Aya Grephin
The canvas walls of the command tent flapped softly in the breeze carrying the scent of pine, earth, and the faint, ever-present smell of mist from the Elshire Forest.
Captain Jarnas Auddyr stood before me, ramrod straight despite the decades etched into his face like the rings of an ancient oak. His uniform—he wasn't wearing any armour given the better utility of an uniform in this setting—the deep green of Elenoir's heartwood, was immaculate, the insignia of his rank polished to a dull gleam. He bowed, precise and deep, a gesture steeped in the old courtesies.
"Lance Aya," his voice was gravel smoothed by time, yet carrying undeniable authority. "It is an honour to have you grace our post." The honour, I knew, was mine. This was a warrior who had bled for Elenoir in the brutal crucible of the Second War against Sapin, long before the Council or the Lances existed.
The weight of his presence was palpable. Everything about him—the sharpness of his gaze, the economy of his movements, the unyielding set of his shoulders—spoke of a commander forged in conflict and tempered by loss. He was old, perhaps nearly as old as Commander Virion himself.
Which made Prince Corvis's specific directive, made by King Eralith, but bearing the Prince's unmistakable signature, all the more intriguing.
'Jarnas Auddyr must lead the garrison.' Not just recommended—insisted upon. Why? What did the young Prince, with his unsettling foresight and revolutionary laws, see in this stern, traditional elf that others might overlook?
Was it his unwavering loyalty to the land, not just the crown? His understanding of Elenoir's unique rhythms and dangers? Or simply the unshakeable bedrock of his experience?
Prince Corvis Eralith. The thought was a constant hum beneath my duties. Once, my oath was solely to the Eralith line, a blade sworn to protect their blood. Now, the mantle of Lance stretched that allegiance thin, binding me to all of Dicathen.
A pillar of hope, they called us. Sometimes, the weight of that expectation felt heavier than any enemy charge. My hand drifted unconsciously to the smooth, cool surface embedded just below my collarbone. The Asuran Weapon. A rhomboid shard of stone, humming with dormant power, seamlessly fused with my flesh.
Crafted by the Prince? The concept still felt fantastical, a whisper from legend made terrifyingly real. Yet Alea, my sister-in-arms, my anchor in the storm of our responsibilities, had placed it there with unwavering certainty. And Alea trusted Prince Corvis implicitly, with a faith that bordered on devotion.
"How are the preparations going, Captain?" I asked, my voice cutting through the contemplative silence of the tent. War wasn't declared, not officially, but its shadow stretched long and cold across the land. Even the civilians in the nearby villages moved with a new wariness, their eyes scanning the dense tree line bordering the Beast Glades with trepidation.
No longer merely dangerous; they were becoming corrupted. The mutants—twisted, aggressive mana beasts radiating a foul, alien taint—were turning it into a festering wound on our border, a threat that now endangered seasoned adventurers who once plied its depths for resources.
Captain Auddyr moved to a large, worn map spread across a sturdy table, its edges frayed, its surface marked with precise notations in charcoal and ink.
"As per the strategic directives derived from the new… provisions," he said, tactfully avoiding directly naming the Corvis Laws—provisions that had caused friction amongst some noble houses but were proving vital. They allowed adventuring parties, suddenly finding their traditional hunting grounds lethally transformed, to transition seamlessly into specialized squads inside the Army, bypassing lengthy retraining.
Auddyr's calloused finger traced the eastern border of Elenoir where it met the encroaching darkness of the Beast Glades. "The designated sectors bordering the Beast Glades have been fortified as instructed. Enhanced barriers here and here," he tapped specific points, "warded observation posts integrated into the canopy here, and rapid-response staging areas here." He straightened, meeting my gaze, a flicker of hard-won pride in his old eyes.
"Thanks to these measures, and the inherent aptitude of elves traversing our homeland's terrain, my division alone should be sufficient to maintain vigilance and initial defense along this entire eastern frontier."
His confidence wasn't boastful; it was the quiet certainty of a man who knew his land and his soldiers. The efficiency was undeniable, a testament to his leadership and the practicality of the Prince's structuring. "I see," I acknowledged, the relief tempered by the sheer scale of the threat brewing beyond those trees. "I trust the Council has been fully apprised of the fortification status and the… evolving situation in the Beast Glades?"
"Of course, Lance Aya," Auddyr confirmed without hesitation. He gestured towards a humming, boxy apparatus on a smaller table. "A comprehensive situation report, including the latest mutant encounter logs and fortification schematics, was transmitted directly to the Castle just this morning. Council protocols are being adhered to strictly."
I gave a single, firm nod. "Excellent work, Captain Auddyr. Maintain readiness."
Stepping out of the tent, the vast expanse of the Elshire Forest stretched before me, beautiful and foreboding. The fortified border was a thin line drawn against a rising tide of corruption. Taking a breath of the pine-scented air, I gathered my mana.
With a thought that sent a familiar thrum through the Asuran Weapon in my chest, I lifted from the mossy ground, the wind whipping my hair.
Varay Aurae
The cold weight of the rhomboid stone embedded just below my wrist drew my gaze again. Acclorite. Lance Alea's voice echoed in my mind as I traced its unnaturally smooth edges with my fingertips. It laid seamlessly fused to my skin, a foreign artifact humming with a power both alien and immense. A weapon. His weapon.
Crafted by the Prince whose very existence seemed to rewrite the rules of our world. The chill of the Castle corridor seeped through my hite uniform as I lowered my hand, the phantom sensation of the mineral's cool surface lingering. Training with Princess Kathlyn had been efficient, precise—a necessary calibration of ice and resolve.
Now, duty called me south, towards the skeletal beginnings of the Wall. The real front line.
We Lances bore the mantle of Generals, yes. But in the brutal and cold calculus of the war to come, our white cores designated us something far more specific: surgeons of slaughter.
Our purpose wasn't to command vast legions, but to excise the enemy's own monstrous malignancies—the Scythes, the Retainers, the Vritra-spawned abominations capable of turning battalions into crimson mist with a gesture. We were the scalpels meant for their throats.
The Council's formation, years ago, had carried this unspoken weight. A gathering of power not just for peace, but for an inevitable storm. We'd all felt it, a dread certainty humming beneath the surface of diplomacy, sharper than any sixth sense. A war, or an upheaval that would shatter continents. We had prepared for shadows, for external threats clawing at our borders.
We hadn't prepared for the poison within.
The revelation of the Greysunders' treachery—puppets of the very Vritra we were meant to fight, but still didn't know yet—had been a blow that cracked the bedrock of my duty. And worse… far worse… the Glayders. My liges. King Blaine, Queen Priscilla.
The throne I had bled for as Code Zero before being revealed as a Lamce, the lives I had extinguished in their shadows, believing it served Sapin, served them. Their collusion wasn't just betrayal; it was a desecration of every oath, every sacrifice made in their name. The phantom brand of my old allegiance, invisible yet searing, seemed to pulse beneath the Acclorite.
And Olfred. Another Lance, another pillar… shattered. His treason wasn't born of Greysunders greed, but a loyalty perverted, twisted towards a Vritra viper whispering in his ear. Two pillars of Dicathen's defense, rotted from within.
The cold fury was a glacier in my chest, threatening to fracture my icy control. To stand in Council chambers, to receive orders from the Glayders, to witness General Aldir's divine clemency spare them… it left a film of grime on my soul, a feeling of profound defilement. Every instinct screamed for judgment, for the swift, frozen justice my magic could deliver. Treason was the ultimate corruption, the unforgivable sin.
But I am a Lance.
The thought was an anchor chain, heavy and unyielding. Incorruptibility wasn't just a virtue; it was our core, forged in the fire of my own soul. Emotional reactions were luxuries we couldn't afford, fissures enemies could exploit.
My disgust, my rage, my profound sense of violation… they were irrelevant. Dangerous. I locked them down, layer upon layer of glacial discipline, encasing the seething heat beneath miles of implacable ice. A nod. Acknowledgment. Obedience. That was the surface. That was what Dicathen needed to see.
Even if it felt like walking with a dagger perpetually poised at my own heart.
The strongest Lance. The title was a burden heavier than mountains. Victory wasn't a desire; it was an imperative carved into my bones. Dicathen would stand. The Wall would hold. The surgeons would cut out the cancer. And if marching forward meant marching alongside those whose shadows now stank of betrayal, so be it.
The glacier moved, slow, inevitable, carrying its frozen fury towards the rising stone monolith on the horizon. The grime might linger, but the duty was absolute. The Acclorite hummed, a cold counterpoint to the colder resolve hardening within me. The war was coming. And the surgeon's blade was ready.
Mica Earthborn
The heavy stone doors of the Lords' Assemblage chamber groaned shut behind me, sealing away the lingering stink of political maneuvering and dwarven frustration. I sucked in a deep, ragged breath of the cool, mineral-scented air of the main cavern.
Relief. It tasted like dust and stone, but it was infinitely better than the cloying atmosphere inside. Another interminable session dissecting the gaping wound left by Olfred's disappearance and Rahdeas's betrayal. Elder Buhndemog Lonuid, our new Council representative—bless his stubborn hide—had weathered the barrage of anxious, angry lords with surprising patience, but even his legendary stoicism had looked strained.
"It's all that rotten bastard Rahdeas's fault!" The words burst from me, sharp as a pickaxe strike, echoing slightly in the vastness of the entrance gallery. I stomped towards the ornate stone balustrade overlooking the heart of Vildorial. Below, the familiar, comforting glow of enchanted crystals bathed the tiered city in warm light, reflecting off polished stone facades and bustling market squares.
"Mica swears she wanted to haul him off to the deepest mine herself! Should've let her!"
"Bah! Don't waste your good rock-breakin' breath tellin' me!" A familiar, gravelly voice boomed from behind. I turned to see Councilman Buhndemog himself emerging, stretching his broad shoulders with a series of satisfying pops.
"Never trusted that slick-stone Rahdeas, not for a single tremble. You don't rise from nothin' to whisperin' in kings' ears in Darv without leavin' a trail of greased palms and broken promises. Especially not someone like him."
Buhnd was old guard, a friend of my father Carnelian's since they'd both been beardless whelps swinging their first hammers. His election, and my father's gracious step-aside, felt like the bedrock finally reasserting itself after an earthquake. Solid. Trustworthy.
"Mica knows that truth deep in her heart," I muttered, my knuckles whitening where I gripped the cool balustrade. Being an Earthborn meant prestige was woven into the very bedrock of your identity, more valued than veins of gold or titles. It was our compass, our anchor.
And Rahdeas? He'd sullied it. Used it as a ladder forged from lies. Dawsid, blinded by flattery and ambition, had let him. The shame of it, the betrayal of everything our culture held dear, burned like bad ale in my gut.
"Prestige can blind you worse than forge-smoke," I growled, the sound low and dangerous in my chest. "Look what it did to that pebble-brained Dawsid. Makes me want to find the biggest boulder this side of the Grand Mountains and just... hurl it." The sheer, impotent rage at what had been done to my homeland, to the trust we dwarves placed in our leaders and institutions, was a physical ache.
"I'm headin' back to the Castle, Lance Mica," Buhnd announced, clapping a heavy, calloused hand on my shoulder. "Try not to level Vildorial in your frustration, eh?" He offered a gruff, lopsided smile that didn't quite reach his weary eyes, then turned and ambled off towards the portal nexus, his gait steady and unhurried despite the weight of the continent on his back.
Important figure? Absolutely. Mannered like a surface noble? Not a chance. And thank the gods for that. His blunt, unvarnished honesty was a balm after the Assemblage's oily politics.
I should follow him. Duty called. The Castle, the Council, the looming storm of war. But my feet felt rooted to the stone floor. My gaze was pulled back down, not to the glittering heart of Vildorial, but to the shadowed arteries branching off—the lower tunnels. The city breathed beneath me, a marvel of dwarven ingenuity: harmonious, pragmatic, enduring elegance carved from living rock. But the light didn't reach everywhere.
What changed... and what hasn't. The thought was a cold shard. The main caverns shone, yes. But those deeper veins… once teeming with the desperate, the forgotten, the kind of hardship that festered in the dark. Places where ambition curdled into crime, where pride withered into poverty. Places that birthed bitter fruit.
Like Olfred.
The name landed like a fallen slab. I didn't like the traitor. His actions were unforgivable, a dagger aimed at the heart of Dicathen. But hate? Hate required a simplicity this mess didn't possess. He hadn't sprung from noble rock like Rahdeas, corrupted by greed.
Olfred clawed his way up from those tunnels, from the grime and the gnawing hunger Rahdeas had likely exploited, offering purpose, belonging, twisted as it was. Loyalty, perverted, but loyalty nonetheless. Born in the slums, fed on resentment, and ultimately weaponized against us all. The tragedy of it sat heavy, a different kind of stone in my gut, alongside the rage.
Another sigh escaped me, deeper this time, carrying the weight of fractured loyalty and a homeland still bleeding from self-inflicted wounds. The polished stone felt cold beneath my palm. Duty couldn't wait for introspection.
With a final, lingering look at the shadowed depths where Olfred's story began, I pushed off the balustrade. Time to leave the shame and the shadows of Vildorial behind. For now.