A shape crested the rise to the east, swift and sure. For a moment the morning light caught upon it, giving the approaching rider a pale, flickering gleam—as though he moved with a brightness all his own.

  Gil’Galion came into view atop Arhodel, his white stallion moving with that light, flowing stride known only to the horses of Ellaria. Though smaller than the mighty Valmar steeds of Asturia, Elven mounts were swift as coursing wind, and Arhodel covered the last stretch of ground with effortless ease.

  He reined in before them with practiced grace, the stallion settling into stillness in a single fluid motion.

  “Father,” he said calmly, “you called?”

  “Yes, my son,” Aenarion replied. “Today we must teach Baronsworth the art of horse-calling.”

  Gil’Galion nodded. “Then let us set out.”

  At Aenarion’s request, Baronsworth had Nimrod brought forth from the Sunkeep’s stables, the great black stallion striding out with alert, eager steps. Idril—Fredrick’s gentle mare—was led out alongside him, unsaddled and serene.

  Moments later they were mounted and descending behind Aenarion into the vale.

  They rode for hours across the rolling fields of the Valley of Light, where the last pale patches of winter clung only to the deeper hollows.

  Mountains ringed the horizon like ancient sentinels. Bright skies hung above, veiled here and there by drifting white clouds. A soft breeze cooled their faces as they rode, and the world lay quiet around them—peaceful, expectant.

  Now and again, Aenarion slowed, halted, and closed his eyes, as though listening to something deep beneath the earth. After a minute he would spur off again, swift as an arrow loosed into the wind.

  During one such pause, Baronsworth leaned toward Gil’Galion.

  “What are we doing?” he murmured.

  “I believe my father searches for your lost Valmar,” Gil’Galion answered softly. “But we must remain silent. A careless voice could scatter them.”

  So they continued in quiet, the only sounds the rhythmic beat of hooves and the gentle rustling of trees. The hours slipped by; daylight began to wane.

  Then, without warning, Aenarion drew his steed to a halt.

  A slow, knowing smile curved across his face.

  He dismounted.

  The Elf Lord drew in a long breath, and when he released it, it came as a low, resonant hum—a sound that seemed to rise from the earth rather than his throat.

  The tone deepened, grew clearer, and then unfurled into song—voiced in the Old Tongue, ancient and hauntingly beautiful.

  It moved through the valley like a gentle summons, stirring something unseen in the distant hills.

  Baronsworth felt it in his chest—warm, stirring, alive.

  It reminded him, faintly, of the first time he heard Alma sing.

  The melody rose, unfurled, and drifted across the valley.

  Moments passed. Silence returned.

  Then—

  A distant rumble.

  The ground quivered beneath their feet.

  Hoofbeats. Many. Hundreds.

  A heartbeat later, the sound swelled—rolling toward them like a vast living tide. From the direction of the mountains a great herd of Valmar burst into view, galloping with breathtaking speed.

  Their manes streamed like banners; their eyes burned with fierce, exultant life. A pulse of raw vitality swept across the valley, reverberating through Baronsworth’s very bones.

  At their head ran a magnificent white stallion—larger, prouder, more regal than any horse he had ever beheld. Without doubt, the leader of the herd.

  The great beast slowed as he neared Aenarion, who stood waiting, calm and unflinching. The stallion approached with the reverence of an equal, pressing his massive head against the Elf-lord’s shoulder in a gesture of fierce affection.

  Aenarion smiled, laying a gentle hand upon the creature’s brow as though greeting a longtime companion.

  Baronsworth stood transfixed.

  Then Aenarion stepped back—and the air itself seemed to shift. He moved with fluid, unhurried grace, each gesture an elegant sweep of arm or turn of foot, as though he were tracing ancient sigils upon the wind.

  It was not merely a dance… it was communion.

  And the transformation that followed was wondrous.

  The herd answered.

  Hundreds of Valmar surged into motion, flowing around him like a single living river. They wove between one another in sweeping patterns—broad arcs giving way to spirals of movement, shapes unfolding across the valley floor like a great, living tapestry.

  Their hooves struck the earth in perfect cadence, guided by a rhythm older than the mountains themselves.

  Baronsworth recognized the essence of it—the sacred horse-dance he had once witnessed on the grasslands of Ellaria—but what unfolded now was its fullest flowering: a mighty herd answering the call of one ancient soul who knew their ways as deeply as they knew his.

  At last their formation tightened, the herd sweeping past Aenarion in a great wheeling flow before settling once more.

  The Elf laughed aloud, radiant with joy. The earth quivered beneath that wild, exuberant life.

  When the display faded and the horses calmed, Aenarion walked back toward Baronsworth and Gil’Galion, his steps light.

  “Splendid creatures,” he said softly. “Their leader—Hathorion the Brightmane—is a noble spirit. Wise, mighty and proud, he carries many tales within him. I could spend days in his company… but our time is short.”

  “You can speak to animals?” Baronsworth asked, still half-breathless.

  “Not in the way that Men speak,” Gil’Galion answered, smiling gently. “But yes—we hear the song of all living things. Some among us are born more closely attuned to that harmony. My father… above all others.”

  Aenarion inclined his head.

  “Men once walked within that music as well. You did not lose the gift itself—only the memory of how to listen. And now the hour has come for remembrance.”

  He turned to Baronsworth, earnest.

  “Your riders cannot stand against the coming darkness without the Valmar herds. A knight’s strength is bound to his steed. And it is you, Baronsworth, who must ask Hathorion for his aid.”

  “Why me?” Baronsworth asked quietly.

  “Because you are the leader of the Sons of Sophia,” Aenarion replied. “It is your voice the herd must hear. I am but a bridge—the plea must come from you.”

  Baronsworth drew a steady breath.

  “Very well.”

  Aenarion’s answering smile held quiet pride.

  “Good,” he said softly. “Then it is time you learned the art your ancestors once knew well. The art of horse-whispering.”

  “You already have a gift for creatures of spirit. Nimrod chose you—that alone says much. But this will demand more of you. Hathorion is no common steed. You must speak to him not with the tongue, but with the heart. Thought and feeling are the path between you.”

  He placed a gentle hand upon Baronsworth’s shoulder.

  “He will know you by your wholeness—by whether your spirit rings true. Offer him trust… and ask for his aid.”

  Baronsworth stepped toward the mighty stallion—the largest of the entire herd. Hathorion towered over him; even at the withers he stood higher than Baronsworth’s own head, and with his arm fully extended Baronsworth’s fingers only just brushed the steed’s brow.

  Yet at his touch, the great horse softened instantly.

  Baronsworth stroked the sleek white muzzle, then reached into his pouch and offered a treat. Hathorion accepted it gently, with surprising tenderness. A warm breath fell against Baronsworth’s hand, and something like understanding stirred between them.

  After a few quiet moments, Baronsworth placed both hands along Hathorion’s head, closed his eyes, and let his thoughts grow still.

  Aenarion leaned in, whispering counsel like wind through reeds.

  Baronsworth reached outward with empathy, wondering—Why did your kind flee? What happened to you?

  And the answer came, in images and sensations that flooded his mind with sudden force.

  Harsh shapes pressed into his mind—armored figures moving across open fields where the Valmar once grazed.

  At first there had been no fear. The scent was familiar, the posture almost right, echoes of the Men who had long dwelt in the Sunkeep.

  Then the difference revealed itself.

  Hands raised not in greeting but command. Leather cracked through the air. Whips fell where trust had stood, and voices barked orders where companionship once lived.

  The Harsh Men encircled the horses, driving them into crude wooden pens. Baronsworth felt Hathorion’s fear, his instinctive knowledge that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

  The men tried to ride them.

  The Valmar refused.

  These steeds could be mastered only through mutual trust—never through domination. The Harsh Men did not understand. Their methods were brutality, and so they beat the horses that resisted.

  Some Valmar finally submitted under pain and terror—and those were taken away, never to be seen again.

  Others resisted more fiercely—and many of them disappeared as well.

  Then came the most astonishing vision of all.

  Under starlight, driven by desperation and guided by Hathorion’s will, the strongest of the Valmar burst free. The night tore open, and the others poured after them—fear lending speed, instinct binding them as one.

  They fled like shadows on the wind, hooves striking sparks of panic behind them. The Harsh Men gave chase—but the Valmar ran as though the earth itself urged them onward.

  And then—Baronsworth saw the impossible.

  Hathorion led the herd to the foot of the mountains… and there, the steeds seemed to pass into them, their forms blurring like mist touched by dawnlight.

  Baronsworth could not tell whether they had become spirit, or whether the mountains had simply opened to receive them. But he knew this: they had crossed into a hidden sanctuary, a place where nature’s deeper magic dwelled.

  A golden plain of tall grass. Warm winds. Ever-shining light.

  The Harsh Men searched, but the Valmar could not be found. Nature had claimed them—concealed them, guarded them.

  The vision faded.

  Baronsworth gasped, a tear slipping free. He felt the sorrow, the fear, the resilience of these noble beings—and the cruelty they had endured.

  He placed his forehead against Hathorion’s, steadying his breath, and let his own heart speak.

  He let the stallion see the memories that lived deepest within him: the fall of the Sunkeep. The slaughter of his kin where they had tried to stand; his own desperate flight through fear and ruin; the long, hollow years that followed—wandering in exile, far from any place he could call home.

  The ache of it all rose between them like a wordless cry.

  Hathorion felt it with him.

  Then Baronsworth showed something else: the return. The battles fought. The companions who stood at his side. The moment he reclaimed Cael Athala. The rising hope through the valley.

  He let the stallion feel his resolve—his will to protect the innocent, to resist the rising darkness.

  We cannot stand alone. Your strength, your wisdom, your courage—we need them. Not as servants or slaves, but as allies. As kin.

  Hathorion’s eyes softened. A deep sadness flickered within them.

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  And then came a question—deeply felt.

  Will there be death?

  The question struck Baronsworth like a stone dropped into deep water. He felt Hathorion’s sorrow echo through him and bowed his forehead to the stallion’s, breathing softly into the thick mane.

  He let the truth rise, steady and unflinching.

  Yes, he answered—heart to heart.

  Many will fall before the darkness breaks. Such is the price of great wars.

  Grief washed through them both—but Baronsworth did not let it stand alone.

  But hear me, he continued, letting courage surge outward like warmth.

  If death awaits us, then we meet it together. We do not hide scattered and afraid. We stand side by side, pushing against the shadow with all our strength. Better to fall resisting evil than to live crushed beneath it.

  The truth of those words flared through Hathorion like a spark cast into dry grass.

  The great stallion surged—snorting sharply, stamping the earth with force.

  A flood of images poured into Baronsworth’s mind:

  A vast assembly of Asturian knights, banners streaming.

  Valmar destriers beneath them, gleaming like living mountains.

  A great charge—light answering darkness.

  A battlefield turning to dawn.

  Hathorion had chosen.

  Baronsworth laughed aloud, rough with relief and wonder, and wrapped his arms around the stallion’s mighty neck.

  “Thank you, my friend,” he murmured.

  Aenarion approached with a knowing smile.

  “He has agreed to help you?” he asked—though the joy in his eyes said he already knew.

  “Indeed he has,” Baronsworth replied.

  “Splendid,” Aenarion declared. “A fruitful day. And yet… it draws to its end. Night approaches. Elvish eyes may see through dark, but Men and Valmar fare less safely. We should seek a place to rest. Though we have brought little gear, we shall manage.”

  Baronsworth nodded. The western sky had taken on a deep red glow, casting long shadows across the valley. He looked upward, memory stirring.

  “Yes,” he said suddenly. “I know just the place. Follow me.”

  He led them across the familiar fields of his youth—land he had roamed so often that his mother’s worry had become part of local lore.

  Scattered across those plains stood ancient outworks and towers, remnants of the old Asturian defenses. Some still housed soldiers; many had long fallen silent, weathered yet unbroken—like the bones of forgotten kings.

  One such tower stood not far ahead, its walls worn but sturdy, its roof long fallen in places but not wholly undone. Built in the old way—built to last.

  They came to it and made camp within its ring of stone, while the Valmar herd formed a great protective circle around the ruin, settling like a living wall of breath and quiet vigilance.

  Gil’Galion went forth without a word.

  From within his cloak he drew a slender coil of pale cord and cast it upward. It caught soundlessly among the broken stones, tightening as though the tower itself remembered how to hold it.

  He tested it once, then climbed, his form slipping upward along the wall until he vanished into the surviving crown of the tower to keep watch.

  Inside the tower, Baronsworth gathered the fallen wood left there by passing scouts—set aside for need—and with Aenarion’s quiet aid—sparks slipping from the Elf-lord’s fingertips like embers shaken loose—coaxed a fire to life.

  Warmth slowly filled the hollow chamber.

  He cooked what few provisions he carried and sat close to the flames as night settled in, the quiet broken only by low voices and the soft crackle of burning wood.

  As the hours deepened, Aenarion spoke more of the art of horse-whispering, guiding Baronsworth with counsel both gentle and firm.

  “I may not always be here to do it for you,” the Elf-lord said. “This bond you forge—you must learn to wield it yourself.”

  They spoke then of Garathor’s madness, and the cruelty that had driven the Valmar from their lands.

  “In Ellaria as well,” Aenarion said softly, gazing into the fire, “many creatures fled when corruption spread. They vanished into the deeper wilds, into the hidden places between worlds. Only when the blight broke did they return—in droves. For that, Baronsworth, I am in your debt.”

  Baronsworth shook his head with a warm smile.

  “I believe the debt is paid,” he said quietly. “And more besides.”

  Aenarion placed a hand upon his shoulder—an ancient gesture, and full of meaning.

  They spoke a while longer beneath the widening night, the fire dwindling to embers.

  Baronsworth lay back upon cool stone and let his gaze drift toward the heavens, the old wonder rising in him like a long-forgotten song.

  “Aenarion,” he murmured, “tell me more of your people’s star-lore—of Astrology.”

  The Elf-lord lifted his eyes skyward, as though acknowledging ancient friends who had just stepped into view. A soft, knowing smile touched his lips.

  “We have watched these heavens since before Men carved their first runes,” he said, voice low and reverent. “And still they humble us. The lights above shape the tides of magic and the leanings of the soul… yet no being has ever plumbed the full depth of their mysteries.”

  He extended a hand toward the darkened vault above, fingers tracing shapes only he could fully see.

  Constellations emerged beneath his voice—some Baronsworth recalled from childhood tales, others entirely unknown. As he spoke, the heavens seemed to deepen, growing vast and alive.

  “These,” Aenarion murmured, “are not mere stars, nor are the wandering lights the gods themselves perched upon celestial thrones, as some storytellers imagine. Their nature is far subtler.”

  He gestured toward one of the bright, slow-moving lights.

  “A planet is not a Varanir,” he said, “but the sign of one. A bridge rather than a seat. The deity is the invisible power; the star-wanderer is its emblem in the visible world.”

  Baronsworth listened, transfixed, as the Elf traced faint arcs from one constellation to another.

  “The cosmos is layered, living,” Aenarion continued. “What the eyes behold and what the spirit perceives are not two worlds but two faces of the same truth. When the heavens move, they do not grind like gears of some cold machine—they reveal. They display divine law in visible form.”

  He touched two fingers to his brow.

  “We Elves call this the Music of the Spheres. Men name it the Will of the Father. It is the grand harmony laid at the dawn of creation, a song in which every moment becomes a note added to the ever-unfolding symphony. The wandering lights travel by this order, and their motions express it—like marks in a celestial script.”

  Baronsworth found himself unconsciously following the lines Aenarion traced across the sky.

  “The Seven Luminaries,” Aenarion said, naming each softly in the Old Tongue, “are channels through which the Father’s light flows. They do not force your fate, as some fear. They reveal it—showing the tides of destiny that sweep through our world.”

  “Tides…” Baronsworth echoed.

  Aenarion smiled gently.

  “Yes. The stars show the wind, not the ship. The heavens reveal the currents, but you choose how you set your sail.”

  He lowered his hand, his gaze drifting toward the half-moon rising over the valley.

  “There is sympathy between all things,” he said. “The ancients called it cosmic resonance. When one heavenly light shifts its tone, the whole web of creation hums in answer. Astrology is simply the study of these harmonies—how the divine breath passes through the heavens before reaching our world.”

  He pointed to the arc of planets gleaming like jewels.

  “Imagine the Father’s Light as it truly is: pure, radiant, unmarred. As it passes through the heavens, it is shaped and colored—like sunlight through stained glass. Each planet lends its hue, its tone, its character. Thus the Light arrives upon our world clothed in meaning.”

  Aenarion’s voice grew quieter, more intimate.

  “That is why the wise study the stars—not to predict every turn of the road, but to understand the great design in which we walk. Wisdom has always moved in this direction.”

  “Though Elven Astrology differs from that of Men,” he said softly. “The lights above touch our kind differently. Each race receives its own echoes, its own harmonies. Your ancestors—the High Asturians—knew this well. They studied the heavens with great devotion.”

  He gestured westward.

  “In ancient Grand Asturia they built a mighty observatory crowned with polished crystal. There, the Wise watched the skies night after night, charting the courses of the stars while the kingdoms below busied themselves with their ceaseless squabbles. But when the Flood came… much was lost. The knowledge scattered.”

  Baronsworth exhaled slowly, imagining that Golden Age—an Asturia of wisdom, art, and starlit towers.

  “Perhaps,” he said quietly, “when this is all over… my people will learn the lost arts again.”

  Aenarion turned to him, eyes gleaming.

  “Gladly,” he said, “will I teach all I can to those who wish to learn.”

  Baronsworth lay quiet for a long while, the stars no longer distant or cold but alive—woven into the same tapestry as magic, fate, and the beating of his own heart.

  Yet with that wonder came another feeling… one he could no longer keep buried.

  “Aenarion,” he said quietly. “May I ask you something else?”

  The Elf-lord did not look away from the sky.

  “Of course.”

  Baronsworth drew a slow breath.

  Beneath the vast dome above, where ancient powers moved in silence, the question seemed to rise by itself.

  “Do you truly believe I am Avas Athala?”

  Aenarion did not answer at once.

  The fire crackled softly.

  Something shifted in Aenarion’s expression. A faint tightening around the eyes. A quiet stillness that carried a shadow of grief.

  He looked, for a heartbeat, unbearably old.

  “The stars whisper many things,” he said at last, voice gentle. “Names. Patterns. Possibilities. Yet none speak plainly.”

  “That is not an answer,” Baronsworth said.

  “No,” Aenarion agreed. “It is not.”

  He lowered his gaze from the heavens, meeting Baronsworth’s eyes with a strange tenderness—like a father watching a child step onto a path that would lead far from home.

  “Listen to me, young lord,” he said softly. “Titles such as that one… are not given lightly. Nor should they be taken without care. They carry weight. Danger. Expectation enough to bend the soul.”

  His voice thickened—not with fear, but with sorrow he sought to hide.

  “Even if you were Avas Athala reborn… it is not my place to say it.”

  Baronsworth’s chest tightened.

  “Why not?”

  Aenarion hesitated. Somewhere beyond the ruin, one of the Valmar shifted in its sleep.

  “Because any destiny spoken too early becomes a chain,” the Elf said. “And you, Baronsworth… must walk freely. While you still can.”

  The wind shifted. The night seemed deeper.

  Baronsworth studied him.

  “Aenarion… what do you see when you look at my fate?”

  The Elf-lord’s eyes flickered—grief, raw and unguarded, quickly masked.

  “I see a bright star,” he murmured. “Brighter than any of your line. But stars, Baronsworth…”

  He exhaled slowly.

  “…stars burn brightest just before their turning.”

  A chill moved through Baronsworth.

  “And is that a warning?”

  Aenarion shook his head—not in denial, but in refusal.

  “It is all I can say.”

  He placed a gentle hand on Baronsworth’s shoulder.

  “You are walking a path older than you know. The name Avas Athala may one day rest upon your brow… or it may rest upon the deeds you have yet to shape.”

  “But let neither prophecy nor fear mold your heart. Walk as yourself. That is all this old Elf—who has endured more sorrow than any one soul should bear—asks of you tonight.”

  Baronsworth swallowed, sensing the weight of what went unspoken.

  Aenarion’s hand lingered, warm and steady, then slipped away.

  The Elf-lord lifted his face once more to the sky, his voice softening into something almost prayer-like.

  “Rest now, Baronsworth. Do not burden your heart with prophecies or with shadows yet uncast. Attend to the path beneath your feet, not the horizon beyond your reach.”

  A small pause followed—brief, but heavy with meaning.

  When he spoke again, his words came quieter still, carrying a tenderness Baronsworth had rarely heard from him.

  “Be at peace… whatever awaits will reveal itself in its appointed hour.”

  Baronsworth said nothing more. He only nodded, letting the Elf’s words settle over him like a cloak.

  Aenarion—ancient even among the eldest—had spoken with a depth that reached far beyond Baronsworth’s understanding, and something within him knew not to press further.

  The heavens above were clear—pristinely, impossibly clear—so that the stars glimmered not as distant lanterns but as jewels scattered across dark velvet.

  The silver half-moon hung over the Valley of Light like a silent guardian, casting its gentle glow upon the sleeping fields.

  Aenarion remained beneath the open sky, breathing in stillness, slipping into deep meditation as the night moved quietly around him.

  Baronsworth closed his eyes.

  And just before sleep claimed him, a single thought rose—fragile, bright, unbidden—lifting through the quiet of his mind like a lantern drifting upward.

  Alma.

  Her smile, her presence, her warmth.

  A single thread of hope woven through the tangle of everything he did not yet understand.

  The thought steadied him—quietly, gently—like a hand placed upon a trembling heart.

  But fear still lingered at the edges of his mind, a faint whisper beneath the calm Aenarion had urged upon him.

  At last, sleep took him—and it did not take long before the dream claimed him.

  He found himself standing upon a vast plain of darkened sand—a dead expanse ringed by mountains that loomed like broken teeth upon the horizon.

  Above him stretched a sky not merely starless, but devoured. No moon. No constellations. No trace of living light.

  Only the Black Sun.

  It hung suspended in the heavens like a wound, its disk smoldering with a dull, malignant glow—as if some great fire had been suffocated beneath ash.

  A faint corona seeped faintly around its edges, casting a pale and sickly ring across the world. Under that false light the very air seemed thin, starved of warmth, of hope, of meaning.

  Before him stretched an army of light—his army—rank upon rank of armored figures gleaming in brilliant radiance.

  They stood behind him in silence, yet he could feel their faith, their fervor, rising behind him like a wave.

  When they spoke his name, it rolled across the plain like the roar of a single, mighty voice:

  Avas Athala.

  The title made his pulse tighten. It felt like a mantle he was scarcely ready to bear.

  Then the horizon split open.

  From the fissure stepped a figure radiant and impossibly beautiful—golden-haired, white-robed, a face sculpted from the ideal of divinity itself. A form meant to soothe, inspire, and deceive.

  Baronsworth knew this mask well.

  Bhaal.

  The false light.

  The figure smiled, and its eyes—once serene—began to bleed crimson.

  The flesh cracked.

  The radiance rotted.

  In its place rose a vast, serpentine shadow, coiling upward until the Black Sun seemed to sit upon its crown.

  Its scales shimmered like dark mirrors, each reflecting a twisted shard of corruption. Its jaws yawned wide—wide enough to devour sky, horizon, and hope alike.

  The serpent lunged.

  Baronsworth gasped awake, drenched in cold sweat, heart pounding as though he had truly stood at the world’s end.

  But morning had come at last—golden and warm—and its rays spilled gently over him, washing away the last grip of the nightmare.

  He rose slowly, steadied himself, and stepped out into the gentle dawn.

  The three mounted and set out at once, riding amidst the great herd. The return journey was swifter than the day before—for Aenarion no longer paused to listen to the land, and the Valmar, filled with eager vigor, surged joyously across the valley.

  The Elven horses ran with remarkable speed, keeping pace with the mighty Valmar despite their smaller frames. Their lightness gave them uncanny endurance; to them, this fierce rush across the valley was little more than a long, exhilarating run.

  Baronsworth’s spirit lifted as the wind rushed past him.

  In his mind’s eye he saw not only the herd—but riders.

  A host of Asturian knights upon towering Valmar destriers, their silver armor gleaming, their lances lowered as they drove against the encroaching shadow.

  The vision filled him with fierce hope, and his heart swelled.

  By midday they halted briefly for a meal, then rode on.

  The Sunkeep rose before them by late afternoon, its golden banners high above the cliffs.

  As they approached, the watchmen upon the battlements sounded their trumpets. Alarm blared across the valley—the guards seeing first the dust cloud of the galloping herd, and then the countless shapes moving beneath it.

  For one tense moment fear gripped them, imagining a vast force of enemies descending upon their gates.

  But as the herd drew closer, recognition bloomed into jubilation.

  Their Lord had returned.

  And he had not returned alone.

  Word raced along the walls before the riders even crested the final rise. A thousand voices took it up, rippling like wildfire through the streets of Caras Athalor:

  The Valmar! The Valmar ride with him!

  The gates swung wide, and the people spilled forth in awe.

  Down the valley path rode Baronsworth, Aenarion, and Gil’Galion, leading a tide of living glory.

  Behind them thundered the great Valmar herd, their hoofbeats shaking earth and spirit alike.

  The steeds swept across the green fields outside the walls, proud and towering, their manes blazing in the afternoon light.

  Their very presence stirred something deep in every soul present—like witnessing a legend step out of memory and stride into the waking world.

  A guard upon the parapet, gifted with a voice that carried far, cried out:

  “The lost Valmar have returned!”

  The shout echoed through every street, courtyard, and hall.

  People surged toward the gates in jubilant waves, filling the broad entryway as the three riders approached.

  Alexander stood foremost among them, eyes blazing with a renewed fire Baronsworth had not seen in years.

  He stepped forward, his voice ringing like a war-horn:

  “Our ancestral companions are restored to us! Man and steed, united once more!

  Rejoice, for this day strengthens the heart of our people!

  The Knights of Asturia shall ride again—

  and the earth shall tremble beneath our charge!

  We will sweep aside the darkness like a great and holy flood,

  and cleanse Mytharia of the corruption that has stained her for too long!”

  A roar of approval rose from the crowd.

  Baronsworth dismounted and embraced Alexander with laughter and warmth, but when praise fell upon him, he shook his head and gestured toward Aenarion.

  “All credit lies with the Elf-lord,” he said. “His wisdom restored what was lost.”

  Aenarion accepted the gratitude with quiet grace. Gil’Galion bowed beside him.

  As Baronsworth turned toward the city, something caught his eye—a tree beside the gate, already bursting with pale blossoms.

  Just yesterday its branches had been bare. Now they flourished, crowned with the first flowers of spring.

  Spring comes swiftly, Baronsworth thought.

  And hope comes with it.

  That day, Dawnstone shone with a joy it had nearly forgotten. Music filled the courtyards, food and wine flowed freely, and laughter rang through the Sunkeep’s halls.

  But Baronsworth’s mind was already moving.

  As the feasting gave way to song, he issued his command:

  “The Valorian Fields are to be remade into the training grounds of the new host.”

  The work was swift. Targets were placed across the open green; fresh hay was brought for the mighty steeds.

  The Valmar, rested and fed, allowed themselves to be mounted once more, for they knew the hearts of the Asturian riders—and in that knowing, the old bond stirred anew.

  Training began at once.

  Knights couched their newly forged Elven lances, racing across the fields in wave after wave. Hooves struck earth like the rolling drums of destiny; lances hit their marks with clean, decisive force.

  Baronsworth stood upon the walls, Alma and his companions beside him, watching the host take shape under the bright gaze of the rising sun.

  The wind at his back carried the scent of spring.

  And in that moment, Baronsworth felt it deep within him—

  A new chapter had begun.

  The Sunlands were stirring.

  And the Light was gathering strength.

  From here on, new chapters will arrive every Monday and Friday — 17:00 CET / 11:00 EST