ord Vilyánur Sarmäcil, grand-centurion of Legion VI, watched attentively as the knights galloped past the scarecrow, showering the hay body with a storm of arrows. Some of them glanced off the light lamellar padding, but a great many found their mark, delivering what would've been a fatal blow had it been a foe condemned by their lord.

"Elites," his second-in-command, Sir Glarion the Brave commented, "worth every copper."

"I know, and I'm glad to have them by my side," Vil replied, "I'm sure they'd serve me well in battle. I'd like them to be my personal retinue, and accompany me in my endeavours."

"That they will without question, the king handpicked them for you, my lord."

"Aye, give my regards to Uncle. Tell him I loved his gift and would cherish it."

"I will, sir," Glarion bowed low, "maybe you will find a good use for them next campaign. I and my knights are few days from retirement anyway."

"Yes..." Vil gave a fading reply, his mind distracted by something else.

"Vil...?" Glarion gave him a sight of query, snapping him out of his reverie. "You missed home, didn't you? Heh, I know what a year of campaigning will do to a young soldier like yourself, even if it is a praetorian like you or me. Get some rest, you deserve it."

Sadly, someone kinless as Glarion could never know what he was concerned about, and neither would most of his folk: something that only sickens those with people dear to them.

"Yes, I missed home," said Vil in an absentminded voice, "I spent too many years in the desert, and the spring warmth is a welcome change, though ominous in a certain fashion."

"You'll get used to it in no time, that I am sure of."

"That I hope," he replied somewhat dully. "I think I should retire soon, I need to get-"

"My lord! Look to the skies!"

They all looked up in unison, seeing a green comet sear across the morning sky. "Beautiful," Glarion commented, "isn't every day you see something like that."

"No," Vil replied, somewhat in concern. "No indeed, at least not that colour."

Glarion turned to Vil. "My lord?"

"I don't get it . . . why would it be green? I've never seen such a thing. Comets of yellow and blue there are plenty, but none of our records report a green comet."

"Perhaps because they're rare," said Glarion, "which only makes it that much better."

"Unless . . . it's not a comet, it's a meteor," said Vil, "but not one of ordinary nature."

Their faces went pale; the shifting winds brought with itself a stench of dread. They all could feel it – the gloom was growing, something horrible was about to happen.

As the whistling of the meteor got louder and louder, they saw it near them. In a gasp of horror and dread, they realised. "It's heading towards us," said a knight, "take cover!"

Much panic was roused in the camp, the soldiers and servants huddled for safety as the meteor neared them. "My lord!" a knight called for Vilyánur, who just stood there dumbly without any movement. "Take cover!"

"Nay, do not fear, it's not heading towards us."

Some of the soldiers stopped, the others kept running, adding to the cries of fear, but Vilyánur and his retinue just stood there looking at the course of the meteor.

...

Four minutes later the meteor landed in the dense thickets just off Angdor, exploding with a clap of thunder and bright flash of green light. The shock rippled through the land, leaving soldiers and servants alike in discomfort with ringing ears.

"Damn it, that was bad!" a soldier commented.

"Indeed it was," Vil complied with a meagre chuckle, "but it's about to get worse."

Everyone looked at him in horror.

"We should investigate the crash site; I want a company of you to follow me."

They were rendered speechless, "but, my lord, it landed beyond our borders."

"Not really," Vil corrected, "should my estimation be correct, it landed north of the Angkreb: on our side of the river. And aye, I know we ceded those woodlands to the people living there, but I doubt they are anything but kingless tribes. Either way, it doesn't count as trespassing."

His men rolled their eyes, something in their hearts spoke of distrust, but Vilyánur remained persistent in his plight like a child on the hunt of sweets.

"But . . . alright, fine. We shall." Glarion spoke at the end, much to the others' dismay.

"Good, and here I was starting to question your undying loyalty." He said to himself.

*****

Spear in hand; shield on back, forty riders accompanied Vilyánur into the dense jungles, trotting through barely visible forest paths for hours without end. The deeper they ventured into unknown territory, the more the dell shut them in, lading them with the scent of death and decay.

The whistling steppe breeze fell back into anonymity, replaced by the ominous rustling of the forest canopy, the roads faded below dense undergrowth, and the long stretches of green were replaced by dark patches of lightless fungi – almost as if warning them not to proceed further into this unfriendly land.

They were now in the outskirts of the forests of Angdor, the realm of the vicious wood-elves who were known for flaying intruders alive and feeding their corpses to wolves. The very thought of that induced fear amongst the knights, but not Vil, he knew the forest more or less.

"Say what you want," a knight spoke behind them, "I hope we don't get into legal trouble, I'm not brave enough for politics."

"Fret not," another knight answered, "this is international territory, both kingdoms agree."

"That's not what I fear," said the first knight, "these lands are international for travel and business, not by law. What if some ill gets blamed on us? How will we attest to a wood-elven peoples, whose court proceedings we have little knowledge about?"

"Don't worry, my uncle's protection is upon us," Vil inserted, "now gee up, we have a situation to investigate."

And so they pressed on, their steppe horses struggling to find footing amongst the dense undergrowth. One can never rule out the fear of being knocked off, nor the feeling of being watched.

Where the meteor landed, the forest seemed to have retreated from. Bushes and trees near the crater lay withered and charred, as if struck by wildfire; the earth that lay beneath has turned black and hot, resembling volcanic ash; the air around the meteor hissed as it cooled.

"My lord?" a knight looked towards Vilyánur, only to see a face that screamed terror.

"This is no ordinary meteor," he said. "It's a herald of chaos, the embodiment of personified disorder. This isn't good, not good at all."

The whole troop fell to silence.

"We must leave now, we'll be lucky if we encounter any wood-elves now," said Glarion.

"Alright, for once, I agree," Vil replied, "let's leave."

Heeding to his words, the soldiers prepared to leave for home. Tracing the marks made by horseshoes back, they ventured up the gods-forsaken path, but it seems fate had other plans for them.

...

"Tarry," a knight stopped them, telescope to his eye. There was some disturbance up the highway. "Something's amiss."

"Enemies?" asked Vil.

"Negative," said the knight, "no movement in sight, but there is something that wasn't there before."

"What was?"

"A carriage," the knight answered, "possibly travellers, but it looks abandoned."

"Well, that's our only way home, so let's go pay them a visit."

The soldiers nodded, following Vil into the scene of interest.

Closing in with the scene, they beheld a cart laden with iron and fur, resting on its side as if knocked over by a very strong gale, and a very peculiar gale too, thought Vil. A wood-elf laid near, a young man-elf – as lifeless as a month-old corpse, wounded by strange wounds, something that resembled being sliced open by a hot knife. His horse met the same fate.

"Knights," Vil called out, "be on your guard, something foul dwells in the woods here."

His retinue nodded, thoroughly examining the body. The ripples from the meteor strike, some of the knights concluded.

"Not likely, for I am unsure if the ripples would carry out this farther," said Vil, "the rest of the forest seems unharmed, even if greatly shunned, as if wounded by seminal powers."

"Maybe the meteor siphoned their lives," suggested Glarion, looking gravely unto Vilyánur, "or maybe evil beasts?"

"Yes, the latter..." Vil said dreadfully, "...I wish it's not what I fear."

"What do you fear, my lord? And what has that to do with this?"

"I've fought too many daemons to not know their essence, I fear . . . maybe 'tis only an astronomical anomaly, or maybe . . . what do we do now?"

"Maybe we should investigate further, or at least warn King Arvedui of this?" asked Sir Glarion.

"If it were that easy, Sir Glarion, but do you think thousands of years of mistrust between the wood-elves and the high-elves will let this warning go anything but unheeded?"

"Forsooth . . . but what can we do?"

"I think we should-"

He hushed. Sullen vibrations radiated from the forest floor, Vil's ears caught the sound of hooves – some of horses, others of elks, and the faint growling of wolves mingled in with them.

And there it was in the distance: wood-elves, men of the king. Before even the high-elves could react, the wolf-riders lunged into the forest before approaching out and surrounding the high-elven host from all sides, cutting off their retreat.

"Damn it, that's one more threat to deal with now."

*****

"Greetings, weary travellers!" an elf clad in silver astride a pale horse, a royal guard, spoke to them in rusty highborn, "what brings forty fine high-elven knights into our forests? What do you think gives you the right to desecrate our sacred groves and assail our people?"

"We did not kill them, you're making a mistake!" Vil called out calmly, "I and my brethren spotted a meteor landing by the borders. We were about to leave but then-"

The royal guard laughed. "Do you think we are so foolish to be convinced by your silly stories?"

"We're not lying! We can show you the site of the meteor's crash."

"If you're innocent, then you'll be spared. But for now, you're our prisoners. Come with us to the king and there we'll decide your sentence – the murder of innocents usually carries the sentence of death."

"As if any other crimes have alternate sentences," laughed Sir Glarion in a peculiar manner.

"Oh no, you're making a mistake," said Vil with a wave of his hand, "we're not coming with you, we do not need to. We'll just walk away and you'll pretend you never saw us."

The guard flinched, "your magic will not work on me, foolish spellsword. I am a royal guard, my vigour is unmatched. And I will hold you in custody regardless of what you claim."

Vil looked at his retinue in disdain. Though he said nothing, they knew what to do.

"Even though I have no desire to battle you," Vil clutched his sword, "o sir knight, what hope do you forty ragpickers have against my elite forces? What makes you think 'tis wise to construct strawmen of us? I and my retinue are learned in the art of warfare, we are the kingdom's elite – I, Vilyánur Sarmäcil, am known far and wide-"

The royal guard grasped his sword, "and I'm a royal guard and I know how to deal with criminals."

The wolf-riders half-nocked their bows and aimed at Vil's retinue, who in their wake raised their lances and shields and gathered in a circle. "Meet your end!" shouted the royal guard.

...

"Tarry!"

The wood-elves were shunned down, undrawing their bows and lowering them.

"Tarry," the elf in the middle – the leader of the host – spoke out in clear authority: "I would not do that if I were you. So as so, I would refrain from accusing them of crimes they didn't commit."

He lowered his hood, revealing his familiar face to Vilyánur: a finely shaped face devoid of worldly weariness, ears lengthening horizontally into his flowing silky auburn hair, gorgeous amber eyes like those of a cat, a slender figure like a birch tree concealed below his ranger attire – he was Prince Meneldir Fionhen, son of King Arvedui, the most beautiful elf in the known world (at least that's what Vil told himself).

Even though two hundred years had passed since the first time they met, it seemed to Vil the young prince had not aged a single day: his face vibrant with morning colours, brows bent beneath his silver circlet, a smile of satisfaction upon his face. Time stopped, the two shared joyful glances at each other, unable to respond with any other emotion.

"My lord?" the royal guard looked at Meneldir in question, "why should I not rebuke them for their actions?"

"Firstly because he didn't kill them, and secondly going to battle against him is suicide," said Meneldir, looking at Vilyánur: "after all, you could bring as many warriors as you please but still would be meagre hindrance to Lord Lindrúin."

All the wood-elves looked with their eyes widened; they could not believe their fate as much as they could believe their foolishness. Is this the famed Lindrúin Lúthmegil, Slayer of the Daemon-King Krayn? Is that who we were going to fight against?

Vil wondered how he hadn't thought of his wood-elven name before, but one of the greater wonders to him was his fame, which he had thought to be known amongst his kind alone.

"May he be a famed daemon-slayer, or a cunning bandit, the sentence for crime is indifferent!" the royal guard shouted.

"Watch your tongue, Lord Nixior," said Meneldir, "lest perchance you may lose your position and that of your family, by my order."

"Wha-" Lord Nixior stuttered, "very well, have it your way, my lord."

Meneldir smiled and looked back at Vilyánur, eyeing him down from his head to horse: "Grand-Commander Vilyánur Sarmäcil . . . you're not as 'grand' as I had hoped you'd be."

"High-Prince Meneldir Fionhen . . . you're shorter than I expected."

Meneldir half-chuckled, "nevertheless . . . what were you talking about again?"

"A meteor," said Vil, "a green meteor is responsible for all of this."

"Wait, tell me the entire story from start to finish," said Mey.

"We were minding our own business on our side of the borders, when we saw a green meteor sear across the sky and land in the denser parts of the forest. We thought it'd be a good decision to check it out, and were just leaving when you folk caught us."

"Oh, I see," said Mey, "shall we talk in private? There's a couple things we need to talk about."

"No! No! Absolutely not!" Lord Nixior interrupted, "your father has instructed me on keeping a strict watch on your every step, we will absolutely not abandon you in any case. If you have something to discuss, then discuss it here."

Meneldir scoffed, "very well, let us go for a ride together. Vil?"

"I'd love to, Mey."