Location – Forj Mountain Ranges, High Precipice Overlooking Narn | Year – 7002 A.A. | Time – Late Morning, Winds at Gale Force
Talonir sat like a sentinel carved from the very stone beneath him, his silhouette cutting a dark figure against the bright, wind-swept sky. The crags of the Forj mountains fell away sharply at his feet, and the abyss below was filled with the roaring voice of the wind. His Feathered Cape, long as a banner and alive with motion, danced violently in the air, its plumage catching stray shafts of sunlight as though each quill had been gilded by Asalan himself.
Though his eyes were closed, his mind was anything but at rest. He was deep within the full measure of his gift—Vayra's Command—its connection threading through every muscle and nerve like taut strings on a bow. The world lay open before him, more vivid and precise than any mortal vision could hope to grasp.
From this lonely perch, the land unfolded in a vast, seamless tapestry. The snow-scabbed towers of Castle Tridon stood far to his left, proud but weather-worn, their shadows cast long across the icy foothills. Beyond, the towering spears of Mount Pire cut into the heavens, their jagged peaks wreathed in white. Southward, the battlefield lay like a wound in the land, the Dancing Lawn stripped of its beauty—Kon's army clashing with Razik's in a storm of steel and frost. And farther still, the silver thread of the great Narn River shimmered as it twisted toward the Ford of Beruna, spilling into its many veins like lifeblood coursing through the veins of the land.
Most would have found such a torrent of detail impossible to bear—the shifting glints of armor, the sudden flares of mana, the flickering changes in the very air where magic bent the light. But Talonir held it all with ease, his mind compartmentalizing each fragment, holding them in readiness like a hunter with arrows nocked.
His gaze—though outwardly hidden behind shut lids—had already found the duel. He had known the instant Kon and Razik met, the two Hazëls' mana signatures flaring like twin suns colliding. Talonir's focus lingered there, tracing the rhythm of the strikes, the precision of the parries. And he saw, with no small amount of satisfaction, how the young tiger was beginning to drive Razik back.
Yet, the satisfaction did not last.
Something in the air did not belong.
It wasn't in the duel itself—both fighters moved with the deadly grace of seasoned predators. No, it was in the silence that wrapped the wider battlefield. The great din of war was there—steel rang on steel, men shouted orders, and the wind carried the occasional scream—but beneath it all was an absence. An emptiness too deliberate to be natural.
His instincts, honed over countless battles and sharpened further by the gift of foresight, began to whisper to him. This was not the whole fight.
The duel was too clean, too visible. His mind's eye kept circling the edges of the field, lingering on the shifting shadows at the periphery, the patterns in the movements of units that should not be moving so quietly. The hairs along the back of his neck bristled as the unshakable truth sank in.
Something else was here. Watching. Waiting.
A low breath escaped him, torn away instantly by the wind.
This is wrong. The battle is wrong.
"You do realize," Talonir murmured into the wind, his tone neither taunt nor threat but a simple statement of inevitability, "that even if you can conceal your mana signature and physical appearance… you can't conceal yourself from the future."
The words vanished into the gale, yet they carried with them a weight that was felt, not merely heard — like a cold shadow passing over the heart.
The air itself shifted. It was subtle at first, an imperceptible wrongness, as if the mountain were holding its breath. Then, with the sound of reality parting like fabric, a massive form materialized where there had been only snow and stone a moment before. The impact of his presence seemed to bend the wind around him.
Snow groaned and compacted under colossal feet.
An elephant Tracient stood revealed, his figure so imposing it seemed to command the cliffside itself. His skin bore the weathering of countless battles, and from his broad frame hung an adornment of bones — trophies, or perhaps reminders — each skull strung together like grim jewelry, clacking softly in the wind. The pale sunlight slid over the arcs of his tusks, each one honed like a blade and carrying the faint gleam of polish and bloodshed both.
In one hand, he rested a weapon that was almost an extension of his arm — a massive scythe, its blade shaped into the cruel curve of a skull. It did not look crafted so much as born, the kind of weapon that seemed to thirst of its own accord.
He bowed. The gesture was slow, deliberate, and somehow dignified, yet the very motion sent the skulls across his armor clicking in a way that felt like distant applause for a doomed performance.
"Forgive me," the elephant said, his voice a resonant thunder that seemed to travel through the rock itself. It was not the kind of voice one merely heard — it was felt in the ribs, in the soles of the feet. "I should have known it would be impossible to fool a Narn Lord, especially the Lord of the Skies. Your sight is… impeccable."
Talonir's expression was stone, carved and unmoved. Only his eyes shifted — slowly, purposefully — as they opened, fixing the intruder with a gaze that was sharper than the wind cutting through the pass.
"I assume you're a Child of Shadow?" His tone was even, unhurried, but within it there was a precision — as though he were fitting a key into a lock.
The elephant inclined his head once. "Correct. My name is Thragos Fil, and my assignment today is to keep you at bay, Lord Kushan. You will not be backing up your allies, nor will you be summoning reinforcements."
Talonir's gaze moved, not to the scythe, nor to the trophies, but to the Hazël insignia burned into the giant's flesh — rank #12, glowing faintly, as though the skin itself bore a constant ember of power.
His reply was quiet, but it rolled across the distance between them with the same weight as the elephant's earlier bow. "Let me see you try then, Titan."
The Feathered Cape behind him shifted, its spread like the slow, deliberate unfurling of wings. Light glanced off each plume, the hues shimmering between sky-metal silver and deep storm blue and brown as latent mana pulsed through them. It was not merely a display — it was the horizon itself bending before flight.
Somewhere in the distance, the battle between Kon and Razik raged on, but here, high among the Forj peaks, a different war was about to begin.
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Location: Valoria — Capital Streets, Near the Southern Market District
Here, the air was laced not with the howl of mountain winds but with the scent of baking bread, the creak of wagon wheels, and the chatter of merchants. The morning sun gilded the stone façades in gold, making even the cracks in the walls seem like part of some grand, weathered tapestry. Yet, for all its charm, there was a strain in the air — the kind that only settled over a city when rumors of war became more than just rumors.
Darius moved through the streets at an unhurried pace, though his mind was anything but calm. His cape swayed lightly with each step, the deep green fabric marking him as one of authority, though he seemed to carry it with a kind of reluctant grace. Beside him, Kopa matched his stride, his eyes flicking between the street vendors, the passersby, and occasionally to Darius himself.
Somewhere nearby, a woman laughed too loudly at a merchant's joke. A child darted between carts chasing a wooden hoop. Life went on in small, stubborn acts — as though the city's heartbeat could defy the drums of war. Yet the tension lingered, silent but present, in every wary glance over a shoulder, in every hurried step when the conversation turned to the front lines.
"If you keep worrying like that," Kopa said, his voice cutting through Darius's thoughts with a grin that was just a little too wide, "I might have to relieve you of your office."
The remark caught Darius off guard enough to pull a short, dry laugh from him — a rare sound that, for a moment, felt almost foreign to his own ears. "Oh, you will. And boy, would I be glad about that."
Kopa tilted his head, watching him sidelong as they walked past a cart piled high with oranges, their scent sharp in the warm air. "Your father would turn in his grave if you gave up the mantle that easily."
Their laughter carried down the cobbled lane, weaving between the hum of the city and the distant tolling of the palace bells. As Daruis and Kopa turned a narrow corner, the scene ahead slowed their steps.
In the little courtyard of a side street, Tigrera was surrounded by a lively knot of young Bovines. Her posture was low, balanced on the balls of her feet, as she let her hands trail gently through the soft fur of a wide-eyed calf. The child's giggles bubbled over like a stream breaking over smooth stones, drawing the others closer in a wave of laughter and small hands. Tigrera's expression was tender, her smile unguarded, the kind that made it seem for a moment that the war was a distant and foolish thing.
When she noticed them, she rose with quiet grace, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear before bowing. "Good day, my King. Greetings, Lord Kopa," she said, her voice smooth as morning light.
Daruis inclined his head. "Good day, my lady. It seems the children have taken quite the liking to you."
"I love them just as much, my King," she replied warmly, her gaze flicking fondly toward the little ones now playing a short distance away. There was a softness to her eyes that seemed almost too pure for the world they stood in.
They traded polite pleasantries, though the conversation soon turned to the war—an uninvited guest in every discussion these days. Tigrera listened attentively, her expression serene as Daruis assured her that Kon would be safe and that victory was within reach. She did not challenge him, though there was a subtle, unreadable glimmer in her gaze as he spoke.
When they took their leave, the sound of the children's laughter faded behind them, replaced by the steady rhythm of their boots on stone. After a stretch of silence, Kopa glanced sideways at his King.
"What do you think of her, my Lord?"
Daruis's eyes stayed forward, his voice even but tinged with something more guarded. "I don't know, to be honest. She seems sweet, trusting, and innocent. But it's strange… Adam sees something different, and that worries me."
Kopa's brow furrowed, though his tone remained thoughtful. "Adam has his reasons. And if our suspicions are correct, his words should carry more weight than even Lord Kushan's."
"It's still just speculation, Kopa," Daruis replied, shaking his head. The edge of weariness returned to his voice. "He hasn't shown any other signs besides the glow in his eyes, which could just as easily come from Kirin or the Arya. It's not necessarily THAT Arcem."
The King's mind lingered on that thought as they walked. He told himself it was idle worry, but a part of him—the part that had learned to trust the smallest inconsistencies—couldn't shake the image of that glow.
The city's stone and bustle faded behind them, giving way to the soft, green-breathing hush of the forest. Sunlight dappled the ground in gold and shadow as they followed the winding path to the oasis. Here, the air was thick with the scent of moss and wet earth, and the sound of water lapping gently against the reeds carried a rhythm older than war.
Lord Thrax awaited them at the edge of the pond, his great shell mottled with the dark, intricate patterns of age. Moss clung to the ridges of his back, and small wildflowers had taken root there, swaying gently when he moved. His eyes — deep, slow, and knowing — crinkled at the corners as he smiled in greeting.
"My King. El Kopa." His voice was a low rumble, the kind of voice that seemed to come from the earth itself.
They returned the greeting, stepping onto the broad, floating reeds that served as seats upon the pond. The water beneath them was clear, so still that even the faintest movement sent ripples scattering across the mirrored surface. The contrast was almost disorienting — here, everything was calm, unhurried, untouched. Elsewhere, steel clashed against steel, and snow blew red over the mountains.
"Any news on the war, my King?" Thrax asked, his words deliberate, as if tasting the weight of each one.
"Yes," Darius replied. His voice carried a measured confidence, but there was a tightness to it, an awareness of the stakes. "Kon has engaged Razik. The outcome of their battle could determine the tide of this war. But I trust Kon. He will pull through."
Thrax's massive head lowered in the faintest of nods. "We hope so," he murmured, the words not quite a prayer, but something near it. His gaze drifted across the pond's still waters, as though searching for omens in the ripples.
"And Lord Adam's troops?" he asked, without looking up.
"They're already on standby for reinforcements," Kopa answered, his tone clipped but steady.
The old turtle's eyes flicked to him, holding his gaze for a moment longer than comfort allowed, as though measuring whether the assurance was truth, wish, or both.
_______________________________
Location: Winding Mountain Paths — Lower Slopes of Mount Pire
The air was thinner here, sharp and biting in the lungs. The narrow paths clung to the mountainside like threads, winding through jagged stone that jutted upward like the ribs of some ancient, sleeping beast. Far below, mist filled the valleys, and in its embrace, the distant clash of steel and the low thrum of war drums seemed both muffled and magnified, an ominous heartbeat carried by the wind.
Adam led the way, his paw boots finding steady purchase on ground that had claimed more than its share of careless travelers. His cloak rippled faintly in the mountain breeze, the fabric dusted with frost. Every so often, he glanced back at his troops — a column of Tracients from varying clans, their armor a mismatched patchwork of the lands they hailed from.
The path curved sharply, narrowing until the drop on their left was a sheer, bottomless fall into the mist. Gravel shifted treacherously underfoot. That was when a Boga soldier — a young one, by the look of the barely worn creases in his armor — lost his footing. His arms pinwheeled, his hooves scrabbling desperately on the loose rock.
Adam reacted without thought. He lunged forward, seizing the soldier's arm and hauling him back from the edge. The soldier collapsed to his knees, breathing hard, his wide eyes locked on the drop he had nearly met.
"You have to be more careful," Adam said, his tone carrying no anger, only the quiet firmness of one who had seen too many lives lost to needless mistakes.
The soldier nodded quickly, his voice caught somewhere between gratitude and embarrassment.
The march resumed, though the incident seemed to loosen tongues. From somewhere in the middle of the column, a hesitant voice spoke up — another Tracient, older than the one who'd slipped.
"Is all this really worth it?" His question lingered in the cold air. "Narn's always been under Razik's control for as long as I can remember. Is this war really worth it?"
The words rippled through the ranks, heads turning, eyes flicking between each other. The sound of murmured agreement followed, the way unease always spreads faster than fire on dry grass.
Adam slowed but said nothing at first, his gaze sweeping the group. It wasn't that he lacked an answer — but sometimes the weight of truth came heavier from another voice.
It came from a mountain goat Tracient walking near the back. His horns curved in long, elegant arcs, their tips polished smooth from years of weather and battle. His armor was plain, yet his voice carried the weight of lived loss.
"Our lands were stolen from us," he said evenly, each word cutting with its own quiet precision. "Our people were slaughtered just because some psycho wanted power. If that's not enough to fuel your rage, what is?"
The calmness in his tone only sharpened the fury beneath it.
The murmurs shifted — no longer uncertainty, but low, determined hums of agreement. A few raised their weapons slightly, not in threat but in unspoken solidarity. Boots struck the stone a little harder as they marched, the rhythm of their steps a small act of defiance.
Adam glanced back at the goat as the voices of support grew. He allowed himself the faintest smile — not one of victory, but of gratitude. As they passed beneath a jagged overhang of rock, Adam moved closer to him, his voice dropping to a whisper meant for no other ears.
"Thank you."
The goat's expression didn't change much, but his ears twitched, and a faint flush crept into his cheeks. He said nothing, simply straightening his back and marching on.
Above them, an eagle circled in the pale winter sky, its cry cutting briefly through the wind before vanishing again into the echoes of the war that waited ahead.
The path widened abruptly, spilling the company into a clearing hemmed in by sheer cliffs that loomed like the walls of some forgotten arena. The air here was still — unnaturally so — and the sound of their footsteps seemed too loud against the stone. It was colder, too, the sunlight struggling to reach the ground through the narrow slit of sky above.
Every surface was draped in pale threads. They hung from jagged outcrops of rock, trailed between withered branches, and even stretched in delicate, perilous bridges from cliff face to cliff face. The strands glistened faintly in the wan light, some so fine they were barely visible, others thick enough to catch against armor.
"This is… odd," one soldier murmured, his voice dropping without conscious thought, as if afraid the webs themselves might overhear. He reached out and brushed at a silken line strung across his chest. It clung stubbornly to his fingers, stretching unnaturally before snapping free. He wiped his hand against his armor, shivering slightly.
Adam slowed to a halt, his eyes scanning the clearing in measured sweeps. The cliffs pressed close on all sides, the webs thickest near their bases, as if something had claimed this place and wound its threads into every crevice. His Arcem hummed faintly at the edge of his awareness — not a clear alarm, just the quiet prickling of a predator's instincts.
There — at the far end of the clearing — a flicker of movement. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, a shadow within shadow. Adam's gaze lingered there, narrowing slightly.
"Something wrong?" the goat asked, his tone casual, but his own eyes already scanning.
Adam hesitated for a moment longer. The movement could have been nothing — a trick of light through the drifting web strands, the twitch of a loose thread in the wind. And there was no sense in alarming the men without proof.
He exhaled slowly, as if releasing the thought with his breath, and gave a brief shake of his head. "It's nothing. Let's keep moving."
The goat nodded, urging him forward, and Adam stepped ahead, raising his gauntleted hand to sweep aside the thickest of the webs. The strands clung stubbornly, stretching like sinew before parting with soft, sticky snaps. One broke against his cheek, leaving a faint, cloying residue that made his skin crawl.
The company filed in behind him, the sound of armor scraping against web-coated stone filling the narrow space. Yet as they pressed deeper into the clearing, the unease in Adam's chest refused to lift. It sat there, heavy and patient, like a warning not yet ready to speak.
Far above, high in the cliff shadows, something shifted again — silent, unseen — and waited.