s the dawn approached, Meneldir and Vilyánur packed the elf's head in a sack and warped for Ostithil. Opening a portal from the concealed pylon in Vil's courtroom, they landed right in front of the capital district. "Great, that cost less mana than expected," said Vil.

Mey was surprised, "so anyone can walk into the capital district of the capital city if they know some basic spells?"

"No, only I do," said Vil, "the others have to use public pylons that warp you to an outpost outside the city, from where you can walk into the city and perform your duties. It is quite strenuous, but gets the job done."

"And you tell me about equality," Mey shrugged.

"I know the irony, but we have more pressing matters at hand, much beyond the concern of common citizens."

"That is true, let us make haste."

Slinging the sack over his shoulders, Vil trot up into the capitol, Mey following shyly, all the while looking around to admire the palisade of silver. Though for Vil it was just another day, Mey took a moment to seep in the beauty of his forest of stone, of which the most he had was a faint memory.

The lofty towers shot up into the sky like spikes of ice, the rest of the castle concealed behind a tall layer of walls. As they passed through, the guards stepped aside, allowing them passage through the windy path up to the courtyard of stone.

Once through the seven gates and three walkways that separated the castle from the city, they stepped into the garden where they first met – a wondrous site, unchanged by the demons of time. Statues and fountains dotted the garden, feigning its spirit bigger and livelier.

"It looks smaller than the last time I was here," said Meneldir.

"You were smaller too," said Vil, "although you're not to blame, I was shoulder-height to you, and now it's the opposite."

Mey chuckled, reliving the days of yore once again as he passed through.

...

Everything he saw around him was carved out of marble and moonstone: tall pillars held up lofty archways and aqueducts, various elven heroes carved on top of them, as if watching over the city. Looking to the east, Mey could see the half the city below him glimmering in the sunlight like a reflection of the ancient cities of yore.

He stood close to Vil, yet nobody seemed to be bothered by that. Senators walked around the keep, accompanied by high-ranking praetorian guards. As Vil walked by them, they bowed their heads to their lord.

"Lord Vilyánur," an elf approached, bowing low.

"Lord Felwin," Vil bowed back, in a somewhat shy and unexpected manner. "What a pleasant surprise!" Mey took a good glance at him and recognized the man – the traveller he met on the road two days ago.

"How goes your school? I feel ashamed not to have found spare time to pay a visit."

"Do not worry, drop by whenever you want to. Your health is a higher priority."

"Nay, I am much better than before, your medicines are playing their part."

"That is good," said the old elf, then turning to Mey, "so we meet again, Prince Meneldir, dear friend and comrade of Lord Vilyánur."

"Pleasure," Mey bowed, "what a small world we live in, whence we all know one another."

"You wanted to know how I knew of your royalty? As it turns out, rearing children from noble families for thousands of years develops your eyes for such activities, especially when a good fraction of these have the forte to conceal themselves as beggars or street urchins."

Vil blushed, "sir, please don't tell him, you're ruining my image."

"Anyway," said Lord Felwin, "I presume you were on an errand?"

"Aye, and we shall be leaving soon after," said Vil, "I need to find my uncle and inform him of our recent findings, I'd tell you first but 'tis confidential matters."

"I understand," he replied, "he is in the council chambers, holding a meeting with his closest advisors."

"Thank you," Vil nodded and headed for the council chambers, passing the ever-even vigil of the royal guards. Mey followed in silence, trailing behind through the dark corridors.

*****

The palace and keep were for public use, adorned with silver and starlight in memory of the wonders of yore – a pleasant sight, lively and attractive.

But the undercroft was anything but attractive: dark cobblestone corridors lit by naught but the scanty light that burst in through the narrow mountain windows, adorned with ominous statues of sphinxes and serpents.

Something wasn't right here, he couldn't shake the feeling off of being watched – maybe it was an enchantment, or maybe just the statues that caused it, but it wasn't good.

"Stay close," said Vil, "nobody unauthorised is allowed at this level."

Mey clung to him, trying to conquer his fear, but seeing Vil walk confidently was a relief. They passed through many doors, leading to gods know what. But one of them stood out: a door guarded by two almost lifelike statues of lizard-folk. He could stand a moment to admire the detailing: skin like flesh, teeth like bone, eyes glowing, sturdy halberds in hand.

"Touch them not," Vil warned him, "you'll upset the stone."

Mey curled his hands back, cowering behind Vil as he reached for the door. From inside the chambers he could hear ramblings: "Shall we sit idle and ignore the signs until we are sure?"

"Patience, Vareth, I did not say that . . . maybe Vilyánur can aid us in these matters."

At the very mention of him, Vilyánur entered with a sack in his hand, Meneldir following. "Ah, Vil!" the king sighed, "perfect timing as usual."

In contrast to the dark, dank corridor, the council chambers were drastically different – warmly lit by chandeliers and glowing stones: a box of warm wood with a round table at the centre, six people sitting around it.

"What are these signs you talked about?" he questioned.

"Green meteors, daemonic incursions, and such," said King Aiwind.

"Oh, about that:" said Vil, "here is something that may interest you."

Vil tossed the bag onto the table in a way to have it unfurl as it rolled forth. By the time it stopped a part of the hair had already been revealed. "What is that?" asked Knight-Captain Arphelir, King Aiwind reached out for the cover.

"Only something of chaotic origin reeks of that," said Vareth the Berserker. "My senses do not beckon well of this."

"My lord Vilyánur, where did you find this?" asked Arphelir.

"The outskirts of Angdor," answered Vil, "and you've got to thank Prince Meneldir for that."

All the council members parted their attention towards the young prince. "Ah, he's so grown up," the king smiled. "Greetings, dear prince, I hope you remember me. Last time we met, you asked me of my accomplishments during the great wars. Do you remember?"

"I do my lord," said Mey, "and I greet you warmly on behalf of my brethren."

"Please, take a seat the two of you," said the king. "Now, let us proceed to this..."

The two of them took their seats, joining the council.

...

As slow as a surgeon, Arphelir took off the shroud to reveal a severed head with pale green eyes and ashen-grey skin, still dripping chaotic bile. They all looked in horror at the effigy: less of fright and more of creepiness, and maybe a hint of despair too.

"He was our warrior once," said Arphelir, "but he fell in battle a decade ago."

"By the Sane Gods!" the coin-master exclaimed, "what horrors befall us that our own people are turning against us after death?"

"Ancalidor," called the king to the court wizard, "how much energy does it take to raise a high-elf? Is it possible for it to be nothing but a powerful sorcerer?"

"No, my lord," he answered, "even if the necrolyte who dared raise our fallen comrade be a sorcerer from Darrian's court, it would take more than elven knowledge to raise one of our templars into such strength that it may reek of chaos energies to such an extent."

"Not one," Vil replied with a dread look upon his face, "but a dozen of them assailed us, their ranks supplemented by other daemons. This was their leader: a horrendous warlock who may have killed us had we been a bit more careless."

"Not one elf can do it. Only three conclusions can I draw from it," said Ancalidor, "the first: 'tis merely a band of powerful necrolytes, the second: a conjurer dabbling in deals with Chaos Gods, and the third..."

"The third?" asked Arphelir. "Do not stop now, Ancalidor, speak it out!"

"Can you not already guess?" asked Vareth. "Yes! The third and most likely conclusion is that our nightmares are come true, we must brace ourselves now and prepare for another war now."

"But who?" asked the Grand Admiral.

"Is that even a question?" the king asked, "think of it: which Chaos God uses an army of undead elves to do his bidding? Who but..."

"Morthaur?" he and Vil spoke in unison; everyone else was left in horror.

"Morthaur?" asked Mey.

"You may know him as The Harvester," answered Vil. "he may or may not be the sower of empires, but he is The Reaper. When any nation goes uncontested for long, he comes for it. Of all the gods to ever torment us, no god is as ruthless or more loathed by us high-elves than Morthaur, Destroyer of Worlds."

Meneldir nodded in fright, "but . . . you are nowhere near uncontested, why would he come for you?"

"I do not know, but if he is coming for us, this will be the war to end all wars."

Morthaur – the very mention of his name instilled an unexplainable terror into their hearts, as if the very name was cursed. Though Vil knew he could not let bias play a role in his resolve, he knew well that the name meant the turning of an era.

*****

"What do you think we should do now?" asked the king.

"Morthaur cannot be defeated," said Arphelir, "though I keep my spirits high and our armies ready, I can tell you with utter certainty: either directly or indirectly, he will be the one to come out on top."

"He cannot be defeated, but he can be averted," said Vilyánur, "I do not believe we are his main target, maybe some of the greater Houses are, and we are but a stepping stone. If it is so, we can at least divert him away from our worlds, so we may have a couple more months at hand."

"Such morbid, Vilyánur!" said Arphelir. "We are a lesser House in a greater union, without the aid of other Houses our lineage is to fade away all the same, and thus we will be back to where we started. We cannot abandon our allies nor our seat of power, and I don't think the wood-elves will want to sit by idly whilst this happens anyway."

"That is our problem," said Meneldir, "my father refuses to believe all of this. I don't think The Great Forest Army will be of use until it's too late. Even if he secretly plans on taking actions, we are blind to his moves."

"Ah, I see," said the king, "so what should we do?"

"Maybe . . . I know," said Vilyánur, almost silently.

"Any bright ideas?" everyone looked towards Vil with high expectations.

"This is a stupid idea and if King Arvedui hears of this, he'll have me flayed, but since Prince Meneldir is nothing like him, I will speak regardless."

"Go on," said Mey.

"Mey, I would like your permission to allow our stalkers in your forests. Rest your wardens and let ours be on the hunt, for they will not defile anything that is not foul and unholy, and report back to us whenever they get news of the enemy. If we can stop them from gaining a foothold on this earth, we can avert their direct invasion."

"That's a good idea," Ancalidor replied, "if they do not find a chance to make a landing here, they'll choose some other world. My king, I theorize the brunt of the force will be spawned from the Northern Wastes, where the ancient stellar gates are. If you find a way to blockade the sea-routes, we can gain the upper hand."

"That I can," said King Aiwind, "and it's about time too I take back to admiralship."

"Glad to be of help," Ancalidor bowed, "but one thing I do not know: will the wood-elves let us mount a secret offensive like what Vilyánur suggests?"

"Hmm..." Meneldir stopped, "allow your warriors to secretly rampage through my people's territory and kill whoever wrongs us? Well . . . why not?"

Vibrant smiles burst out on everyone's face, even though tense. "But I have a request as well," said Mey, "that I and my faithful be allowed to join Vilyánur's ranks. It's not much, just that we will share our resources, make our plans together, and camp next to each other."

"Granted!" said the king. "Vilyánur, as a grand-centurion, you can have at most two hundred men under your command, but Prince Meneldir can choose to bring as many as he pleases."

"Incredible!" Mey said, "my five hundred chaos-hunters will rally with you under my banners. I know someone who can prove a powerful ally, and even perhaps convince my father to take actions. We have to travel to Shadowcrest Valley. Vilyánur, are you willing to join me on my adventure?"

"Aye!" he answered.

...

"Then it is decided," said the king, "ask the spymaster to set up a network of stalkers throughout the forests. Once I make amends with the senate, I shall be heading off to the north with our armada, in an attempt to thwart the enemy ere they reach our shore. Lord Vilyánur and Prince Meneldir will join ranks, and head out in search of allies. Vareth? Do you want to join Vil on his quest?"

"Gladly," said Vareth.

"Then so be it. And with the public declaration to mobilise our house-legions, I end the discussion here," the king got up, everyone nodding to him. "Prince Meneldir, I will have an apartment prepared for you, please stay with us until the troops are mustered."

Mey nodded. "I will be pleased to."

"Come, prince, let me show you around," said Vil, taking Mey out with him.

"Vil! Tarry a moment!" the king called. "Come here."

Vilyánur stopped, motioning Mey to stand outside. He quickly knelt his head close by, facing his ear towards his uncle.

"Yes, uncle?"

"I noticed something," he whispered in a voice unheard to all but Vil. "I noticed that you called him 'Mey', how did you earn the right to do so, may I ask?"

"Um . . . it's complicated..." Vil blushed, almost too obvious for his uncle. "I . . . uh, we . . . we have known each other for nearly two hundred years . . . and thus..."

"I know," said the king, almost petrifying Vil. "Congratulations, I hope you two go a long way together. Take care."