Dawn came cold and gray over the Ridge of Mourning.
No golden thread from the Great Tree reached this far east. Only mist clung to the stones, damp and heavy.
Darien stood at the center of the line, fifty elves to his left, fifty to his right. All wore the colors of the Four Houses—silver, ice-blue, forest-green, and shadow-gray. Their bows were strung. Their blades drawn. Their eyes fixed on the eastern slope.
Below, the land was silent.
Then—a horn.
Not elven. Not human. A deep, guttural bellow that shook the rocks.
From the tree line, they emerged.
Ten thousand orcs.
Not a rabble. Not a horde.
An army.
Rows upon rows of armored brutes, shields locked, spears leveled. At their front, war-beasts—hulking, tusked creatures with violet runes burning on their hides. And above them all, on a black stallion wreathed in smoke, rode a figure in tattered robes, the black shard held high.
No chant. No ritual.
Just war.
"Steady," Darien called, voice cutting through the tension like steel. "Archers—first volley on my mark."
The orcs marched. Slow. Relentless. Their boots thudded like drums.
At three hundred paces, Darien raised his hand.
"Loose!"
Arrows arced through the sky—golden-tipped, blessed by elven light.
They struck armor… and shattered.
Not deflected. Not absorbed.
Shattered, as if the very magic in them had been unmade mid-flight.
A murmur of disbelief rippled through the elven ranks.
"Again!" Darien roared. "Steel only! Forget the light!"
This time, iron arrows flew. They found flesh. Orcs fell.
But for every one that dropped, three more stepped forward.
The enemy did not break.
They did not falter.
At fifty paces, the orcs broke into a run.
"Brace!" Thorin bellowed, slamming his ice-axe into the ground. Frost spread instantly, slicking the slope.
The first wave hit like a storm.
Blades clashed. Shields splintered. Elven grace met orcish fury—and for the first time in memory, grace bled.
Elyar's thorn-vines lashed out, impaling attackers—but the orcs tore through them with bare hands, roaring. Malrik darted between shadows, slitting throats—but even he was forced back by sheer numbers.
And then Darien saw it.
An elf from House Cyreth—barely past his first century—fell to an orc's cleaver. Not ash. Not dust.
Blood.
Red. Warm. Real.
The orc stood over him, raised its weapon, and let out a guttural cry—not of triumph, but of recognition.
As if it knew what it had done.
As if it remembered being afraid of elves once… and now was not.
Darien charged.
He cut through three orcs in as many breaths. His blade, forged in the heart of the Great Tree, still held its edge. But when he struck the fourth, the orc caught his wrist—stronger than any creature had a right to be—and headbutted him.
Stars exploded behind his eyes.
He stumbled back, tasting blood.
Around him, elves fought with desperate courage—but they were being pushed. Step by step. Back toward the ridge's edge.
"Fall back to the second line!" Dariiven shouted.
The retreat was orderly—but it was a retreat.
By noon, the Ridge of Mourning was lost.
Twenty-seven elves lay dead on the slope.
Not turned to ash.
Not erased.
Just… dead.
Their bodies were carried back to Frosthaven that night, wrapped in cloaks of their houses.
In Lyothara, the bells tolled—not for victory, but for truth.
The orcs could kill them.
Not with magic.
Not with mystery.
With steel.
And that was more terrifying than any shadow.
That evening, Darien knelt before the King in the Chamber of Roots.
"We held them for six hours," he said, voice raw. "But they do not tire. They do not fear. And their strength… it is unnatural."
King Aerion looked older than his centuries. "How many lost?"
"Twenty-seven."
The King closed his eyes. "In a thousand years, we have not lost twenty-seven elves in a single day."
Silence.
Then Aerion whispered, "What do we do, Darien?"
Darien did not answer at once. He thought of the young elf's blood on the stones. Of the orc's knowing cry.
Finally, he said:
"We prepare to lose more."
But in his heart, another thought grew—quiet, dark, and inevitable:
If light fails… what else is there?