The ravens reached Lyothara before dawn.
By sunrise, the city was awake—not with alarm, but with quiet urgency. Bakers baked double loaves. Smiths stoked their forges. Archivists rolled scrolls into oilskin tubes. And in the barracks of the Four Houses, armor was oiled, blades honed, and banners unfurled for the first time in centuries.
Prince Kaelin stood before the High Council, his voice steady despite the dust of travel still on his boots.
"They are not mindless," he said. "They chant. They build. They obey a single will. And that shard they worship… it drains our magic like a leech."
King Aerion's face was stone. "How long until they march?"
Darien stepped forward. "Two weeks. Maybe three. They wait for something—perhaps a celestial sign, perhaps the full draining of the Tree's outer light. But they will come. And when they do, they will not stop at the border towns."
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
"The outer towns must be evacuated," Elyar Morindel urged. "Silvira can take the southern refugees. Frosthaven, the northern. Orion's Gate is already half-empty."
"And what of the people who refuse to leave?" asked an elder from House Thalrian, guardians of Elmara. "Many say: 'The Tree has protected us for a thousand years. Why flee now?'"
"Because the Tree does not reach beyond the border stones," Darien replied coldly. "And the enemy no longer fears its light."
The King rose. "Then we act as one kingdom. Issue the Edict of Gathering. All citizens in unfortified settlements are to relocate to the Five Great Cities within ten days. Let no elf be left in the open when the storm breaks."
Across Eldarín, horns sounded—not war horns, but the deep, mournful calls of retreat.
In villages nestled in river valleys, families packed what they could carry: heirloom daggers, seed jars, children's toys carved from moonwood. In farming hamlets near the eastern plains, elders wept as they abandoned fields their ancestors had tilled for generations.
But there was no chaos.
Only sorrow… and discipline.
The elves had faced darkness before.
They would not break.
In Frosthaven, Thorin Cyreth oversaw the reinforcement of the northern wall. Ice-mages wove glacial barriers into the stone, layer by layer. Scouts reported orc movements along the Frostfang Pass—but no attacks. Only watching.
In Silvira, Elyar Morindel planted rows of thorn-vines around the city's perimeter—living walls that would scream if touched by hostile intent.
In Elmara, Lira Valtharis pored over crumbling scrolls in the deepest vault of the library. Her father's raven had demanded answers about "black shards" and "anti-light." So far, she found only fragments:
"…the Hollow Ones drank the sun and spat shadow…"
"…beware the Heart of Void, for it hungers for the Light-Born…"
She didn't understand. But she copied every word.
Back in Lyothara, Darien met the King in the Chamber of Roots—the sacred room where the Great Tree's oldest boughs pierced the ceiling.
"The people trust us to protect them," Aerion said quietly. "But I see fear in their eyes when they look at the sky. The light is fading, Darien. Even here."
Darien placed a hand on the warm bark. "It's not fading, Your Grace. It's being… pulled away. Like water through a crack in a dam."
"Can we stop it?"
"I don't know." He hesitated. "But if our light fails… we may need another kind of strength."
The King's eyes narrowed. "Do not speak of the Ashen Path. Not even in whispers."
"I speak only of survival," Darien said.
But both knew the line had been drawn.
Ten days later, the last refugee caravan entered Lyothara's western gate.
Behind them, the roads lay empty. Fields stood untended. Smoke no longer rose from distant chimneys.
The Five Cities were sealed.
And beyond the Black Peaks, drums began to beat.
Not fast. Not frantic.
But steady.
Like a heartbeat counting down.