Baronsworth awoke with the first touch of morning light.

  As was his custom, he stepped out onto the terrace and drew in a long breath of the crisp air.

  Below him, the valley stretched wide and waking—its winter cloak thinning at last. Patches of green pushed through the dwindling ivory sheets; the chill winds of the night before had softened, carrying with them the ever-growing promise of spring.

  He moved through the “Salutation of the Sun,” the old Asturian sequence of breath and motion.

  His limbs loosened; his spirit, already stirred by the quiet promise of the new day, grew lighter still.

  Then—

  A tremor of radiance rippled across the northern arch.

  The runes carved into the ancient stone began to glow once more, brightening pulse by pulse, just as they had the day before.

  Baronsworth’s heart quickened.

  He hurried inside, threw on his lordly cloak, and raced down the tower steps—only to realize midway that he had left Lightbringer behind.

  Without his blade, he felt bare, unfinished.

  He extended his hand.

  From the open window of his chamber the sword answered, streaking through the air in a flash of gold, settling into his grip as though eager to serve.

  By the time he reached the gates, a gathering had already formed: his mother, his companions, the Elves and a handful of Asturian guards.

  Greetings were exchanged softly.

  Together, they waited.

  A hum rose.

  Then a flare of brilliance erupted within the arch—bright as the heart of a star—until at last the portal opened.

  Through the veil stepped another host of Elves, drawing wagons laden with goods.

  And upon one of those wagons sat a young woman of striking beauty—long brown hair, deep blue eyes, and a presence that shone with a warm, unshadowed radiance.

  Baronsworth stepped forward, a grin breaking across his face.

  “Isabella!”

  Her head snapped up, her whole being brightening.

  She leapt from the wagon with astonishing grace and ran to him.

  Baronsworth let out a true, deep laugh—one born from joy’s core—as she threw herself into his arms.

  Despite her speed and the strength of her embrace, her slender frame scarcely shifted his footing.

  “How deeply I have missed you, my child!” he exclaimed.

  “I missed you too, Father,” she whispered, closing her eyes as she rested against him.

  For a moment they held each other, unmoving—two souls reunited after much wandering.

  “How have you been?” he asked at last.

  “Quite well,” she replied, lifting her gaze. “I have found renewed strength in the land of the Elves. Lord Aenarion has been the kindest of hosts. I owe him much.”

  Baronsworth smiled warmly. “It fills me with joy to see your spirit bright again. We’ll speak at length later. For now, I must be a gracious host.”

  Isabella released him, her joy undimmed.

  Baronsworth stepped forward, spreading his arms to the newly arrived Elves.

  “Greetings, Miren—and welcome to the Valley of Light!”

  The Elves bowed in their formal salute.

  He chuckled softly.

  “Please—there is no need for ceremony. You stand among friends. Make yourselves at home. If there is anything you lack, ask, and we shall provide it if it lies within our power.”

  His grin widened.

  “And I trust you are hungry—breakfast is being prepared even now.”

  The Elves smiled at his welcome—their shoulders easing, their breath loosening, a quiet comfort settling over them.

  Aenarion stepped forward, his cloak stirring gently in the morning breeze, and drew back the covering from the nearest wagon.

  “Behold, my friend. Athelian steel lances— forged in number for your need. Each wrought with the same care and mastery as the finest our smiths have ever shaped."

  Baronsworth bowed. “Your generosity humbles me, Lord Aenarion.”

  “Words do them no justice,” Aenarion replied. “I would have you test their worth yourself. Will you oblige me?”

  “With pleasure,” Baronsworth said.

  Aenarion’s smile widened.

  “Splendid.”

  He lifted his fingers to his lips and gave a sharp, ringing whistle.

  The sound carried across the valley like the call of an ancient horn.

  In the distance, a powerful shape leapt over the stable fence—a jet-black stallion, mane streaming like a banner.

  Nimrod tore across the fields with effortless grace, hooves pounding thawing earth, and in a heartbeat he was before them, rearing proudly before lowering his head to nuzzle Aenarion in unmistakable affection.

  “He has not forgotten you,” Baronsworth said with a smile.

  “I should hope not,” Aenarion replied, laughing softly.

  He whispered something in the horse’s ear—words Baronsworth could not catch—then stroked his mane before turning to the wagon.

  He lifted one of the lances.

  In his hands the weapon extended with a smooth, resonant click until it reached its full, elegant length.

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  “Our weapons are designed to answer many needs,” Aenarion explained. “Long reach for the mounted charge, a compact form for forests and tight formations. Once extended, it locks—secure enough that no blow will force it to fold. Only this release catch will bid it close again. Here—feel it.”

  He tossed the lance.

  Baronsworth caught it easily, surprise flashing across his face.

  “It weighs scarcely more than a feather!”

  Aenarion chuckled. “Light and maneuverable—in the Elven fashion. Now, indulge me. Smash something.”

  Baronsworth grinned and signaled to his people.

  A group rushed to set up a practice dummy in the open field, now mostly cleared of snow.

  They fitted the target with an old but sturdy suit of brigandine, then crowned it with a helm wrought in the grim style of the Sons of Belial.

  He then mounted Nimrod bareback.

  For a moment he rode in wide circles, letting the stallion feel the weapon’s balance—letting his own body attune to its weight.

  Then horse and rider became a single motion.

  They bolted forward.

  Wind roared in his ears. The ground blurred beneath them.

  He lowered and set the lance firm as Nimrod gathered into full stride.

  The impact was staggering.

  The sound cracked across the valley—loud as a falling oak.

  The helm blasted from the dummy’s shoulders, spinning into the air before striking earth with a deep, ringing thud.

  The armor caved in around the point of impact, pierced clean through.

  Nimrod slowed, snorting triumph.

  Baronsworth raised the lance, inspecting it.

  Not a dent marred its surface.

  “Incredible,” he called, breath still high with exhilaration. “The balance is perfect—the strike clean, the recoil near nonexistent. And the weapon untouched! Lord Aenarion—this is a kingly gift. May you and your people be blessed for a thousand more years!”

  Aenarion laughed heartily, warm and amused.

  A thousand years was but a heartbeat to him, yet he understood the spirit behind the blessing and bowed with a smile.

  Baronsworth guided Nimrod closer, still glowing from the charge.

  “Well, Lord Aenarion,” he said, dismounting. “I have humored you with a display of my own skill. Now show me how an Elf-lord wields such a weapon.”

  He offered the lance.

  Aenarion’s brows lifted in mild surprise—but only briefly.

  With fluid grace he swung onto Nimrod’s back and accepted the weapon, steel gleaming in his grasp.

  “Very well, Baronsworth,” he said with a hint of dryness.

  He leaned close to the stallion and whispered a few melodic words.

  Nimrod’s muscles coiled—and suddenly horse and rider exploded into motion.

  They streaked across the field like a black arrow loosed from heaven.

  The impact that followed was devastating.

  The dummy collapsed entirely, armor folding inward as though struck by a falling tower.

  The crack rolled across the valley.

  Aenarion slowed Nimrod to a gentle trot and returned to the company.

  Baronsworth was first to applaud; the others followed in cheers.

  “Most impressive!” Baronsworth declared. “The Lord of Elves does not disappoint.”

  Aenarion inclined his head. “You flatter me. But remember—there are two Lords of the Elves. Oberon is the master of weapons, and I of the hidden powers. Though I am not unskilled with the spear, he surpasses me in all matters of blade and bow.”

  “Is that so?” Baronsworth mused. “If you speak so highly of him, then I understand why the Dark One once feared your brother’s blade.”

  Aenarion’s expression deepened into solemnity.

  “Indeed. And the Moonblade, Mirunath, must rise once more against the gathering dark—together with Selunor, the Silver Staff—as in the elder days, when we first cast down the shadow.”

  For a heartbeat, something crossed his gaze—an echo of sorrow, or a fear not yet given name.

  Then the weight lifted, and warmth returned to his smile.

  “But let such burdens sleep a while longer. This morning is for lighter things. Come—shall we to breakfast?”

  “It certainly is time,” Baronsworth smiled.

  He led them into the Sunkeep, where a second feast—no less grand than the one before—awaited.

  Warm bread, spiced meats, steaming roots, sweet creams—the tables groaned beneath their bounty.

  Laughter rose like bright music beneath the ancient arches as friends reunited and new bonds kindled.

  Baronsworth took his place beside Isabella, and they spoke long and warmly.

  She told him of Ellaria—of the enchantments that knit her body and soothed wounds hidden deeper still.

  She spoke of healing songs that resonated through flesh and bone until every cell seemed to hum with new life.

  She confessed how light she had become—how burdens she had carried unknowingly had fallen from her heart like cast-off chains.

  “For weeks I wandered the gardens,” she said, eyes distant. “Every ray of sun felt like kindness. Every rustling leaf whispered comfort. I lived as if in a waking dream, and all the world conspired to lift my spirit. The pain of my past… it grew faint, as though it had belonged to someone else entirely.”

  Then she turned to him—earnest, unguarded.

  “But at last, my heart remembered home. The Gryphons. My comrades. Those who raised me. And…” Her voice softened. “…and you, Baronsworth. Your strength. Your gentleness.”

  Something called me back—fate, perhaps.

  “Not as a warrior,” she added with a tremor, “for I cannot stomach the thought of taking a life, even one darkened by evil. But I know I have gifts yet to offer. I do not know how they will serve—but I know I was meant to return. To stand at your side. To play my part in what comes.”

  Baronsworth’s chest tightened, then warmed.

  Fate was stirring.

  “I believe it, Isabella. You will have a role in the days ahead.”

  “I know my path will reveal itself when the hour is right,” she said. “Until then… I wish to rest a little longer.”

  “I am not yet ready to leave behind the quiet I found in Ellaria. And what better place than this? Your home feels suspended between heaven and earth.”

  “Not as dreamlike as Ellaria, no… but here there is no dread, no heaviness. Only peace.”

  Baronsworth smiled, and the feasting continued.

  When the banquet ended, he invited those closest to him on a stroll through the gardens of the Sunkeep.

  They wandered long among its terraces, laughing and conversing over warm, fragrant tea.

  For a time, all cares slipped away.

  The world beyond the mountain walls was forgotten; only joy remained.

  Later he led them to the summit.

  Isabella gasped softly.

  “Baron… you spoke of this place often. But nothing could have prepared me for the truth of it. Not even Ellaria had such a view.”

  When the sun began to set, spilling gold across the valley, they descended once more to the great hall—where yet another magnificent meal awaited them.

  Solon shook his head in wonder.

  “Never in all my years have I seen such merriment,” he said. “Only the wedding feast of your parents could compare.”

  A tear gathered in Astarte’s eye.

  She looked away quickly, but all saw its glimmer.

  The Sunkeep glowed with warmth and fellowship, the calm before destiny’s winds rose once more.

  The next morning found Baronsworth awake before most of Caras Athalor had stirred.

  The valley below was nearly free of winter’s grip—the last patches of white clung to shadowed hollows, but everywhere else the green of awakening earth showed through.

  He stepped outside, the morning’s chill greeting him in full.

  Purpose settled over him like a mantle.

  There was work to be done.

  He summoned Alexander, who had risen even earlier and was already making his rounds.

  At Alexander’s call, the knights filed quickly into the yard, forming disciplined lines before their Lord.

  Baronsworth gave clear instructions: the Knights were to begin training with the new Elven lances immediately.

  Before them all, he laid a hand on Alexander’s shoulder and raised his voice so the gathered recruits could hear.

  “Alexander, loyal friend—you shall henceforth bear the title of War Master of the Sons of Sophia. Master of Arms. Guide of warriors. Teacher of our people’s strength.”

  Alexander bowed deeply, struck to the core.

  “I am yours to command, my lord.”

  He strode into the Valorian Fields, ordering targets set up, horses saddled, riders assembled.

  Soon the grounds rang with activity—shouts, hoofbeats, the clatter of wooden dummies meeting Athelian steel.

  Some time later, Aenarion emerged from the Sunkeep, his cloak stirring behind him as he watched the riders thunder past.

  “Your men are mighty,” he said, nodding in approval, “and well-trained in knightly war. Yet… where are the Valmar war-steeds? In elder days, the very force of their charge was enough to drive darkness back.”

  At his words, old memories stirred—stories of Asturian heroes, always beside their colossal steeds.

  The Valmar were more than horses: towering, bright-eyed war-companions whose strength matched the keen brightness of their minds.

  They had coursed through the valley in great herds since time immemorial, bound to Baronsworth’s lineage by trust deeper than blood.

  Baronsworth’s heart tightened.

  He shook his head.

  “Alas, my friend… I know not where they have gone. As a boy I watched them thunder across these plains—thousands strong, proud as the mountains themselves.”

  “But when Garathor seized this land, they vanished. I am told he sought to break them to his will, yet they fled him, sensing the foulness in his spirit. Since that day, not a single Valmar has returned.”

  Baronsworth’s gaze drifted toward the empty fields beyond the walls.

  “After reclaiming the Sunkeep, I hoped they would come back—just as they did in my father’s time, when he tended the herds through the harsh winters and they roamed these lands without fear.”

  His voice dimmed.

  “But the fields remain silent.”

  Aenarion’s expression hardened with resolve.

  “No,” he said quietly. “This will not stand.”

  He closed his eyes and drew in a long, steady breath.

  The wind stilled, as if pausing to listen.

  For a moment he stood as though he were part of the earth itself—rooted, waiting, listening to something far beyond mortal hearing.

  Then he opened his eyes.

  A new light burned in them—bright, focused, determined.

  “Yes,” he said softly. “Baronsworth. Come with me.”

  He turned, his cloak sweeping behind him like a banner carved from starlight.

  “We must set this right.”

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