A hush fell over the campfire. Thayrion sat with his back against a moss-covered stone, the echo of the balrog’s final scream still haunting his ears. The rangers rested quietly, sipping tea brewed from the High Elven leaf, the warmth offering brief comfort from the long two-day battle.
But peace was fleeting.
The Flame Ring on Thayrion’s finger pulsed violently—its glow no longer just warmth, but searing pain. He clutched it, gritting his teeth. “Ah—!”
Kaylean rushed to his side, his hands glowing softly. “Hold still,” he murmured, whispering a druidic incantation taught by Aewen of the Swamp.
The pain dulled, but the ring still throbbed.
“It’s… trying to speak,” Thayrion said quietly.
He closed his eyes. In the void of his mind, the ring opened a vision—blurry at first, then sharpened like flame sharpened a blade. He saw an ancient throne room, golden and glorious. A king sat on high—his face noble, yet weary. Behind him, united banners of human, dwarf, and elf flapped in unison. But shadows grew—shifting, slithering. A winged beast like a mountain tore through the sky, its scream like the breaking of worlds.
Thayrion’s eyes snapped open. Sweat glistened on his brow.
He turned to Kaylean and the rangers. “The future holds a fire greater than the one we’ve faced. And it’s coming.”
Kaylean put a hand on his shoulder, steady and firm. “Then let it come. We face it together—like we always have.”
Thayrion nodded, strength returning to his spine. “Then we take back what’s ours. We reclaim Thalor’vandor.”
The descent into the ancient kingdom began.
They reached a narrow bridge that stretched toward the heart of the ruins. Beneath, mist and shadows coiled like snakes. But ahead… their breath caught.
There it was—Thalor’vandor. A shattered kingdom. Gloomy towers reached for the sky like broken fingers, their stones stained with time and sorrow. Wind howled through empty halls like whispers of the dead. Yet… it stood.
“They’re here,” a ranger whispered. Movement flickered below—enemy legions stirring like ants on bloodied soil.
Kaylean crouched beside Thayrion. “Fifteen snipers, take the pillars. Provide cover. The other fifteen, break into three flanking squads—circle wide, never stop moving. Save mana. Every shot counts.”
Thayrion smirked. “You’re enjoying this.”
Kaylean winked. “Almost as much as you’ll enjoy breaking through the front gate.”
The battle erupted.
Arrows blackened the sky. Enemy catapults roared from high towers. But Thayrion and Kaylean moved like gods. Light barriers shimmered around them—arrows bounced harmlessly away.
Thayrion wielded the Hammer of Lumenya, each strike crushing cavalry like eggshells. Kaylean’s Moonlight Bow sang through the chaos, three arrows loosed at once, dancing with precision and grace.
The enemies screamed. Fire roared.
Then—BOOM—Thayrion clenched his flame-ringed fist and punched the ground. A wave of fire exploded outward. Enemies were flung through the air like burning leaves. Smoke swirled around Thayrion as he laughed, fire dancing across his pauldrons.
“You feel that?” he roared. “Want some?! Come and claim it!”
Kaylean sat atop a mound of corpses, calmly watching. “Show-off.”
But the air changed.
A dark voice boomed from a tower above: “Thayrion, son of Velyhran! Come to reclaim your birthright?”
A figure emerged—cloaked in black, pale face twisted with ambition and madness.
Thayrion froze. “No… it can’t be.”
The cloak dropped.
It was Valekhar, the youngest prince. His cousin. His blood.
“You… you betrayed us,” Thayrion growled. “You let our people burn so you could sit on a throne of ashes?”
Valekhar smiled. “It was I who summoned the Legions of Doom. They promised me power. Immortality. And they delivered.”
“I will never let you take the throne,” Thayrion snarled. “I’ll rebuild this kingdom with truth, not blood.”
Thayrion leapt—his hammer transformed into a Spear of Light, plunging it into the tower wall. He climbed swiftly, while Kaylean and the rangers cleared the battlefield below.
At the summit, the cousins met—blade to blade.
Steel screamed. Sparks flew. Valekhar’s weapon changed with every strike—from sword to claymore, to mace, to axe. Thayrion’s Aegis Shield absorbed every blow and returned it tenfold in searing light.
“You’ll never win,” Thayrion growled.
But Valekhar smirked. “You don’t understand… the seers told me: to rule, I must kill the Guardian of Elharya. That’s you, cousin.”
Their duel raged on—raw, brutal, mythical.
Below, a horde of lizardmen burst from the earth, but Kaylean was ready. “Protect the line!” he shouted. “Thayrion needs us!”
Then—a trumpet blast.
Reinforcements.
From the cliffside, dwarves, humans, and elves surged forward together, arrows flying, cavalry charging. They carved through the enemy like water through stone.
Three days the battle lasted. Flesh and steel, hope and agony.
Thayrion’s strength faltered. But the Flame Ring pulsed again. He whispered to it, smiling faintly.
“Time to end this.”
His weapon shifted into flaming knuckles. He lunged. Valekhar met him mid-air.
BAM.
Fist met heart. Fist met face.
An explosion of light and shadow rocked the tower.
Time itself seemed to halt.
All eyes turned to the summit.
Kaylean ran, shouting, “THAYRION!”
Dust swirled.
Silence fell.
And in that stillness, the future of Elharya teetered on the edge.
To be continued in Chapter 10...
“One du’a, one bite, one soul at a time. Even in war… there is still light.”
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