Darkness clung to the lowest dungeon of Maldrak’s castle, thick and suffocating. The air was damp, carrying the stench of rot and forgotten souls. Chains rattled softly as Ilara and Varrian sat against the cold stone wall, their bodies aching from battle and imprisonment. The silence was near absolute—until a voice broke through.


    "You should be more careful where you tread," the voice murmured from the shadows.


    Ilara and Varrian tensed, their gazes snapping toward the adjacent cell. A figure sat in the dim torchlight, barely more than a silhouette, but something about him felt wrong. Not just the way he looked—ragged, unmoving—but the way his very presence seemed to press against the air.


    Varrian narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"


    The man chuckled, a sound too smooth for a prisoner. "Just another forgotten soul." He turned his head slowly toward them, the flickering light casting eerie shadows over his face. "But you... you are not forgotten. No, not at all."


    Ilara stiffened. "What do you mean?"


    The prisoner leaned forward slightly, the light catching his eyes—deep, hollow, knowing. "Does the heir still burn like the sun… or has the shadow touched him yet?"


    Varrian’s breath hitched. Elian.


    "How do you know about him?" Ilara’s tone sharpened.


    The prisoner smiled, a slow, deliberate thing. "Everyone knows of Elian Solvain. A name whispered even beyond the Veil. The boy of two paths… the lock and the key." He tilted his head, almost in amusement. "You do not wonder why?"


    Varrian exchanged a glance with Ilara, unease creeping down his spine. "You speak in riddles, old man."


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    "Do I?" the prisoner mused. "Perhaps. Or perhaps truth is easier to ignore when wrapped in mystery."


    Ilara forced her expression to remain calm. "If you know so much, tell us why we’re still alive. Why hasn’t Maldrak killed us?"


    "Ah, Maldrak…" The man chuckled again, this time with something close to amusement. "A man who plays at war but does not see the whole board." He paused. "But I do. And that is why I will help you."


    Varrian frowned. "Why? What do you gain from this?"


    The prisoner’s smile widened. "My freedom, perhaps? Or maybe… I simply wish to see how the pieces fall."


    Ilara hesitated only a moment before responding. "How?"


    The prisoner lifted his hands, revealing his own shackles, lined with runes of ancient binding. "My power is not what it once was, but I have enough left to break the chains that hold you. The rest... is up to you."


    Varrian and Ilara exchanged a look. Trusting a stranger was dangerous—but they had little choice.


    The prisoner murmured something under his breath, and Ilara and Varrian’s chains loosened, falling to the floor with a metallic clatter. The prisoner gave a satisfied nod. "Now, go. Before the shadows catch their breath."


    Ilara eyed him warily. "Who are you really?"


    The prisoner leaned back into the darkness, his expression unreadable. "A messenger. A herald. A patient god waiting to be remembered."


    Varrian’s skin prickled at the words. Ilara, jaw tight, turned toward the far end of the dungeon. There—an old passage, barely noticeable, hidden behind loose stone.


    They rushed toward it. Just as they slipped into the tunnel, the prisoner’s voice echoed softly behind them—


    “Tell Elian… the door is already open.”


    Neither Guardian had time to question what he meant. They ran.


    The air was heavy on the border of Theradrin. A frigid wind swept across the barren hills, carrying the weight of an approaching storm. And at the head of an army that stretched like an unbroken tide of steel and power, stood Nyroth Solvain.


    His cloak billowed behind him, the deep midnight fabric streaked with the golden insignia of the Guardians. His golden eyes, sharp as a blade, scanned the darkened horizon before him, unwavering, unreadable. A warrior. A commander. A force unto himself.


    Behind him, the might of Eldris’ greatest warriors stood assembled. Rows of soldiers, their armor gleaming in the fading light. The Sentinels of Ilara, shields locked, their discipline unshaken despite their leader’s absence. The Ironbound of Varrian, restless, weapons eager for battle. The Silent Blades of Siris, moving like shifting shadows. The Phantoms of Dren, unseen, but felt.


    The air trembled with tension.


    Nyroth exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his blade.


    "Tomorrow, we march into Theradrin," he said, voice steady, carrying through the ranks like a solemn decree. "We do not march for war. We march for our own. Ilara and Varrian stand alone in enemy hands. That ends now."


    A murmur of agreement rippled through the army.


    Nyroth’s eyes lifted to the sky, where storm clouds churned like restless spirits. This was no simple rescue. Something darker lurked beneath the surface.


    He turned his gaze back to the path ahead, where Theradrin’s border loomed like a fortress of shadows.


    "Stay sharp," he warned. "This battle was set before we even arrived. And I do not intend to let the enemy dictate the ending."


    Then, without another word, Nyroth stepped forward. And behind him, the army followed.