A unified panic overtook the camp of elvish tents and houses, sending the entire clearing of Brymeria into a frenzy. Elves hurled mail over their heads and grabbed the nearest weapon from their bedside, charging blindly into the night with only the instinct of survival. The warrior elves had no time to paint black markings along their arms, nor to slide golden rings onto their arms. Elves old and young rushed toward the horde of blood thirsty wights. The leader of the wights shouted one singular order in a drawn-out battle cry.

One of his arms was missing and in its place was a rusted hook that served as a surplus to the sharpened, black-tipped pike in his right hand. Blood was spilled, staining the clearing into a crimson read. No longer did the grasses seem green under the night sky. Instead, bodies slashed and slaughtered piled numerously inside the clearing.

Galiria twirled his sword around in one hand like a windmill, chopping any wight who drew near to her like vegetable. Her short sword remained in her left hand for short jabs and quick thrusts. One particular wight lowered a shoulder into a younger elf, stomping its foot onto the elf’s face before raising his sniffer to find that the tip of Galiria’s short sword as the last thing that would ever block his path. The blade pierced its face, the end of the sword jutting out the back end of its skull. Galiria had to push off the wight’s dead body to withdraw her short sword.

Ralo had joined a band of cooking elves atop the branches of the Great Tree looking down over the battlefield. A hail of arrows came from them in a one, sweeping wave. The arrows fell in a thick rain, mostly piercing wights but one elf found himself caught in the shoulder unexpectedly.

The stars were oddly dull this night—but it was Alaric’s blade that filled the area with like. The flames licked hungrily to the tip of his sword, leaping onto any wight that dare come near his angry slashes. He was filled with the ferocity of a warrior—forgetting the technique of an elf and adopting a style that had only been seen in the hands of the dark elf, Golomoth. The wights shied from Alaric’s sword soon, knowing that to approach it was a certain death. He felled a wight from behind, sweeping the head off its shoulders as it was cocking an arm back to swipe a defenseless Elfwin. Alaric gave a mystified Elfwin a curt nod, the fire of his blade filling the pupil of his eyes. Elfwin rose to his feet, grabbing his dropped sword.

By the end, it was Arokas who drove home the end of his longsword into the chest of the wight’s leader. The pasty white skin of the lich’s face crusted in a harsh black outer shell, and then crumbled to the ground. Overhead, a hawk screeched as it swooped low just above the bloodied clearing. It arrived at the arm of a rider clad in a black plated armor and a spiky helm. Inside the helm, there was no face. The rider reared its horse, as though it had been watching a while but unseen, and then rode off into the dark of the night. The hawk flew off into the night sky, spreading its wings rising above the trees.

It was the scowling face of Arokas that screamed first, sending his regards to the Headless Horseman who was likely long gone already. The number of dead elves was near half the amount of wights that lay bloodied and slain. Distraught elves kneeled beside the dead, crying tears of mourning. Galiria shrugged Alaric off, making for her tent with her head down and throwing her bloodied sword to the ground. She was iconsolable, hiding tears until she reached her tent where she wept greatly. Her brother had died.

The elves with bows dropped from the branches of the Great Tree, unsure as to whether they wanted to find out who had perished. Few ventured towards the bodies of the dead, others dropped where they were and held their head in their hands. Ralo couldn’t prevent his body from quivering as he gazed upon the dead corpses of many of the elves that had been a part of their hunting parties.

Alaric finally sheathed his sword, staring in silent disbelief. It had been his noise and his own anger that had drawn the wights. He looked to Arokas, who was now mourning over the corpse of an elf who he must have held dear to him. Alaric walked amongst the dead. He squinted his eyes when he passed over dead elves, praying that he had not known the elf beyond acquaintances. He recognized one of the dead elves as being one of Nhed’s servants. Alaric’s paces sped up considerably, and then eventually it had turned into a run by the time he did not see the illuminating light of a candle from inside Nhed’s tent.

He flung himself inside, ripping the opening of the tent as he did so. Furtniture and chairs were flipped upside down and clothes littered the floor in evidence of some sort of violence. There was no Nhed to be found. Alaric stuck his head out of the tent as he scanned the clearing for sight of the old elf.

“Nhed!” he shouted. “Nhed!” he called again, but no elf paid his voice any head. He searched for hours amongst the piled bodies of the dead—and still—no Nhed. He had vanished. Alaric did not know what to do with himself. The wights would arrive soon in mass. The Headless Horsemen had heard the call of his wights and seen enough and so now there was nowhere to go. Or perhaps, anywhere but Brymeria was ideal for now, but the elves were still weeping over their dead and Alaric did not dare intervene with their mourning.

The signs of first light began to loom overhead and shine lightly through the gaps in the natural canopy of leaves. The elves had just finished burying their dead and piling the wights into a skiff to be sent out to sea. Arokas had taken charge since Nhed was gone; and it had been his orders to send the wights to sea.

“No, do not do it. Burn them instead,” said Alaric.

“What you know? Quiet,” said Arokas.

“Their corpses will spill into the waters and end up washing up at Osknia, I have seen it with my own eyes,” said Alaric. He was desperate to be understood and yet, he knew that Arokas would not listen to him—regardless of what he would say.

With the first hour of the sun came a summon to council. The elves gathered into the largest tent inside Brymeria. No elf wanted to be anywhere near the clearing where they had just disposed of the dead, and so they met inside the stuffy tent and had a dais built for Arokas and Ralo to sit. Alaric had forgotten all about Mott until he came sauntering in just before the council was due to start. His face was pale and gaunt, and he rubbed his hands together aimlessly. Beads of sweat formed along his forehead and Alaric pulled up a stump to sit beside him. Alaric peered around, but he did not spy Galiria.

“We have lost friends, family, and members of our kind. It disheartens me to lose more elves. Our numbers dwindle lower all the time—and the wights multiply like maggots,” said Arokas in high elvish. His words had no meaning to Alaric and Mott who had only the reactions of the congregated elves to pool from.

“It is known that we have to relocate. The Headless Horseman was scene overlooking the skirmish from the top of our hills, and he will surely send word to Golomoth of our hiding. He has been searching for many years, so he will be desperate to get to us.” Arokas peered from side to side, locking eyes with as many elves as he could. “This is our chance. Look at me!” he shouted now, a crazed look in his eye. “This is our time to make our stand and die with the honor of elves. But first, we must think hard. We cannot go out to meet ten thousand wights and expect to live. No, but we are smarter than they. We can outsmart Golomoth. And outsmart him, we shall do.”

Elves nodded sullen heads, and a few had grunted their agreement. Now it was Ralo who stood. He had littered his skin with ink markings from head to toe so now he was a dark warrior. Alaric felt unnerved at the sight. The whites of his eyes were a stark contrast to the elven markings along his face.

Shig interrupted Ralo before he had even really started, his high-pitch voice adding angst to the atmosphere inside the tent. He slammed a fist down onto a table in front of him, breaking it as he did so. “We cannot outwit Golomoth! Anyone who thinks that is a fool. What chance do we stand against ten thousand wights? We cannot keep running through these lands. Corpsia is a graveyard—and if we are to stay—then we may as well start digging our own graves this very moment. We have to set sail.” There were many murmers of agreement to Shig’s outcry and it took some time for Arokas and Ralo to settle the discontented elves.

“A graveyard it is, but it is our graveyard. Our lands!” said an older elf.

“Where else are we to go? The Hafforn Sea is endless,” said Shig.

“We defend Corpsia,” said Arokas, “We defend it with our lives because we are elves, and we have no fear. The wights are mindless creatures of Golomoth, and we will send them to a burning hell because that is the fate that the spinners above would have for them.”

A raucous atmosphere shook the canopy’s stakes, nearly collapsing the entire tent. Alaric stood wide-eyed, not knowing a single word from the mouth of the elves. It was not like them to be so loud—the elves were a graceful kind, and quiet. But now they cried out and shouted with passion because they kin had been slaughtered by wights, and they knew Golomoth’s army of ten thousand wights would soon be coming to end them.

It took quite some time for the chattering to subside. When it finally did, Arokas leaned into the elves. “We must defend, all of us. It will take every last elf, but we are more cunning. We are smarter. We are more bloodthirsty than they. If they want a proper battle—than that is what they shall get. They tried to take us by surprise, and that is only a coward’s way of fighting. We will be ready this time, fully armed and full of a warrior’s spirit. If the time for the extinction of our race has indeed come, then let it be with blood and with sword!”

An elbow was jarred into Alaric’s temple amidst the shoving and shouting of the murderous elves. He reeled away, a lump soon forming on his temple. He forced his way to the back of the tent where at least there was space to stand without his toes being crushed. He wished Galiria was there to translate for him, but she was nowhere to be seen. The elves continued to congregate for near an hour, debating over where their defense should take place. Some argued that they remain in Brymeria, but it was quickly shot down by warrior elves who knew better than to wait inside lower ground and become surrounded on four sides of a hill by wights. Another suggested that they take the fallen town of Erwold—using the mystique of the crumbled buildings and churches to their advantage, but that, too, was dismissed since there was no real barrier to keep the wights from simply swarming them by numbers. The elves eventually decided upon an old, abandoned castle no more than fifteen miles north of Brymeria called Termath Kvith.

“It has strong walls than can be prepared in due time, and it sits on high ground atop a thickly-wooded forest. Trees and brush will have likely crowded its walls but that can be cut down so that the wights may not approach unseen. It is our best option, and we have time to fortify it—the wights may not arrive for months if they are to march from the north.” Arokas’ dark eyes flickered from side to side of the tent, challenging any elf to disagree. No elves were forthcoming.

“Where is Nhed?” came a demanding shout from the back of the tent. Arokas lifted his head above the gathered elves to spot Alaric stood by the tent flaps with a dark scowl across his face.

“Ah, there he is—the bastard who led the wights straight into our camp. Better yet, I saw the fool returning with Galiria just before the wights attacked. And now, where is Galiria?” Arokas’ voice turned to a growl. Alaric could not interpret Arokas’ high elvish but he hadn’t needed to in order to assume the accusations had come from his mouth like venom. The elves turned on him, fists clenching around dirks and swords.

“Do not take your anger upon me—I have the sword that can defeat Golomoth.” Alaric’s plea was in vain, for most of the elves did not understand a word he had said. They had quickly forgotten Alaric’s heroics with his flaming sword amidst the bloodbath earlier. “Where is Nhed?” he cried, hoping to turn elves back towards Arokas.

Dozens of skeptical voices were raised towards Arokas.

“Nhed is gone, and I have no doubt imagining that it could be the doing of Alaric himself,” said Arokas.

One of the elves who had been one of Nhed’s servants approached Alaric with a grief-stricken face. Alaric held out his hands to show he meant no harm, but the servant elf drew steel and tried his best to muster a face of anger, which only appeared soft and hurt. Alaric exited the tent, knowing that there was no explanation to give. The elves would not hear him, and Nhed was not there to defend him.

Eyes returned to Arokas upon the crudely crafted dais. Ralo stood beside him with his hands behind his back. “Golomoth wants the elven race destroyed. We must face that truth,” said Arokas. Tears ran down many of the faces before him. His own voice quivered, “I fear that he is misunderstood, and it has led him down a dark path. Nhed used to always talk of a man who was sent to defy Golomoth, and I think it is fair to assume that many of us thought that Alaric was that man.” Arokas paused. “He was not! He is a traitor; I saw it with my own eyes. He wanted Galiria for himself and so he tried to kill me with his flaming sword. A sword that belongs to Golomoth himself!” Arokas allowed his words to hang over the elves like a blanket, producing a mixture of emotions. “It was before this skirmish with Alaric that I learned of a great truth. My Galiria is pregnant. There will be another elf, and we can only pray that is a girl—for if that is so then the spinners of our fate have offered us another chance. A chance to continue the line of elves! But it cannot be here, not in Corpsia. I am proposing that we send Galiria to Jakkara to sail upon those perilous waters in hopes that the elven race can begin again, but in another land.”

“That is preposterous, no elf has ever journeyed across those waters and returned to tell the tale!” shouted the same older elf, angst in his voice.

“Who will accompany her?” asked Shig.

“Elfwin and I shall see her safely to her destination. Elfwin must go as the youngest elf among us, in hopes that he may live to see the day that Galiria’s child is old enough to lose her maidenhood. I must go to ensure her safe passage, and Ralo has agreed to stay and lead the defense of Tarmath Kvith” said Arokas.

There were objections and concerns sent forward by the elves, but ultimately there was no alternative to propose. It was Arokas’ baby that lay inside Galiria, and he was the strongest warrior amongst them to lead Galiria safely to her voyage. Shig had suggested leaving by the Hafforn Sea, which was easy enough since it was attached to Brymeria’s western coast, but it was ultimately a futile plan, since the Hafforn Sea only expands to the south where there are no lands.

“We will spend the rest of our days building up Tarmath Kvith into an impregnable fortress. We will sharpen our spears and shine our blades. We will build arrows until our fingers are no longer able, and we shall build up the walls until the biggest giants appear as a grain of sand. Tarmath Kvith is can only be breached on one side, and it is on that side that we shall give them hell and death and everything worse than the two combined!” Arokas had a passion growing inside of him and it showed on his face where his warrior’s markings were smeared by tears and blood. Ralo lifted a cry beside him, raising his spear to the sky and the elves raised their weapons, vowing to defend Tarmath Kvith with every last ounce of strength they had, for they knew no other home than Corpsia, and they meant to defend it.

Slumped in Nhed’s chair inside of his tent was Alaric Aymon. A lost lord, brooding over his losses and cursing the one God that he had believed in. His face showed no sign of life. In fact, if any elf were to chance a glimpse upon that tired face, perhaps they would assume him dead, for he may as well have been. He did not want to fight. He did not want to lead. He did not want to own a flaming sword that made him slaughter like a mad man. He wanted none of this—and yet—it had all fallen into his lap.

And even now, there was a small fire building up inside of him. Like a flame that is utterly close to dying out from the faintest of breezes, but it keeps on burning, that was the force that glowed warm deep inside of the lost lord of Osknia. His heart hurt, but it had not broken, not yet. There was still hope—a hope that he might return to Osknia and take back what was his. Not only that, but his lord King and dearest friend had lost all that made him an Osknian. Those lands were no longer what they had been before he was stolen, that much he was sure. But that is what stoked the small fire inside of him that he did not even know existed. It started out as a small guttering flame, and then as he sat and thought, he became aware of its existence. He no longer wished to dwell in this land of corpses and evil beings, but now he thought of leaving. He would take Galiria with him, he thought. She had made it clear that she wanted a new start, a new beginning. And so, the fire began to burn inside him, freely now. He rose from his seat inside Nhed’s tent and his hand went to his scabbard without his telling, withdrawing flamesword. He stared at its finely sharpened edges, demanding that it alight with flames, and it did. The flames reflected wildly in his eyes and he felt a dangerous man. He would find a way out, and he would take Galiria with him.

The tent flaps rattled softly, and Alaric’s eyes glossed over to the entrance of the tent. In walked Galiria, her jaw set firmly.

“Osknia,” she said. Her eyes were drawn to the flames of Alaric’s sword.

“Osknia,” said Alaric.