An elf walked toward a defeated frozen monster. He grabbed his sword. Then swung it to his side. Slowly sliding it into his scabbard, he gazed upon the monster before him. His face twisted as the ice armor gradually melted. Displaying the horror that resided inside each frozen monster. Hands trembled as he completely sheathed his weapon.
Another elf broke the silence.
"By the Elven God's Grace!"
He turned and saw everyone with raised heads. Then a sob. Collective. Battle-hardened warriors, even the weathered elf mages, burst with emotion.
"The Great Sylvantherion has returned!"
Elderglade roared as every present elf revered him. Some dropped to their knees while others raised their weapons above their heads. Suspended platforms trembled, shaking everything above and below.
"Elderglade is saved..." Another elf sobbed. Her spear clanged on the ground. Knees scraped the stone as both her hands laid on her face. Muffled sobs continued.
Step.
Tap.
Weight came onto her shoulder. Warm. She turned and saw a weathered hand laying on top of her armor.
"What troubles you, child?"
She stiffened. A sharp intake of breath hissed through her teeth.
Slowly, the elf lifted her head.
Grime streaked her cheeks. Tears cut clean paths through the blood and soot. Her eyes were wide. Terrified. Awe-struck.
"Great Sylvantherion!"
The title hung in the air. Heavy.
A tremor ran through the suspended platform. The cheers from the battalion behind him swelled like a rising tide. Vibrations buzzed against the soles of his boots. He ignored them. His focus narrowed to the trembling girl.
"Stand," he said. His voice rasped. Dry from the cold air.
She scrambled to obey. Armor rattled against stone.
Clang.
She stood on shaky legs. Her gaze dropped to his chestplate.
"My brother," she whispered. "The ice already took him."
Sylvantherion felt a dull ache in his chest.
He cast his gaze across the Hanging District. Frozen monsters littered the platform. Their forms already started melting. Leaving the trapped behind. Faces frozen in dread. Locked in almost indistinguishable postures. Sylvantherion's grip on his staff tightened. Fingers almost digging into the wood.
The wind howled through the gaps in the Elderglade canopy. It carried the scent of ozone and thawing rot.
He squeezed her shoulder. Once again. Firmly.
"Then we honor him. With life."
He retracted his hand. The warmth lingered on his palm for a second before the chill reclaimed it.
Heavy footsteps crunched the frost.
An elf collapsed before him. Knees slammed into the wooden platform, sending a spray of ice chips into the air. Sylvantherion looked down, his brow furrowed.
"My Lord!" the elf gasped. Chest heaved. Saliva mixed with blood at the corner of his lip. "I beg you... look to the Elders..."
Sylvantherion remained silent. He waited.
"Corruption," the kneeling warrior stuttered, hands clutching at the air. "No one is safe. The young ones. The sick. Even the elderly. They—"
"Lies!"
A shout erupted from the rear ranks. An elf in pristine, silver-trimmed armor stepped forward. His finger pointed like a dagger at the kneeling man.
"You speak of corruption?" The newcomer sneered. "Check yourselves! Sentence your own kin! This horror... these frozen beasts... they were born of your baseless revolution."
The atmosphere shattered.
Reverence dissolved into bitter criticism. The crowd split. One side screamed accusations of tyranny; the other hurled insults of treason.
"They used us!"
"You doomed us!"
Sylvantherion watched the chaos unfold. His expression dimmed, the lines on his face deepened with weariness. He did not blink.
He shifted his gaze, looking past the armor and the anger.
The world shifted in his vision. The brown woods and red blood faded. In their place, brilliance erupted. Each elf, regardless of the side they stood on, burned with a soul of pure light. Radiating. Blinding.
They were not enemies. They were a singular, fractured sun.
"Back off!"
A rebel shoved the silver-armored loyalist. Metal scraped against metal.
The loyalist stumbled back. Hands went to hilts. The crowd surged, ready to tear itself apart.
Sylvantherion's eyes widened.
He raised his arm. The ancient wood hummed against his palm.
Muscle coiled in his arm. He raised the weapon high.
Thoom!
He drove the base of the staff into the platform.
A shockwave rippled outward. Invisible but heavy. It slammed into the mob, suppressing both sides.
The vibration seized the air.
Silence fell instantly. The rebel who had pushed the loyalist froze mid-step. The defenders stood rigid, hands hovering inches from their weapons. It was like everyone forgot how to breathe in an instant.
"Internal conflict is the seed of our doom," Sylvantherion said. His voice was not loud, yet it cut through the wind.
"Eldaras survives only as a single entity. Divided, we rot."
He paused.
Rows of elves stared back at him. Unmoving. Silent. They looked less like soldiers and more like statues.
A sigh escaped his lips as he made his way toward the warrior still kneeling on the platform. Sylvantherion reached out.
The movement was slight.
The warrior flinched. Shoulders hiked toward his ears, anticipating a blow. He froze, muscles locking up, before his eyes darted back to the Elder.
An open hand waited. Palm up.
With trembling fingers, he reached out.
Sylvantherion closed his grip. He pulled with a steady, undeniable leverage. The warrior rose to his feet, swaying slightly.
"I will look into these Elders you speak of," Sylvantherion said.
"If there is poison in the roots, I will cut it out."
Zzzzt!
A sound pricked his ears. High-pitched. Faint.
His left ear twitched.
Sylvantherion spun on his heel and offered no word of departure. He stepped off the ledge. And gravity took him. The wind roared in his ears, tearing at his clothes as he plummeted toward the arena floor below.
The world shifted.
Color drained away. The grey stone and red blood dissolved into a monochrome void. Then, the brilliance erupted.
A constellation of souls burned below him. Most were steady flickers.
One was fading. A dying ember struggling against the dark.
Two others blazed with significant mass. Large. Commanding.
But the fourth light...
Sylvantherion's brow furrowed. The wind stung his eyes, but he refused to blink.
That light was wrong. It was blindingly white. Solid. It did not flicker like a singular flame. It looked like a pillar. Souls stacked upon souls. Compressed. Layered into a density that defied nature.
The ground rushed up to meet him.
Thud!
Boots slammed into the arena sand. Dust billowed outward in a ring.
As the vision of light snapped off, the grim reality flooded back.
In the center of the arena, a figure lay crumpled, holding someone in a pool of blood.
Sylvantherion stared at the elf, forgetting to breathe.