Year 1245

The years passed, but the stories remained. Whispers of a war that had ravaged the realm 25 years ago still lingered in the hearts and minds of its people. From one mouth to another, the tales spread tales of the grand alliance of kingdoms banding together to face the legions of the Dark Lord, Zordrak.

That war was more than a battle of swords and magic; it was a clash of hope against despair, light against an overwhelming darkness. Though Zordrak was defeated, his shadow never truly faded. The scars of that time lingered in the land and its people, as though the weight of his name alone could cast a pall over the brightest day.

Even now, Zordrak's name was uttered only in whispers, for fear that speaking it too loudly might awaken his spirit or invite ruin once more.

YEAR 1245

25 Years Later

The rhythmic crunch of boots against dirt filled the air as a column of weary soldiers trudged through the gates of the kingdom of Lorien. Their march was slow and heavy—not from exhaustion alone, but from the burden of what they carried. Blood-streaked armor and dented shields bore witness to their recent battle against the southern Orc horde, and the rickety wagons that trailed behind them groaned under the weight of their grisly cargo: the bodies of their fallen comrades.

The streets were lined with townsfolk, their faces a mix of grief and quiet resignation. Some wept openly for loved ones lost in battle, while others stood silently, clutching flowers. The flowers were tossed gently into the path of the soldiers, a final offering to those who had given their lives for the kingdom.

At the head of the procession was Aerion Valcrest, a first-ranked knight of the royal army. His tall, broad-shouldered frame cut an imposing figure, though his dark, sweat-matted hair and the exhaustion in his sharp gray eyes betrayed the toll of the campaign. Beside him was his trusted steed, pulling a wagon laden with the bodies of the fallen.

Walking beside him was Aerendil Valanor, Aerion's sworn brother and closest companion. Aerendil's golden hair caught the fading sunlight, his calm expression masking the storm that brewed within him. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, not out of necessity, but out of habit an instinct ingrained by years of war.

The two knights exchanged no words as they walked, their silence an unspoken acknowledgment of the tragedy they had just endured.

Further down the street, a young soldier knelt before a grieving family. He handed them the lifeless body of their son, his face filled with guilt and sorrow. The old woman who accepted the body collapsed to her knees, her cries muffled as she clung to her child's broken form. Aerion stopped briefly, his eyes fixed on the scene.

"They shouldn't have to endure this," Aerion muttered, his voice low.

Aerendil placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Grieve if you must, but don't let it consume you. War spares no one, brother."

Aerion nodded silently, though his heart remained heavy.

From the steps of the grand hall, a commanding voice rang out, cutting through the somber atmosphere.

"Soldiers of Lorien!"

All eyes turned to Veynor Solaris, the kingdom's High General. A mountain of a man, Veynor stood tall and proud, his weathered face bearing the scars of countless battles. His voice carried the authority of a man who had led armies to victory time and again.

"Do not mourn those who have fallen!" Veynor proclaimed, his voice steady and unwavering. "Their sacrifice was not in vain. They died as warriors, with honor in their hearts and swords in their hands. There is no death more noble than this!"

A few soldiers nodded in solemn agreement, but Aerion's expression remained unmoved. He had heard such speeches before, and though he respected Veynor, he could not shake the belief that not all deaths were noble. Some were senseless, others avoidable, and all were too soon.

Veynor's speech marked the end of the procession. The soldiers began to disperse, and Aerion and Aerendil made their way toward the royal hall.

The Kingdom of Lorien, once a beacon of prosperity and strength, now bore the weight of its fractured legacy. Ever since the death of King Aldric in the war against Zordrak, the throne had been occupied by a man unworthy of its grandeur: Caedric Luminar, the former royal advisor.

Caedric's ascension was not the result of lineage or honor, but betrayal. In the chaos following King Aldric's death, Caedric had orchestrated a coup, seizing power under the guise of preserving the kingdom's stability. The rightful heir, a boy of only eight years at the time, was forced to flee for his life with the help of a loyal professor.

In the years since, Caedric had ruled with arrogance and cruelty. Though the kingdom still stood, its people whispered of the day when the true heir would return to reclaim the throne.

Aerion and Aerendil entered the royal hall, their boots echoing against the marble floor. The grand chamber, once a symbol of the kingdom's splendor, now felt cold and oppressive. At the far end of the hall, Caedric lounged on the throne, his posture more befitting a man at a tavern than a king. His thin lips curled into a smug smile as his eyes scanned the room.

Surrounding him were members of the council men who had aided him in his treachery and profited from his reign. They stood in silence, their expressions as haughty and self-serving as their king's.

Aerion's jaw tightened as he looked upon them. He had no love for Caedric or his council. To him, they were usurpers, parasites feeding off the kingdom's lifeblood. But he knew better than to voice his disdain openly.

As they stood in the hall, memories of the past flooded Aerion's mind. He thought of Albion, the loyal right hand of King Aldric, who had sacrificed everything to protect the young prince during the coup.

Albion had fought valiantly, his blade cutting down dozens of traitors before he was finally overwhelmed. Surrounded and outnumbered, he refused to yield, buying precious time for the prince's escape. His death was brutal, his body desecrated and displayed in the city square as a warning to all who might oppose Caedric's rule.

——-

The air in the royal hall was thick with tension, a silence only broken by the distant hum of a servant's footsteps or the faint crackle of the torches lining the stone walls. At the center of the room sat Caedric Luminar, slouched on the throne as though it were his personal chair at a tavern. His gaze was sharp and disdainful as Veynor Solaris, the High General, stood before him, saluting with disciplined precision.

"Veynor," Caedric began, his voice laced with irritation. "I grow tired of hearing excuses. Tell me, what is the status of the southern campaign? Have you reclaimed what those filthy Orcs dared to take from us?"

Veynor lowered his hand from the salute, standing tall as his deep voice echoed through the hall. "My lord, I regret to report that the southern campaign was unsuccessful. The Orcs have fortified their position, and despite our best efforts, we were unable to reclaim the territories they have seized."

The room fell silent, save for the faint clinking of Caedric's goblet as he gripped it tighter. His expression twisted in fury. Without warning, he hurled the goblet across the room, its contents of red wine splashing across Veynor's steel armor.

"You dare stand here and tell me you failed?" Caedric roared, rising from his throne. "The Orcs are pests, nothing more! And yet you return empty-handed, asking for more time and resources?"

Veynor remained unmoved, his steel gaze fixed on the so-called king. "Your Majesty, my men have fought bravely, but they are weary and wounded. I ask for a brief respite to tend to their injuries and gather supplies before we return to the battlefield."

Caedric's eyes narrowed, his face contorted in disdain. "Respite? Do you think the Orcs are resting, Solaris? Do you think they will wait for you to recover before they advance further into my lands?" He slammed his fist on the armrest of the throne. "No, you will march south immediately and reclaim what you've lost. I will not tolerate another failure."

Veynor's jaw tightened, but he bowed his head respectfully. "As you command, Your Majesty."

Without another word, Veynor turned on his heel and strode out of the hall. Flanking him were Aerion Valcrest and Aerendil Valanor, who had been silently observing the confrontation. The two knights exchanged glances but said nothing, following their general out into the cold night air.

As they walked through the dimly lit corridors of the palace, Veynor broke the silence.

"We have fewer than 500 men left," he said grimly. "And even that number is deceiving. Many are gravely injured or too malnourished to fight effectively. If we march without rest, we'll lose more soldiers to exhaustion than to the Orcs."

Aerion frowned, his voice steady but laced with frustration. "This is madness, General. We can't march into a battle we're destined to lose. Perhaps it's time to seek aid. The Elves of Eryndor or the Dwarves of Durnathis they've stood with us before."

Aerendil nodded in agreement. "Aerion's right. The alliances forged during the war against Zordrak were strong. Surely some bonds still remain. If we appeal to their sense of honor, they may—"

Veynor cut him off with a sharp glare. "The alliances are dead, Aerendil. They were shattered 23 years ago when Caedric betrayed their trust. The Dwarves won't forget how he seized their lands on the northern borders, and the Elves despise him for allowing their sacred forests to be pillaged. We stand alone now, abandoned by those who once called us allies."

Aerion and Aerendil fell silent, the weight of Veynor's words settling heavily on their shoulders.

After a moment, Veynor sighed, his tone softening. "I don't blame either of you for hoping, but hope won't save us now. What we need is action. Gather the men, prepare the remaining supplies, and ready the horses. We march tonight."

"Tonight?" Aerion asked, his brow furrowing. "But the men—"

"The men will do as ordered," Veynor interrupted, his voice firm. "We don't have the luxury of time. Every day we delay, the Orcs grow bolder. If we wait too long, there will be nothing left to fight for."

Aerendil opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it. Instead, he placed a hand on Aerion's shoulder. "Come, brother. We have our orders."

Reluctantly, Aerion nodded. "Yes, General."

Throughout the night, the castle grounds buzzed with activity. Soldiers scrambled to gather what little food and supplies remained in the armory. Horses were saddled, weapons sharpened, and torches lit to illuminate the chaotic preparations.

Aerion and Aerendil moved swiftly through the ranks, rallying the remaining troops. The men were exhausted, their faces pale and gaunt, but they obeyed without complaint. Each of them knew the grim reality they faced, yet they marched forward with unwavering loyalty to their general.

As the final preparations were made, Veynor stood atop a raised platform, addressing the gathered soldiers.

"Men of Lorien," he began, his voice carrying across the courtyard. "I will not lie to you. This campaign will be our most difficult yet. We are outnumbered, outmatched, and fighting with fewer resources than ever before. But know this: your courage, your strength, and your resolve are what keep this kingdom standing. You are the shield that protects our people, the sword that strikes fear into the hearts of our enemies. And as long as we stand together, we are unstoppable."

The soldiers cheered weakly, their spirits bolstered by his words, even if only for a moment.

As the moon hung high in the sky, the gates of Lorien opened, and the army began its march southward. Aerion and Aerendil rode alongside Veynor at the front of the column, their eyes scanning the dark horizon.