outside the walls of the home he had sworn to defend. Reemor wished it were him lying there instead.
Another sudden crash echoed through the woods, snapping Reemor out of his thoughts. It came from the direction of the city, followed by another crash, and then another, each one louder and more urgent than the last.
Reemor's senses sharpened as the reality of the situation crashed over him. "He's a human," he thought, his mind racing. "We're being sieged!"