The wind in the Vale of Ash did not howl—it whispered. Soft, eerie murmurs slithered through the blackened trees, brushing Elanil's pointed ears with voices that spoke in a language long dead. Some claimed the Vale was cursed, that the spirits of the damned lingered there, chained to the soil where their blood had soaked deepest. But Elanil did not fear the dead.

  He was the dead, in a way.

  Cloaked in a tattered mantle the color of dried blood, Elanil stood at the ridge overlooking the ruins of Thiradell. Long ago, the capital had glittered with silver spires and golden arches woven from living wood and starlight. Now, it was a blackened carcass, a husk of grandeur smothered in ash and silence.

  His hand rested on the hilt of his sword—Veyras, the Moon-Drinker, forged in silver and bound by blood. His fingers trembled—not with fear, but memory. Here, beneath those broken towers, he had buried his sister with his bare hands, her body carved in half by a creature that should not have been.

  He was twenty-four when Thiradell fell. Now, a century later, he bore no wrinkles, no sign of age. Elven blood cursed him with longevity, and vengeance had frozen him in time.

  He descended into the city like a shadow sinking into deeper dark. He moved through the trees and brush, the scent of pine and lingering smoke thick in the air—unchanged since the day the city burned. The memory clung to him as stubbornly as the ash once had.

  The trees ahead were soaked in a dark, viscous sludge, their bark slick and lifeless. With every step he took toward the ruins, the world seemed to dim. The air grew heavier, pressing against his chest, and the echoes of distant screams—long dead—rose in his mind, louder with each breath.

  Then the city came into full view.

  He stood before the gate. Once a masterpiece of white stone wrapped in living branches, it now lay broken and defiled. One door had collapsed entirely, shattered into splintered fragments upon the ground. The walls were scorched black, their surfaces cracked and flaking. The great tree limbs that once crowned the entrance were charred, twisted, and dead—silent witnesses to the ruin they could not prevent.

  As he walked deeper into the ruins, the full weight of it struck him—like a sword driven through his spine.

  The city that had once gleamed with white stones was now dim and hollow. The houses, the crowded streets, the people who once filled them—gone. The laughter of children playing in the roads, the murmur of voices at market stalls, the simple rhythm of life extinguished.

  What remained were burned husks of homes and streets lined with bones, charred and shattered. The air stank of death and old fire, a rot that time itself had failed to cleanse.

  He moved through the streets slowly, his gaze lingering on every doorway. Blood stained the walkways. Doors lay smashed inward, as if torn apart by desperation. In his mind, the echoes returned—children crying out for their parents, mothers screaming names that would never be answered, fathers fighting not to win, but simply to buy one more second of life.

  It had not been enough.

  The creatures that came that day had been too strong.

  He pressed on, until his foot struck something solid. He stumbled, catching himself just in time, and looked down.

  A small pile of bones lay at his feet. A hand still clutched a sword. A quiver rested against what remained of a spine—only two arrows left. Nearby, a bow lay broken a short distance away, its string snapped, its wood split and useless.

  Someone had fought until there was nothing left to give. He knelt before the bones.

  “I am truly sorry,” he said quietly, his voice barely carrying through the dead streets. “We were not prepared.”

  He closed his eyes and murmured a brief elven prayer—old words, learned in childhood, spoken now more out of duty than hope.

  Rising slowly, he continued through the city he had grown up in… and had failed to protect.

  At last, he reached the heart of the lower city.

  The central tree stood before him—a massive oak that had once towered in quiet majesty, its canopy stretching wide over stone and street alike. Where vibrant leaves had once caught the sun, there were now only empty branches, twisted and broken. The trunk was scarred and split, its wood burned black as night itself.

  He placed his palm against the bark and bowed his head.

  His body trembled—slightly, but unmistakably. It was a sensation he had not felt in over a decade.

  He steadied himself, then looked up at the tree one final time before pulling his hand away. Black ash clung to his skin, smeared from the charred bark, refusing to let go. He wiped his ash-stained hand against his cloak and moved past the central tree, his gaze lifting to the towering castle that loomed over the heart of the city.

  He pressed on, walking through streets that had once been alive with food, laughter, and familiar faces. Places he had visited for comfort and joy lay caved in and shattered, reduced to rubble and silence.

  Then he saw it.

  A two-story house stood ahead—what remained of it—marked by a smaller oak tree out front and flower beds set beneath the windows. His steps slowed. His body trembled with a sudden, aching familiarity.

  He approached the door and pushed it open.

  For a brief, merciless moment, the world changed.

  The scent of lembas bread filled the air. The interior glowed with soft starlight, warm and whole, untouched by flame or death. Footsteps approached, and an elven woman entered the room, a young girl at her side.

  “Welcome home, Elanil,” the woman said gently. “Did you have a good day today?”

  “Mom…”

  The little girl ran forward, arms outstretched, laughter bright and unbroken. “Yay! You’re home, brother!”

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  He knelt, reaching for her—

  —and the vision shattered.

  The warmth vanished, replaced by the stench of ash and rot. The house lay collapsed inward; its beauty crushed beneath broken beams and stone. Blood stained the floor. Beneath the rubble, a skeleton lay trapped, unmoving, silent.

  Home, revealed for what it truly was. He struck the ground with his fist.

  “Why?”

  He hit it again, harder. “Why did it have to be us?”

  His breath came sharp and uneven. He closed his eyes, forcing the surge of grief and rage back into the familiar cage he had built for it long ago. When he opened them again, his fists were clenched, his jaw set.

  He still did not have the strength to step fully inside his old home. Not yet.

  He closed the door and returned to the street, turning his back on the ruin and setting his sights on the castle ahead. His pace quickened. Purpose hardened into something colder—vengeance sharpening his thoughts.

  Then came the sound. A wet, gargling noise echoed from somewhere ahead. His hand tightened around the hilt of Veyras and broke into a sprint.

  Around the corner stood one of them.

  A rotting corpse stitched together by dark sludge, oozing from torn flesh and missing limbs. One arm ended in elongated, razor-sharp claws. Its mouth was lined with rows of jagged teeth—strong enough to bite through steel. The stench burned the lungs. Looking at it made the stomach twist… A Segril.

  The world narrows.

  I drew my blade. Veyras slid free of its sheath, gleaming even in the dead light.

  “How dare you still crawl through these streets,” I growled. “You disgusting creature.” I lunged.

  It screeched and charged, claw outstretched to impale me. I pivoted and brought Veyras down in a brutal arc, severing its arm at the joint. Black sludge sprayed across the stone. Before it could recover, I drove forward, cutting straight through the glowing mass in its skull. Its body collapsed in a twitching heap.

  “Weak.”

  This one was nothing compared to those from that day. We had skilled warriors. Archers. Defenders who stood their ground without hesitation. It did not matter. No one stood a chance. Silence returned to the street, broken only by the crackle of still dying embers. The city loomed around him once more, vast and indifferent.

  Elanil became small again within it, just another shadow moving toward the castle. The air grew heavier with every step, as if the world itself were pressing down upon him. The light dimmed, shadows stretching unnaturally long between the ruined buildings.

  Elanil lifted his gaze toward the castle rising above the lower city. A sudden unease replaced his rage—not fear, but the sense of being noticed. It felt as though the castle itself was aware of him, drawing him forward, urging him to approach.

  He continued into the upper city.

  The dead lay everywhere; their bones arranged in grim formations of defense. Here, people tried to fight back. Shields lay shattered where lines once stood. Weapons rested where hands had fallen.

  The houses here were larger, their stonework stronger, less ruined than those below—but the ground told the truth. Blood stained the streets in thick, dark patterns, dried where it had pooled and soaked into the stone.

  He entered an open square at the heart of the upper city. Bones were piled high, bodies stacked where they had been dragged and left to rot. The earth beneath them was blackened and slick with old blood.

  Elanil looked to the castle once more.

  This time, it was closer.

  Just beyond the square, up the sloping road ahead, the castle gates waited. The gates were immense—white stone framed by ancient oak trees whose roots curled around the outer walls like grasping fingers. The doors, once carved from the finest living wood, lay shattered and splintered across the ground. The castle stood open, defenseless, its final barrier broken.

  Beyond the gates, the castle guards remained where they had fallen. Skeletons stood locked in defensive formations, shields raised, weapons clenched in bony hands. They had tried to hold the line. Bones upon bones littered the courtyard, piled where bodies had collapsed atop one another in the last moments of resistance.

  Elanil stepped over them and entered the castle.

  Inside, the great hall stretched wide and hollow. Once a place of light and song, it now hung in tatters—banners torn from their mounts, the stone floor darkened and slick with old blood. The echoes of his footsteps sounded too loud in the emptiness.

  He ascended the stairs toward the throne room, and a memory stirred—unwanted, sharp. A flicker of how he had come to serve the crown not as a knight, but as its hidden blade.

  “Not now,” he muttered.

  He forced the thought down, burying it beneath years of discipline, and continued upward. He passed through a maze of intersecting hallways, each branching in directions he knew by heart. He did not hesitate. Every turn led him closer to the throne room.

  The doors had been smashed inward.

  Beyond them lay devastation.

  At the far end of the chamber stood three thrones—two great seats of power and a smaller one beside them. Where royalty once sat, pikes now rose from the stone. Mounted upon them were skulls, bleached and hollow.

  The royal family.

  From King Erlan and Queen Sune to young Princess Faelyn, their remains were displayed in silent mockery of the rule they had once embodied.

  The throne room had once been a place to behold. Elanil had stood behind the king during his reign, watching nobles bow, hearing the quiet reverence in their voices. He had seen how the people respected their ruler—how they believed in him.

  Now, all that remained was a skull upon a spike and an empty chamber steeped in despair.

  Elanil knelt before the king’s throne.

  “Why did you send me away that day, my king?” he whispered. “I could have protected your family.”

  He remained there for a long moment before rising.

  As the royal assassin, Elanil knew every hidden passage, every secret corridor woven through the castle’s bones. There was only one place left to go. Behind the king’s throne hung the banner of the kingdom’s sigil. It had been torn straight down the middle, the emblem split in two—a final act of desecration against a fallen crown.

  Elanil knew what lay behind it.

  He pulled the ruined banner aside, revealing the hidden passage known only to the royal family… and to him.

  He glanced back at the king’s skull one last time.

  “My only question, my king,” he said quietly, “is why your family did not escape.”

  He opened the passage and stepped inside.

  The hidden corridor led upward, narrow and steep, ending in a concealed chamber built for survival. The room was small but carefully prepared. Chests lined one wall. Simple beds occupied the other. Everything the royal family would have needed to endure a siege had been waiting here, untouched.

  At the far end of the chamber rested a larger chest, set apart from the others.

  Elanil approached it and knelt. He opened it slowly.

  Inside lay two things: a folded parchment and a small, multi-colored sphere that caught the dim light in strange, shifting hues.

  He unrolled the parchment. It was a map—one that led deep into lands ruled by humans.

  Elanil said nothing. He rolled the map carefully, placed it into his pack, and turned back toward the passage below.

  Whatever had happened here had not ended with Thiradell. He made his way back into the throne room and paused before the king’s seat once more.

  Elanil extended his hand toward the skull upon the pike, then brought it firmly to his chest—a final gesture of respect, given not to a crown, but to the man who had worn it. He then looked at the princess’s skull and for a split second a wave of shame shot over him.

  He turned and walked to the far end of the chamber, where tall doors opened onto the royal terrace.

  The railing that had once lined its edge was gone. Elanil stepped forward and sat where it had stood, his boots dangling over open stone.

  Below him, the ruined city stretched wide and silent. Beyond it, the vast forest encircling Thiradell lay shrouded in dense, unmoving fog—as though the spirits of the kingdom themselves had risen to hide the capital from the rest of the fallen realm.

  Elanil had traveled far in the years since the city burned. He had heard the stories whispered in taverns and spoken in courts—guesses, myths, and comfortable lies about what had happened here.

  None of them were true. They believed the people had revolted.

  Some claimed the gods had judged the kingdom a threat and erased it from the world. Others spoke of war—petty disputes turned catastrophic, a neighboring realm striking first. One rumor even whispered that the kingdom’s own royal assassin had betrayed it from within.

  Elanil had heard every version of the story.

  None of them were true.

  He stood on the terrace as the fog curled around the ruins below, and the past rose unbidden in his mind.

  It had begun on a beautiful day.

  With that damned feast.