Baronsworth rose lazily from his bed and went to the window.

  Outside, the fields of his homeland stretched as far as the eye could see, all wrapped in a fine mantle of snow. A deep, pervading peace filled him as he opened the shutters and breathed in the cold morning air.

  Stepping onto the balcony, he noted that the chill had softened since the weeks before; the first breath of spring was on the breeze. The snows were receding, melting even as he watched.

  His mother had said the night before would be the last snowfall of the season, and warmth would soon return to the land.

  How right she was.

  He smiled, impressed—as always—by the quiet wisdom of Astarte.

  His heart swelled with gratitude. Against all odds, they had found each other again—alive, together—twenty years after that dreadful night.

  The memory surfaced, sharp and cold, and his body tensed.

  But he drew a long breath and let it pass.

  Dwelling on old horrors would serve no purpose. Better to count his blessings.

  Warmth returned to his heart, and a sudden desire to see his mother stirred him. He dressed quickly and set out down the corridor.

  The folk of the Sunkeep greeted him as he passed, bowing with radiant smiles, as though the warmth of his presence eased the chill from the stones.

  One servant hastened ahead to see that breakfast was prepared—a welcome courtesy, for the art of the Sunkeep’s kitchens was renowned, rivaled only by that of the Elves.

  He meant to knock, to surprise her as he had when he was a boy.

  But the door was already half-open.

  He stepped closer—and stopped.

  Inside, Astarte was weeping.

  The sound was faint, like the wind that sighs around the walls of a warm house at night. Her gentle sobs were almost lost beneath the low, soothing hum of the singing stone of Sophia she held; its tone filled the chamber with a calm, shimmering resonance.

  Baronsworth lingered, torn between concern and tenderness.

  He knew she would feel shame if he caught her in such a state.

  So he knocked softly and waited a moment before entering, giving her time to compose herself before crossing the threshold.

  “Hello, Mother,” he said, his voice light and warm.

  “My son, my dear son!” Astarte cried.

  The necklace lay cradled in her palm—the one she had taken from the body of her husband, Lord Godfrey, on the night of his murder.

  Its twin hung from Baronsworth’s neck, a gift from her on the night of his exile. He had worn it ever since, drawing comfort from its low, familiar hum.

  Through many sleepless nights, as he wandered the darkened lands, that gentle sound had been his only companion.

  Roused from her thoughts, Astarte rose and rushed to him, embracing him fiercely.

  Baronsworth returned her hold with equal warmth.

  For a moment, the two stones pressed between them began to resonate in harmony, their tones weaving into a single, luminous chord that filled the chamber like a blessing.

  The hum lingered as they parted, faint but alive, echoing through the silence.

  “What’s wrong, Mother? Are you crying?”

  “Yes, my son,” she said softly, ashamed of her tears. “I know I should be happy. The gods have reunited us, restored our home. I am grateful, truly. Yet at times the grief of what was taken from me… from us… grows too heavy to bear.”

  Baronsworth met her gaze.

  “I grieve too,” he said quietly. “Especially for him. Nothing can ever fill the space he left.”

  Astarte’s eyes widened, tears gathering anew.

  “I miss Father greatly,” he continued, his voice steady but soft. “I wish he could be here, warming himself by the fire with us. But he is gone—and we must make peace with that. Such is the nature of this world, of this life: impermanence.”

  He paused, then turned toward the window.

  Beyond it, pale light spilled across the snow-draped fields, glinting off the golden thread of the family banner that hung upon the wall.

  For a moment he traced the sigil of Sophia with his eyes, as though to draw strength from it, before speaking again.

  “Yet he is not dead. He lives on in the afterlife, celebrating eternally in the Halls of Helm, for he died defending his family and his honor—he died fighting for all that is good. And now, he has been avenged, through our own hands.”

  “We must make peace with his loss and move forward. He would not wish us to sink into sadness at the thought of him. Rather, he would want us to remember the joy of our days together—the warmth, the laughter—and take comfort in those memories.”

  “I say this with certainty, Mother: he lives still, dwelling among the Just, as joyous and loving as he ever was. I saw him, spoke to him, and it brought peace to my soul. I wish you too could see him, for I know it would ease your heart. Perhaps one day, you will.”

  “Now, grieve for him—feel what you must—but do not linger long in those dark places. Look instead toward the light, for we have much to be grateful for.”

  Astarte dried the tears from her eyes.

  “I know you speak truth, my son. I made peace with your father’s passing long ago. It is not his loss that troubles me so.”

  The light from the window shifted, touching the edge of her hair with gold.

  For a heartbeat, neither spoke.

  “Milord, Milady—breakfast is ready. Venison, seared lightly, as you prefer it, Milord,” said the young servant from earlier, bowing low.

  “We will be right down. Thank you, Emylia,” Astarte replied, regaining her composure in an instant.

  Then she turned to her son.

  “You are right, my child. There is no use in lingering in dark corners, brooding over a past we can never change. We must look forward, toward what is to come. Now, let us eat—for I am starving.”

  She moved toward the door, and Baronsworth followed.

  Those within the Sunkeep greeted them as they passed, bowing with radiant smiles, as though their Lord and Lady’s presence lent light to every hall.

  Ever since Baronsworth’s return and his reclaiming of the fortress from his treacherous uncle Garathor, it was as if a dark cloud had lifted from the land.

  Winter had come soon after—a white mantle that seemed to purify the lingering corruption—and for the first time in many years, the people could rest easy.

  Baronsworth ruled with kindness and wisdom, as his father had before him, and the Lady Astarte was just as beloved.

  Together, they governed with grace and a vision of the greater good, and joy slowly returned to every home and hearth in the land.

  Mother and son entered the great hall.

  Morning light poured through the windows of the vast chamber, catching the rising steam from platters of venison and fresh bread.

  Karl was already there, hunched over his meal with the intensity of a veteran warrior cleaning his blade.

  He bore the honor of knighthood now, having been sworn a Knight of Sophia after the reclamation of the Sunkeep—yet the title had not altered him.

  His humor remained unchanged, his manner familiar; only a faint glint of added pride shone in his eyes—not of self, but of service, his loyalty as earnest and unwavering as it had ever been.

  He did not look up when Baronsworth entered.

  He simply raised one finger, demanding patience, and finished chewing a heroic mouthful of meat before speaking.

  “Finally awake,” he declared, swallowing triumphantly. “I was beginning to think you’d joined Fredrick in some dawn meditation ritual and left me alone with all this food. Which, mind you, I would’ve survived—barely.”

  Baronsworth smiled and took a seat.

  “The sun is hardly high in the sky.”

  “For you maybe,” Karl replied, stabbing another piece of venison, “but for me, this counts as late morning. I’ve been up for hours.”

  It was a lie, of course.

  His hair was still tousled from sleep, his eyes puffy, and his cloak thrown on inside out.

  But Karl delivered the claim with such confidence that even Siegfried, who entered moments later, simply rolled his eyes in wordless surrender.

  The hall soon began to fill.

  Siegfried crossed the chamber with Alexander at his side, parchment in hand, the two already deep in argument over battle tactics and cavalry formations.

  Alexander looked younger these days—hope had softened him, restored something long lost.

  Fredrick came next, his cloak fragrant with incense. He sat with a sigh of deep peace.

  “The temple was full before dawn,” he said. “Half the town rises early now, just to pray together. Something in this valley… draws them to the Light.”

  “Perhaps they are inspired by the return of their Lord—said to be none other than Avas Athala reborn,” came a voice.

  They turned to find Gil’Galion beside Karl, already halfway through a plate of fruit, though no one had seen him enter.

  Alexander let out a cheer at the remark, but Baronsworth only paused.

  “Were you here the whole time?”

  “No,” Gil’Galion said brightly. “But it is far more entertaining to pretend I was.”

  Karl nearly choked.

  “Stop doing that!”

  The Elf Prince ignored him and reached for a honeyed pastry.

  “Your cooks have outdone themselves again, Baron. Truly, I may never leave.”

  Alexander leaned back with a half-smile.

  “You wouldn’t deprive the Starry Dragon of its finest patron, would you?”

  Gil’Galion tilted his head, considering.

  “A dilemma for the ages.”

  Laughter rolled through the hall.

  It mingled with the murmur of conversation, the aroma of roasted meat and fresh bread, and the contented grunts of men who had known too much war and were now—briefly—allowed to taste peace within the hallowed walls of the Sunkeep.

  Peace, however, is a fragile thing.

  The doors of the great hall burst open with a clap that made half the table jump.

  Solon stood framed in the doorway—hair wild, robe misaligned, spectacles fogged with breath.

  “There you are, laddie!” he cried. “By the Varanir, come at once—there’s something you must see!”

  Karl groaned, slumping back in his chair.

  “Solon, if the world isn’t ending, at least let me finish my—”

  But the scholar was already gone, racing down the corridor in a swirl of parchment-colored cloth.

  Gil’Galion smirked.

  “Whatever has stirred him must be remarkable. His robe had only two buttons today.”

  Baronsworth rose, pulling on his cloak.

  “Come. If we do not follow quickly, he will either faint from excitement or bring down a wall trying to reach us again.”

  The companions rose with varying enthusiasm—Karl clutching a half-eaten loaf like a lifeline—and set off after the scholar.

  The Sunkeep was vibrant in the morning light.

  From the courtyard drifted the ringing cadence of steel on steel, the sharp music of blades meeting in earnest practice.

  Servants hurried along walkways with baskets of greens and winter herbs.

  Children’s laughter echoed between stone pillars.

  The fortress felt alive again—warmed by breath, purpose, and the hum of hope restored.

  Outside, a sharp wind met them, crisp and clean.

  Patches of snow clung stubbornly to shaded stones, but the first whisper of spring moved in the air, carrying the scent of thawing earth.

  Solon was already halfway down the stair, muttering feverishly to himself, though Baronsworth could not make out the words.

  Solon had always been a scholar of unusual brilliance, but since the revelation of the Library of Berethor he had been transformed.

  Appointed Keeper of Wisdom soon after their victory, he embraced the role with almost alarming zeal.

  The Old Tongue—used by most Asturians only for prayer or tradition—rested on Solon’s tongue like a native melody.

  He could chant verses from the Mythic Age, recite prophecies by heart, and argue the finer points of Elvish cosmology with Gil’Galion until sunrise.

  So when he first stepped into Berethor’s ancient library—a subterranean city of shelves and vaulted stone—he had looked like a man returning to a lost homeland.

  In the weeks since, he had wandered its endless corridors beneath the steady radiance of crystal-light, poring over brittle manuscripts, piecing together genealogies older than the Sunkeep itself, and uncovering secrets no living Asturian had heard in an age.

  Yet the urgency gripping him now was something new.

  “Solon!” Baronsworth called as they descended into Caras Athalor. “Slow down! You move like a man fleeing wolves!”

  “Wolves?” Solon barked. “Wolves are not half so exciting as this!”

  They followed him through the streets of Dawnstone.

  Though winter still lay over the valley, the city stirred with quiet, ordinary life.

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  Merchants brushed snow from their stalls.

  Guards saluted their Lord with crisp respect.

  Elders nodded warmly.

  Trade was sparse in these months, wagons few, but life endured—steady as the pale sun climbing the sky.

  Solon did not glance at any of it.

  At the north gate he came to a sudden halt, chest heaving, eyes bright with exhilaration.

  “Let us through!” Solon called up to the guard tower.

  The soldier leaned over the parapet—and the moment he spotted Baronsworth among the group, snapped upright and saluted.

  The gates groaned open with haste, and Solon, practically vibrating with impatience, waved them on.

  They crossed the white bridge spanning the moat, boots crunching softly over frost.

  As the party stepped beyond the outer walls, Baronsworth finally understood why Solon had dragged them out in such a state.

  The ancient stone arch that stood sentinel over the northern road—silent for generations—was humming.

  Not faintly, but with a pulsing, crystalline resonance.

  The runes carved into its flanks glowed like trapped moonlight, each sigil waking from centuries of slumber.

  The whole structure thrummed as if drawing breath.

  “There you have it, laddie,” Solon said, pointing with a trembling hand. “Take a good look.”

  “What is all this?” Baronsworth murmured.

  “Well… I am not entirely sure,” Solon replied, his eyes fixed on the arch. “It must be tied to what happened when you opened the doors of the Library of Berethor—when the Heart of Cael Athala stirred at the Protector’s will. But that was months ago. Why the arch would wake only now… unless—”

  “Unless what?” Baronsworth pressed.

  Solon opened his mouth—

  —but the arch answered first.

  A vortex of white-blue radiance tore into being, spiraling inward like a rift between worlds.

  The light spilled across the snow in waves.

  People gathered along the bridge gasped, shielding their eyes as the glow intensified, filling every crack of air with shimmering brilliance.

  Then, step by echoing step, a tall figure emerged from the blaze.

  Aenarion, Elf-lord, seated upon a magnificent steed whose mane flowed like wind over water.

  The Elf-lord’s robes caught the morning light in muted glimmers, their intricate embroidery tracing the shape of ancient boughs and constellations.

  Behind him came an honor-guard of Siril Caelani—the Silver Lances—starlight caught in steel.

  Proud and regal, their banners streamed behind them like constellations set in motion.

  Clad in resplendent armor and bearing long lances balanced to deadly perfection, they looked every bit the elite host they were—riders forged to break armies, a vanguard whose charge could fall upon any foe with the force and certainty of a descending star.

  And last of all, like dawn given form, rode Alma.

  Her hair burned like living flame, streaming behind her as her cotton-white mount trod onto the snowy earth.

  Her smile seemed to melt the frost around her; her presence, serene and bright, rooted Baronsworth to the spot.

  Aenarion’s voice broke the spell.

  “Greetings, Baronsworth, Lord of Arthoria!”

  “Lord Aenarion!” Baronsworth answered, bowing deeply. His companions followed suit. “Your arrival is an unexpected blessing. Welcome to the Valley of Light, homeland of the Sons of Sophia, reclaimed and restored.”

  Aenarion tipped his head, curious.

  “Unexpected? Has my messenger failed you? I sent word clearly: ‘Expect me when the snows melt, for I shall have a favor to ask.’”

  “The messenger failed in nothing,” Baronsworth replied. “What I did not expect was your… method of travel.”

  Solon barked a laugh.

  “Aye, you sly fox! Not a word about opening ancient gateways! You said nothing of arriving in a blaze of swirling light!”

  Aenarion laughed with him—a soft, soothing sound, like wind stirring the leaves of an ancient grove.

  “My dear Solon… an Elf-lord must keep a few secrets close. And even were I inclined to share them, such a confession would take more lifetimes than Men possess. Time, alas, is not an indulgence we may enjoy.”

  He turned back to Baronsworth.

  “As for the day of my arrival—look around you, young lord. The snows retreat. The wind breathes with gentler teeth. Winter loosens its hold. Spring walks toward this land, unhurried but certain.”

  A soft voice answered him.

  “Yes… the season turns.”

  Astarte stepped forward, and sunlight caught her hair like threads of living gold.

  “A new warmth rises. The cold withdraws. Light returns to the world—and with it, the Everdawn draws near.”

  Aenarion regarded her, and his expression brightened.

  “Fair Lady Astarte. I have heard tales of your beauty, yet now I see they were modest things, pale beside truth. Not even in the age of Asturia’s highest glory did such grace tread the halls of the Grand Palace of Kings—or any court besides.”

  “Yet beneath those fair features I sense a deeper strength, steadfast as the roots of a mountain. It is clear now where Baronsworth’s courage first took seed.”

  He leaned ever so slightly closer, the keen perception of his kind shining in his eyes, as though he glimpsed the very shape of her spirit.

  “Your bond to the living world is strong—strong as that of your forebears, who long ago upon Great Asturia revered the Light. Trust your intuition, milady. It is a gift beyond price.”

  Astarte bowed her head with quiet grace.

  “I thank you for the honor of your words, Elf-lord, and I accept them gladly. Know also that you hold my favor—and my eternal gratitude—for what you have done for my son. Truly, I do not believe he would have prevailed without your aid.”

  Aenarion chuckled softly, warmth filling his ancient voice.

  “Milady, you flatter me—and you gladden my heart. But do not underestimate your son. The strength of his blood burns fiercely within him, and I do not believe any power—earthly or otherwise—could bar his path once his will is set.”

  Baronsworth met Alma’s gaze across the gathering, and a smile touched his lips even as Aenarion spoke on.

  “But I have given what aid I could,” the Elf-lord said, “for it was right to do so—and because your kind once aided mine, long ago, when we were in need. The friendship between Elves and Asturians is ancient and runs deep, like the foundations of the earth itself. Destiny has joined our peoples once more, and I am glad for it. Some of the most remarkable souls I have met in my long years were Asturians—mighty and proud, courageous beyond belief. Baronsworth bears their strength and bearing, though I daresay he may surpass them all in greatness.”

  Aenarion paused then, his gaze sweeping across the courtyard.

  Pale sunlight spilled over the stones, glinting upon the banners and catching in the helms of the guards.

  For a moment, the Elf-lord seemed to simply take in the scene: a fortress reclaimed, a people restored, the quiet promise of renewal stirring in the air.

  “The time has come for old alliances to be honored, and the flame of friendship rekindled,” he continued. “For as you well know, we face a dark and ageless threat—one that has reawakened and returns with great menace. But this is neither the time nor the place to discuss such things.”

  “As for the favor I must ask of you, that too we shall speak of later. For now, let us celebrate! Let us share news, for I long to hear the tale firsthand of how you reclaimed your home. And know that I come not empty-handed—I bring many gifts!”

  Baronsworth and Alma exchanged soft, complicit glances.

  Their joy at seeing one another again was unmistakable, though the moment for whispered words—far from prying ears—would come later.

  For now, Baronsworth had to greet his visitors as the Lord of Arthoria.

  “This way, Lord Aenarion.”

  He gestured as the Elf-lord and his entourage dismounted.

  “It pleases me greatly to receive you and your people as guests, and you shall be treated as hospitably as any who have ever walked the halls of the Sunkeep. I am eager for you to taste the delicacies our kitchens can offer—though I fear they will pale beside the marvels of your homeland.”

  “Nonsense! The food here is excellent, Father,” Gil’Galion interjected.

  Whether he had been with them all along or had appeared only now, none could say.

  “My son!” Aenarion exclaimed, warmth flooding his voice. “It gladdens my heart to see that yours still beats, and that you are well!”

  In a rare display of open affection, he embraced Gil’Galion, and the Elf Prince returned his father’s embrace with equal fervor.

  Baronsworth signaled to a guard nearby.

  “Fear not for your horses, Lord Aenarion—they shall be tended with the same care as any honored guest. My men will lead them to the stables, where fresh hay and all manner of treats await.”

  The guards of the Sunkeep gently took the reins and led the steeds away.

  “Come,” Baronsworth said, motioning toward the gate. “Caras Athalor awaits, and the Sunkeep at its heart. Walk with me—I would show you what has been restored.”

  “Nothing would please me more,” Aenarion replied.

  And so Baronsworth led the Elves through the city gates, guiding them first toward the military quarter.

  The ring of steel echoed across the training yards; young recruits moved in disciplined lines, their breath misting in the cool air.

  “We have not sat idle since reclaiming the Sunkeep,” Baronsworth said, motioning toward the sparring circles. “These barracks and yards have seen more life in the past weeks than in many years before. Each day, young men arrive from the outlying lands—some hardened by labor, others by grief—all seeking to learn the arts of war.”

  He nodded toward a line of soldiers bracing beneath Alexander’s firm commands.

  “Overseeing them is Alexander, my trusted right hand. He is well on his way to shaping their eagerness into might, their hope into discipline.”

  They walked on a few paces, the cadence of drill-calls fading behind them.

  Ahead lay another yard—broad, open, and marked by distant targets where bowmen practiced with quiet focus.

  The soft twang of bowstrings carried through the cold air like measured heartbeats.

  “The smiths, too, have worked without pause,” Baronsworth said. “They labor to outfit all who join our ranks. Which brings me to the matter of armor.”

  He guided them into the yard, where a soft golden glow danced across polished plates laid out upon the benches.

  “In the depths beneath the Sunkeep, we uncovered ancient forges—vast chambers dormant for an age. They awakened with the fortress itself. And through Solon’s wisdom and tireless effort, we have rediscovered how to command them.”

  Aenarion stepped closer, curiosity sharpening his gaze.

  “With this craft restored,” Baronsworth continued, “we forge steel as the Asturians of old once did. The results are… remarkable.”

  At his signal, a nearby soldier saluted smartly and stepped to the firing line.

  He drew a longbow, inhaled deeply, and loosed a shaft toward the breastplate mounted on a training dummy.

  The arrow cut the air with a sharp hiss—then struck the gleaming steel with a ringing note and rebounded cleanly, dropping to the ground without so much as a scratch upon the armor.

  Baronsworth stepped forward and laid a hand upon the unblemished cuirass, pride gleaming in his eyes.

  “The armor we produce now is half as light and twice as strong,” he said. “Thinner plates grant greater freedom of movement. And even the traditionally weaker places—face guards, vambraces, and the seams shaped for motion—are stout enough to endure direct shots from the strongest warbows. Even the famed steelbows of Arthoria struggle to pierce them—save for those reforged in the ancient manner.”

  A faint smile touched his lips.

  “The men rejoice in the rediscovery of this craft. As do I. We long to test its worth in true battle.”

  Aenarion’s expression softened with approval.

  “That is well and good,” the Elf-lord replied. “For soon the Asturian Knights shall ride again against the darkness, and they will need every measure of strength and valor your people can muster.”

  He lifted his hand.

  One of his guards stepped forward and placed a short, silver spear across it.

  “And for that same purpose, I bring you a gift.”

  With a deft motion, Aenarion engaged a device worked subtly into the weapon’s design.

  At his touch the lance shifted—metal singing in a clear, rising note—as the shaft elongated and locked into place, unfolding into a long, elegant spear that gleamed like living starlight.

  “This,” Aenarion said, “is an Athelian steel lance—the very same borne by our Siril Caelani. Athelian steel is rare and precious, yet in recent times we have reclaimed lands where its ores run rich and deep. Our own smiths have not been idle either. By day and by starlit night they labor unceasingly, preparing the weapons of the host that now rallies beneath our banners.”

  He turned the lance in his hands; light chased along its contours like a thin river of silver flame.

  “A great number of these shall be sent to you within the week. They are light—lighter even than lances of wood—and their balance is flawless. Their tips are forged to pierce the stoutest armor at a proper charge. Like our people, they bend but do not break, and long years of battle scarcely dull their edge.”

  A hint of pride colored his voice.

  “Armed with these, and clad in the armor of your ancestors, your knights shall be a company worthy of song.”

  Baronsworth bowed deeply.

  “A mighty gift indeed, Lord Aenarion. The generosity of Elves is without equal. My people—and my heart—are in your debt.”

  Baronsworth continued to guide the Elves through Caras Athalor, revealing its wonders as though unveiling the memories of a long-slumbering kingdom.

  They passed the great temple—its spires rising like hands lifted toward the Light—then the stately hall where the affairs of the valley were tended, and the parks where winter’s breath still lingered among ancient oaks.

  Everywhere they walked, Aenarion’s gaze softened, for in each elegant archway, each flowing line of stone, he recognized the hand of his old friend Berethor.

  “The craft of that one endures,” he murmured. “It warms my heart to see it living still.”

  At length, Baronsworth led the company within the Sunkeep itself.

  Aenarion paused upon the threshold, for the inner gardens opened before them like a world apart—its trees and flowers gathered from lands far and wide, some unfamiliar even to an Elf-lord who had walked between realms.

  Fronds shimmered with pale frost, blossoms breathed faint perfume, and small runnels of water whispered between stones.

  They ascended through the many levels of the keep.

  There was no hope of exploring it all—for the Sunkeep was vast as a mountain hollowed and raised anew—but Baronsworth showed them what he could.

  He brought them to the high terrace, where the wind carried the scent of thawing pines, and then onward, up the winding stair, to the summit of the fortress.

  There, the world opened.

  Clouds drifted past at eye level, soft as wandering spirits, their edges lit with the faint gold of the early spring sun.

  The sky stretched endless in all directions, and far below, the valley lay like a cradle of silver rivers and pale forests blurred beneath the morning haze.

  Aenarion stepped forward, his cloak stirring in the wind.

  He drank in the sight with the still, deep wonder of one who had lived many ages and yet could still be moved.

  Baronsworth’s voice carried quietly beside him.

  “This is where Garathor made his last stand. Upon his defeat, he cast himself from this height—and found his doom upon the stones below.”

  Aenarion’s keen eyes lingered on the precipice.

  “I can almost see it,” he murmured. “A bitter struggle—kin turned against kin. Light against the shadow a man chooses.”

  He turned to Baronsworth.

  “You must tell me the tale in full. I would hear it from your own lips, and perhaps my minstrels will make a song of it—though I confess, I may take up the song myself.”

  A gentle smile touched him then, carrying both pride and sorrow.

  “Such stories deserve to be sung beneath the stars.”

  Baronsworth inclined his head and led the company once more through the winding levels of the Sunkeep.

  At last they descended into the great hall.

  Hours had passed since the Elves first arrived, and Karl had protested more than once—loudly and with great theatrical suffering—that he was starving.

  Baronsworth only laughed and ordered a grand banquet prepared.

  It did not take long.

  Like a tide breaking upon a shore, attendants entered in swift procession, bearing platters heaped with delicacies—roasted meats seasoned with winter herbs, steaming vegetables fresh from the valley cellars, loaves glazed in honey, and baked marvels whose scent alone coaxed joy from the heart.

  Elves and Men sat side by side, sharing bread and laughter, and Baronsworth could not help but recall their feast in Nim Londar—a night he would never forget.

  He hoped, with earnest heart, to offer his guests something worthy of that memory.

  And though no mortal kitchen could rival the perfection of Elvish craft, the cooks of the Sunkeep rose to the challenge with courage and pride.

  Music soon followed.

  Men and women entered bearing instruments long silent—harps and flutes, yes, but also the elegant Asturian bow-strings: slender, curved frames of polished wood whose taut horsehair could summon notes pure as distant starlight.

  Beside them came deeper-bodied strings, warm-voiced and resonant.

  The first bow touched its string, and the hall seemed to breathe.

  The melodies rose—clear, bright, and layered—as though the stones themselves remembered the ancient symphonies once played within these walls.

  For a moment, it felt as if time had folded back to an age of golden light.

  To Aenarion, the moment struck deeply.

  He remembered feasts in the age of Great Asturia, when Men and Elves gathered in harmony beneath starlit banners.

  Those halls had long since fallen into ruin beneath the waves, and yet—here, in this reclaimed stronghold—he felt as if he had stepped once more into those early days.

  A span of ages collapsed into an instant.

  That old joy stirred within him anew.

  Though no food or drink passed his lips, the Elf-lord felt nourished all the same.

  The warmth of fellowship, the rising hope, the laughter echoing against the stone—all of it filled him with a brightness he had not known in many lifetimes.

  Long had he feared that his people’s greatest days were already written in the fading songs of the past.

  Yet here—among Men who had lost much and risen again—he felt the soft stirring of what might one day become a New Dawn.

  When the music softened, Baronsworth rose and began to recount the tale of their adventure once again—every step, every trial, every blessing and terror alike.

  Aenarion listened, utterly enthralled.

  Fate’s hand had woven boldly through the story, and the Elf-lord felt awe settle upon him as truth after truth unfolded.

  Whenever Baronsworth reached a battle, the Men roared and pounded their cups upon the table in proud celebration.

  The Elves—remembering Fredrick and Karl’s antics back in Ellaria—soon joined them with a graceful enthusiasm.

  Solon interjected at intervals with bursts of praise, his eyes bright, his smile irrepressible.

  At last Baronsworth came to the tale’s climax—the final duel upon the heights, steel ringing against steel, the wind tearing at their cloaks as Garathor’s long-shadowed treachery met its end.

  The great hall fell into a reverent hush.

  Even the musicians stilled their hands, their instruments held silent as though paying tribute.

  When the tale was done, the fire cast flickering gold across faces marked by wonder, grief, and pride.

  Baronsworth rose slightly and gestured toward the hearth.

  “His weapon—Tharanor, the sword of Judgement—now hangs above my hearth. A reminder never to lower my guard. A trophy of my hardest-won victory. And a comfort, knowing the wicked blade shall never take another innocent life.”

  There it loomed: vast and immovable, a monstrous thing of cold shadow.

  Suspended above the flames, it seemed to swallow their glow, drinking it down into its darkened steel.

  Even a glance sent a shiver along the spine.

  “A mighty trophy, indeed,” Aenarion said, his voice low. “This blade has tasted many wars. It has slain captains and kings, soldiers and slaves alike. Steel chooses nothing—it only obeys. The weight of what is done with it falls upon the one who bears it. Yet whatever curse Garathor bound to it… its presence chills the very air.”

  He stepped closer.

  Slowly, as though testing fate, he extended his hand toward the steel—yet just before his fingers brushed the surface, he withdrew, eyes narrowing with recognition.

  “A soul-drinker,” he murmured. “An ancient device of evil. How Garathor uncovered such forbidden craft is a question with no pleasant answers. With each life it steals, it grows mightier—yet the corruption within it is so fierce it can devour the mind of its bearer.”

  He turned to Baronsworth, his gaze deep and grave.

  “Keep this blade guarded, Protector. And if ever despair or necessity drives you to raise it—beware. Intent is everything. Let not the price of victory become your very soul. For I do not believe its days of battle are ended. Whether for good or for ill, Judgement may yet have a part to play in the war that awaits us.”

  The blade glimmered faintly above the fire—an ember’s glow coiling along its steel like light upon a serpent in slumber.

  Baronsworth said nothing.

  He had not touched the blade since placing it there; even standing near it sent an uncanny tremor through him.

  He recalled its terrible weight, the monstrous force behind Garathor’s strikes, and he shuddered.

  He did not wish to face another foe so dreadful ever again.

  As if sensing the dark river of his thoughts, Aenarion stepped to his side and set a warm hand upon his shoulder.

  “I am proud of you, Baron,” he said softly. “So young—and already you have endured storms that would break seasoned warlords. Yet you stand. You prevail. And you shall rise higher still.”

  Aenarion lifted a goblet of wine, the firelight flickering across its rim.

  “A toast,” he proclaimed, his voice ringing through the hall like a clear bell.

  “To Baronsworth, Son of Sophia—Lord of the Sunkeep and the Valley of Light!”

  Karl stared.

  “He is not going to…?” he muttered—only for his face to split into a wide grin as the Elf-lord raised the cup to his lips and drank deeply, emptying it in one long, unbroken pull.

  “To Baronsworth!” Karl roared, triumphantly matching the feat—and the hall erupted with the echoes of raised cups and cheering voices.

  “Marvels beyond imagining we shall yet behold,” Fredrick declared, hand upon his heart. “For with the Father, all things are made possible.”

  The feasting and laughter swelled once more.

  Gil’Galion spoke at length with his father, recounting the wonders and mischiefs of his travels both old and new.

  Karl, naturally, challenged the Elves and Fredrick to drinking games—much to Aenarion’s amusement, for he noted with curiosity how swiftly Men grew flushed and unsteady under the influence of wine.

  Astarte and Solon conversed for a long time as well; the wine seemed to loosen the scholar’s memories until they poured forth like a river, and she listened with warm amusement.

  Later she sat beside Aenarion, and the two spoke of nature, the Light, and the ancient days—his wisdom deep, her presence luminous.

  The merrymaking lingered into the afternoon, bright and unhurried.

  In time, the hall settled, conversation turning gentler as cups emptied and plates were cleared.

  Baronsworth rose and invited his guests to take their rest awhile, until the evening’s meal was served.

  Servants entered with quiet grace, offering to lead the Elves and the Men alike to their chambers, and many accepted with grateful bows.

  Baronsworth, however, did not seek rest.

  His heart was too full—of pride, of hope, of the long-awaited peace now breathing once more through the Sunkeep.

  He wandered toward the terrace, yearning for the cool wind and the solace of open sky.

  But as he turned a corner, a hand caught his cloak and drew him gently aside.

  He stopped—and the breath fled his chest.

  Before him stood the most radiant figure he had ever known.

  For an instant, he felt as though the heavens themselves had stepped into the corridor.

  Her beauty, her presence, her quiet grace—like moon and starlight woven into living form—struck him with a force that stole all words.

  Alma.

  Her smile alone undid him—warm, knowing, luminous.

  Before he could speak, she rose to him, cupped his cheek with a tenderness that stilled his trembling heart, and kissed him at last.

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