The obsidian mouth of the labyrinth exhaled him into a world utterly alien. Baylan blinked against the sudden onslaught of sunlight, his eyes, accustomed to the perpetual gloam of the depths, stinging. Two years. A whisper against the roaring silence that had become his only companion. Two years he had spent fighting shadows and echoes in the belly of the earth.
The familiar scent of pine and damp earth, so welcome just moments ago, now held a chilling unfamiliarity. The clearing where the dungeon yawned open was overgrown, saplings pushing through the flagstones of what he vaguely remembered as a well-maintained path. A thick layer of moss draped everything, softening the edges of the world like a shroud.
He stumbled, his legs weak and trembling, onto the overgrown clearing. He called out, his voice cracking and raw from disuse. "Garren? Silas? Is anyone…?"
Only the rustle of leaves answered.
Dread, cold and sharp, pierced the numbness that had been his constant companion since the final, echoing screams within the dungeon walls. He looked back at the obsidian entrance, still sleek and menacing, a silent tomb swallowing the light. He was alone. Truly, utterly alone.
He remembered the Company of the Dawn as if through a fogged glass. Ten strong, the finest warriors his father, Vorlag, had gathered. They had been brimming with confidence, with laughter, with the camaraderie forged in shared battles and whispered campfire stories. Now, just ghosts. And him, a broken echo, stumbling out of their tomb.
His gaze drifted back to the clearing. He searched for signs, any sign, of the camp they had established before descending. Nothing. Just the relentless march of nature reclaiming what was lost to time, or so it seemed.
Then he saw it. A flash of polished steel glinting through the undergrowth near the edge of the clearing. He pushed aside thick vines, his heart pounding against his ribs, a frantic drummer in his chest.
It was a shield. The crest of the Company of the Dawn, a stylized sunburst in silver on a deep blue field, was barely visible beneath layers of rust and decay. He picked it up, the metal cold and heavy in his hand. Around it, scattered amongst the encroaching weeds, were fragments of armour, tarnished blades, and the skeletal remains of their camp – rotted leather straps, splintered wood, and fabric bleached white by sun and rain.
Two years. It had been long enough for time to begin erasing them.
A sob, ragged and choked, tore from his throat. He sank to his knees amongst the ruins, the shield clutched to his chest. His company. Fallen. Lost to whatever horrors dwelled within the obsidian depths. He was the only one left. The sole survivor of the Company of the Dawn. A title that felt like a curse, not a blessing.
He remembered his father, Vorlag, strong and unyielding, his eyes the colour of a stormy sky. Vorlag, the patriarch, the warrior, the summoner, the betrayer. Vorlag, who bid them well before they went into the dungeon, promising glory, promising to face whatever darkness lurked within.
And Vorlag, who had not been seen since the first day they descended.
Baylan's mind spun. Where was he? What had happened? Why two years? Why had time flowed differently within that obsidian prison?
As if in answer to his silent questions, a voice cut through the oppressive silence of the forest. It was a woman's voice, clear and resonant, carrying a strange inflection he couldn't quite place.
"Baylan, son of Vorlag."
He scrambled to his feet, sword instinctively drawn, the weight of it familiar and comforting amidst the disorientation. Four figures emerged from the trees, stepping into the clearing as effortlessly as phantoms. They were women, tall and powerfully built, clad in armour that seemed to shimmer and shift in the sunlight. Their faces were serene, almost inhumanly so, their eyes holding an ancient wisdom that sent a shiver down Baylan's spine.
He recognized them instantly, a memory flickering in the recesses of his mind – stories his father had told him as a child. The Battle Maids of Aethel. Legendary warriors, summoned only in times of dire need. Vorlag had spoken of them in hushed, reverent tones, saying they were protectors, teachers, instruments of fate.
"We are Valkyrie's of Aethel, I am Cordelia," the first woman said, her voice like the crackling of fire, her armour the colour of molten gold. "I am Sofia," the second followed, her tones like the murmur of flowing water, clad in silver armour that seemed to ripple. "Sorin," the third stated, her voice as solid as stone, her armour the colour of earth. "And Faelan," the last one finished, her voice light as the wind, her armour shimmering with hues of sky and cloud.
They stood before him, a formidable quartet, their presence radiating power and an unsettling calm. Baylan lowered his sword slightly, awe and a sliver of hope battling against the crushing weight of his recent discoveries.
"You…you are the Battle Maids of Aethel," he stammered, his voice still rough. "My father… Vorlag… he summoned you?"
Cordelia nodded, her gaze unwavering.
"He did. Before you descended into the Obsidian Dungeon, he called upon us. He foresaw his potential absence. He commanded us to teach you, Baylan, all you would need for the war to come."
"The war?" Baylan repeated, his mind struggling to catch up. Two years… a lost company… a missing father… and now, a war?
Sofia stepped forward, her eyes holding a profound sadness. "Your father is not here, Baylan. He has not returned." Her words confirmed the unspoken fear that had been gnawing at him since he had emerged. Vorlag was gone.
Sorin spoke, her voice firm and grounding. "But Vorlag's foresight was strong. He understood the risks. He prepared for this." She gestured towards Baylan. "He prepared you."
Faelan approached, her touch gentle as she placed a hand on his arm. "For two years, Baylan, we have watched over you. We have waited for your return. Time flows differently within the Obsidian Dungeon, as you have discovered. While you faced trials within its depths, we have been here, preparing."
Baylan looked from one Battle Maid to another, his mind swirling with a torrent of emotions – grief, confusion, a nascent flicker of understanding. Two years had passed outside. Two years he had been trapped in that nightmare. Two years these legendary warriors had been waiting. Waiting for him.
"Teach me?" he whispered, the question barely audible. "But… my father is gone. My company… they are all…" He trailed off, the grief threatening to overwhelm him again.
Fallen stepped closer, her gaze sharp but not unkind. "Your grief is understandable, son of Vorlag. But grief cannot dictate the future. Vorlag foresaw a war, Baylan. A war that is fast approaching. He believed in you. He trusted in you to carry on his legacy."
Cordelia added, "He knew you would survive the dungeon. He knew your strength."
Sorin said, "He instructed us in your training. He knew what you would need to become."
Faelan placed both hands on his shoulders, her touch grounding him. "You are the last of the Company of the Dawn, Baylan. But you are not alone. We are here. We will guide you. We will teach you. As Vorlag commanded."
Baylan looked around the clearing, at the ruins of his company's camp, at the silent, brooding obsidian mouth of the dungeon, and then at the four Battle Maids of Aethel, their faces resolute, their eyes filled with an ancient power and purpose. His heart ached with loss, with the weight of two years stolen, with the absence of his father and comrades. But beneath the grief, a spark ignited. A spark of defiance, of duty, of a legacy he could not, would not, abandon.
He drew a deep, shuddering breath, the clean forest air filling his lungs. He looked at the Battle Maids, his gaze steadier now, a flicker of determination in his eyes.
"Then teach me," Baylan said, his voice gaining strength, echoing in the clearing. "Teach me everything. For my father. For my company. For the war to come."
The Battle Maids of Aethel nodded, their ancient eyes reflecting the nascent fire rekindling within Baylan, son of Vorlag, the sole survivor of the Company of the Dawn, and the one who, unknowingly, had been forged in darkness, ready to face the dawn. The two years lost were gone, but the future, however daunting, was now his to face. And he would face it, armed with grief, trained by legends, and driven by the legacy of a father lost, but not forgotten.