We returned to the hideout with heavy steps, boots dragging on the tunnel floor. "You two wait here," I instructed Laboritus and Alythiel, their silhouettes framed against the desert dusk. Torglel and I ventured deeper inside, the air thickened with the scent of ash and blood. An eerie silence greeted us—a stark contrast to the chaos we''d left behind. As we threaded through the corridors, a horrifying scene unfolded. Debris littered the ground—shattered stone, splintered wood. Furniture lay overturned. Chairs smashed to kindling, tables cracked down the middle.  Lifeless bodies sprawled across the floor, blood pooling dark against the stone, their eyes frozen in shock.


    "It looks like they attacked us while we were away," Torglel observed grimly, his voice low, hands tightening on his hammer.


    My heart sank as I spotted Arcainius lying on the cold floor, his gray cloak stained crimson. I rushed over, dropping to my knees beside him. His wounds gaped beneath the shadows—jagged cuts, a sword''s cruel work. "Telgarani betrayed us," he rasped, voice weak and ragged with pain. "He let them in... ran me through while I had my back turned."


    "Who are they?" I demanded, anger trembling in my chest, hot and sharp.


    "Nox Arcanus," he whispered, the words barely escaping before the light faded from his eyes. He went still, a final breath rattling out. Nox Arcanus—a name I''d come to wish I''d never known.


    Stunned, I turned to Torglel, his face pale beneath his beard. "I know Telgarani was always strict, a no-nonsense type, but I never imagined he''d betray us all."


    Torglel shook his head, disbelief etched in every line. I stepped forward, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension coiled there. "It''s time we learned what the Drydalis—or rather, Nox Arcanus—is planning to do," I said, determination hardening my tone, cutting through the grief.


    "Let''s search the place for any gear we can salvage and use," I continued, scanning the wreckage. We scavenged what little we could—bent knives, a cracked shield, a pouch of runes half-buried under rubble—then rejoined the others outside, the desert wind biting at our skin.


    Once assembled, I recounted the grim events, voice steady despite the ache in my chest. "What''s our next move?" Laboritus asked, his deep voice subdued, eyes shadowed.


    "I need to see if Tolgarn can tell me anything about my people," I replied. "We need to know what they''re planning."


    I paused, the weight of it all settling over us like a shroud. Just like that, the Shadow Hand was nearly wiped out—an outcome I''d never truly wanted. I''d always longed to learn about my people, but now I regret ever seeking that knowledge. With heavy hearts and minds full of questions, we headed toward Thoringard, hoping Tolgarn held answers to the mysteries of the Drydalis and the treachery of Nox Arcanus. This was the first step into discovering my heritage. And if I''d known where it would lead, maybe—just maybe—I''d have turned back then. But I was desperate for answers. Desperation can make the wisest king a foolish jester.


    We reached Thoringard''s gate as the sun began its slow descent behind the rugged mountains, painting the peaks in hues of fire and shadow. The ancient stone barrier loomed before us, a silent guardian etched with centuries of scars. That feeling of home I''d once had when I saw those mountains vanished that day, replaced by a hollow ache. Laboritus, ever practical despite the chaos we''d faced, broke the silence with a wry smile. "I''ll wait for you all out here. Thuumar don''t do well in confined spaces," he remarked, his tone light yet tinged with concern as he leaned against the gate''s base.


    We pushed forward through the gate, our steps echoing on the worn cobblestones, a steady rhythm against the quiet. The city unfolded around us—smiths'' hammers ringing faint, the murmur of voices drifting from homes carved into stone. We finally reached the imposing palace at Thoringard''s heart. Alythiel let out a soft gasp—a mix of awe and reverence. The palace was a marvel: built entirely of polished obsidian, its surface gleamed like liquid night, reflecting torchlight in shimmering waves. Intricate gold designs adorned its walls—swirling patterns and tales of ancient glory—crafted with a precision that spoke of Dwarven mastery over art and stone.


    Entering the palace, we stepped into a grand entrance hallway. Towering columns lined the corridor, each carved with the regal visages of Thoringard''s long-departed kings. Their stony eyes stared down, etched in expressions of pride and judgment, lending the space a weighty solemnity. The cool marble underfoot clicked with every step, and hushed murmurs of distant voices floated through, blending with the scent of old stone and wax. It felt both imposing and welcoming—a sanctuary of tradition amid a world gone mad.


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    Our destination was the throne room. We wove through a labyrinth of hallways, Alythiel''s eyes shimmering with wonder at every detail: polished reliefs of battles long won, gilded accents catching the light, tapestries narrating centuries of Thoringard''s history—older than even the Great Dragon War. History can be forgotten and rewritten. The Drydalis are proof of that. Finally, we stepped into the vast throne room, and the sight hit me like a punch. The room buzzed with citizens—men, women, children—all gathered to witness something big. At the center, on a raised dais, sat King Tolgarn, addressing his people with a voice that rolled like thunder, firm with authority yet warm with reassurance.


    Tolgarn''s speech filled the hall:"The rumors are true, but that is no reason to be afraid. Thoringard is well fortified, deep within these mountains. The assassination attempt on my life was a failure. Thalina and Volstruum Valley were both under siege, yet they fought back and won. If they can''t even take those cities, then they surely cannot take Thoringard."


    Despite his confidence, the crowd''s murmurs carried fear, a ripple of unease beneath their pride. I felt it too—a tension thick as smoke. Determined to bolster them, I urged, "Let''s go up there," pushing through the throng with Torglel and Alythiel behind me until we reached Tolgarn''s side.


    Torglel stepped forward, his booming voice cutting through. "We stopped the assassination attempt, and we helped Thalina and Volstruum Valley win their battles!" His words lit a spark—hope flared in the crowd''s eyes. "We are taking the fight to them. If they even dare to attempt an attack here, we will fight back, and we will be victorious!" The room erupted in cheers, a unified roar of defiance and grit. Torglel could''ve made a damn good king with the hope he gave them that day.


    Amid the uproar, Tolgarn turned to Torglel with a proud smile, his gray beard catching the light. "You couldn''t have shown up at a better time, son. What brings you here?" he inquired warmly, clapping a hand on his shoulder.


    Torglel''s expression softened, a rare crack in his bravado. "Can we talk somewhere more privately?"


    Tolgarn nodded, and with a few graceful gestures, he led us out of the throne room. We followed through winding corridors, the noise fading behind us, until we reached a chamber that hit me like a memory—a massive library. Shelves towered to a vaulted ceiling, packed with ancient tomes and scrolls, their leather spines cracked with age. The air smelled of dust and ink, and the faint rustle of pages whispered secrets older than us all. It exuded quiet wisdom—a stark contrast to the throne room''s fervor.


    "I''m guessing this isn''t a social visit," Tolgarn said, gesturing us to a long, carved table. "Tell me everything that''s happened since the assassination attempt."


    I took a deep breath, steadying the storm in my chest, and recounted it all: the ambushes, the battles, the strange magic that saved and nearly broke us. My voice grew firm, each word a stone laid against the chaos. Tolgarn''s eyes darkened with concern, deepening as he listened. After a long pause, he spoke, tone somber. "I suspected this day would come eventually," he murmured. "Ask me whatever you wish, and I shall answer it to the best of my ability."


    I hesitated, picking my first question like a blade. "Do you know the goal of Nox Arcanus?" I asked, voice barely above a whisper. The name felt like a curse, prickling the back of my neck.


    Tolgarn''s gaze drifted, distant. "I don''t know for sure, but I''d bet these attacks are merely a distraction from their real objective." His words hung heavy, sparking more questions than they answered. I pressed on.


    "Then... how did I come to be raised by you?" I asked, the question raw with meaning. My origins were a fog I''d never pierced, and I ached to know why fate dropped me here.


    Tolgarn leaned back, a faraway look softening his face, like he was sifting through decades. "Let''s see," he began softly. "The Drydalis were once a peaceful race, a people of great wisdom and beauty. But that was before Zolphan rose to power. I cannot say I know all of his ambitions, but I do know one thing for certain—he slaughtered anyone who dared oppose him." His voice darkened, edged with old pain. "His ruthless actions ignited a civil war among the Drydalis. In the end, Zolphan''s side emerged victorious, and the once-thriving Drydalis gradually disappeared from the annals of history. Only those of us who lived during those turbulent times still remember that the Drydalis ever existed."


    I listened, sorrow and anger churning in my gut. "So, you found me as a baby?" I asked softly, barely breathing.


    Tolgarn nodded. "My guards found you outside Thoringard''s gate, wrapped in mystery and silence, with a note placed atop you." He reached into his robe and pulled out a weathered parchment, edges frayed. "This note," he said, handing it to me, "was the only clue to your origins."


    I unfolded it carefully, hands trembling with dread and hope. The faded script read: Seek Petrus in the Adrasteia Forest if you want to learn about secrets long buried—a past intertwined with power and betrayal. My heart pounded, blood roaring in my ears. Here, amid relics of a lost age, I held a piece of my past—tangible, real.


    Silence fell, heavy and thick. The candelabra''s flickering light danced across Tolgarn''s face, casting shadows that mirrored the darkness in my blood. I looked up, voice a whisper. "Who is Petrus?"


    Tolgarn sighed, regret and resolve in his eyes. "I have no clue. It looks like your journey is only just beginning, Solari. The truth about the Drydalis, about your people, lies buried in time. But you must be prepared, for the path ahead will be fraught with danger and uncertainty."


    I nodded slowly, his words sinking deep. The room pressed in, destiny a weight on my shoulders. Outside, the city hummed—celebration tangled with fear—and I knew this was just one thread in a larger weave.


    As talk turned to the future, Tolgarn offered one last piece of advice. "Be vigilant, my son. The world is changing, and those who were once forgotten may yet return to claim their due. Trust in your power, in the strength that lies within you. And remember, you are never truly alone."


    I folded the note and tucked it away, a relic of what was, and a key to what would be  The secrets of my origin, the Drydalis legacy, and Nox Arcanus''s shadow would guide my steps from here.


    I left the library that evening with a heavy heart and a fire in my gut. The palace, the citizens, even the ancient columns seemed to whisper of redemption and upheaval. My past was a riddle, but my future was mine to forge—and that, maybe, was the truest power of all. We began our journey to the Adrasteia Forest, where the next piece of my fate waited, wrapped in untold destiny.