Three days passed after the first report.
Then came another.
And another.
Patrols along the eastern border—small, routine, never more than six elves—began vanishing without a sound. No battle cries. No magical residue. Only cold ash where they last stood.
In Lyothara, unease spread like frost on glass.
The Great Tree still glowed, but those who walked beneath its boughs swore its light felt… thinner. As if something far away was pulling at its roots.
King Aerion summoned the High Council once more.
This time, all fourteen seats were filled.
At the head sat the King and the royal family. To his right, Prince Kaelin, young but sharp-eyed, gripped the arms of his chair. Fourteen elders of the noble houses sat in silence—among them, the leaders of the Four Martial Houses.
Darien Valtharis, Warden of House Valtharis—the oldest and most honored of the martial lines—stood when called.
"Your Grace," he said, voice steady as stone, "fifteen elves have vanished in ten days. All from the east. All near the old ruins of the Black Peaks. This is no random raid. It is a campaign."
Thorin Cyreth, Lord of House Cyreth, added, "My scouts confirm: orc tribes that once warred for generations now move as one. They avoid sunlight. They march only at dawn or dusk. And their eyes… they are black, like voids."
A murmur rose among the council.
Elyar Morindel of House Morindel spoke softly, "Our magic falters against them. Light spells dissolve before contact. Healing wards shatter at a glance. It is as if they carry a shield woven from… anti-light."
King Aerion's gaze darkened. "Have we identified their leader?"
"No leader has been seen," Darien replied. "But they leave behind no bodies. Only ash. And silence."
The King leaned forward. "Then we must act before fear turns to panic. Darien Valtharis—you command the respect of the Four Houses. I charge you: assemble a company. Not to fight. Not yet. But to find the source of these attacks. Go beyond the border. Track them to their den."
Darien bowed. "And if we are forced to fight?"
The King's eyes flickered with the golden fire of the Tree. "Then fight as elves have always fought—with honor, with light, and with the strength of our ancestors."
But as Darien turned, Prince Kaelin met his eyes—and saw something the King did not.
Doubt.
That evening, messengers rode out to the four great cities.
To Frosthaven in the north.
To Silvira in the south.
To Orion's Gate in the east—though its garrison was half-empty now.
And to Elmara in the west, where the oldest libraries stood.
Orders were clear: prepare reinforcements. Secure inner roads. And send your best trackers to Lyothara within three days.
In the barracks of House Valtharis, Darien gathered his captains.
"We do not know what we face," he told them. "But we know this: the orcs have changed. And if the light no longer protects us… we must understand why."
He did not speak of darkness. Not yet.
That night, he stood alone on the palace balcony, watching the stars.
Somewhere beyond the Black Peaks, an army waited.
And for the first time in a thousand years,
an elf feared it might win.