ith every step they took, their vigour seemed to seep out at an increasing rate, yet their journey felt nowhere near its end, or maybe it was the nature of the world they were in. No longer was Mey fond of this world, part of him wanted to leave already.

"I know what it is you want," Vil replied, "for it is also in my mind, albeit a little less so, for I am used to deserts more than you are."

"I don't think it is homesickness," Mey replied, "more like I am tired, also it's just the uncanny feeling I get here."

"I can understand," Vil replied, "but believe me, once you glance at the other worlds, this realm will seem much closer to home."

"What other worlds exactly? Like Alímar or Vyro? They feel much different?"

"They are also closer to home," Vil replied, "the rest of Mundus is things you cannot fathom: dead planets dominated by fungal wights, gas giants ruled by living storms, sunless worlds of dark and death and mile-deep ice layers, lava seas where fire giants thrive . . . those are but some of the myriad of worlds which make up the web of Mundus. Should you ever on your interdimensional barge set to sail, be unsurprised to look upon them."

Mey shuddered, Vil was right: he could not fathom such things, who knew if Vil was even making all of it up? He couldn't. "Well, I guess I'll just keep to my little space," he replied, confused and terrified.

"Don't worry, you'll get to go home soon, we're there anyway," Vil pointed to a crevice before them, his eyes sharp and big spotted something bobbing to and fro.

"Finally," Mey sighed, after two days of laborious trekking they had finally reached the river: one of the points where the two kinds of rivers overlapped. There was water in the bottom, and white fumes atop it.

"Thankfully these gases aren't really harmful," Vil replied, "and no, I don't know what these gases are, I'm not good in chemistry."

"Well, at least we're spared a quick death," Mey walked up, taking a glance through the thick fog. A dinghy floated above it, swaying ever too gently in the current, ready to be sailed.

"Come on," said Mey, climbing over into the boat, Vil following with fear in his eyes. Mey looked at him and chuckled. "Scared of water, are you not?"

"No, scared of drowning," he replied. "You didn't see my face whilst we were flying over the seas, but I was terrified then, and I am terrified now."

Mey pushed the dinghy off the post, sailing with the current towards their destination. "Do not fear," he said, "the water's not that deep, and anyway, I can protect you."

Vil looked at him and smiled, a sense of security issuing over him.

...

For the next few hours they remained on water, sailing through the darkness blind and grim, until the wisps of white faded away and clear air replaced the dull pale shadows. Mey and Vil switched positions, Vil rowing whilst Mey sat on the edge.

Knowing there were no beasts in the waters, Meneldir lowered his hand into the cold waters, only for his vambrace to be wetted by the waves created by Vilyánur's oar. "Hey!" he complained, "you did that on purpose."

"No, I didn't," Vil innocently smiled.

Meneldir grinned back and let forth a splash of water upon his face. Vil responded with a stronger wave, and thus it spewed back and forth. "Alright, stop, I'm sorry," Mey stopped.

And so the peace returned, alien buzzards swept by the river, touching not the two as they kept on their path. Vil took up the oar and went back into the deck, his eyes closed and lips in touch with Mey's.

"Shh," Mey stopped him, "don't try imitating a scene from a romance novel, we're not in one."

"How do you know?"

Vil smiled, Mey dragged in closer and kissed harder, listening to what sounded like music, but was actually the call of the blue alien birds. Up above them flew larger birds, except they were not birds: but rather a cross of moles, crows, and ants.

"Byakhee!" announced Vilyánur. "They're found on every world throughout Mundus!"

"They're beautiful," Mey replied, looking to the sky, seeing the byakhee glide across. But then it came like a call of heed: gargoyles mingled with the byakhee, flying along on the hunt.

Seeing them fly together, the two were caught in alert. They were not safe; daemons could attack them at any time.

And then it came like the dawn bright and clear: doom-knights and chaos-hounds, a plethora of other daemons following. "What the-" they fell off their boat as the water below them seeped into a hole, leaving them stranded between a horde of daemons, eager for elven blood.

*****

Blade in hand, wrath in head, they stood touching backs, surrounded by daemons on every side. They knew they had no chance of victory, but they would not go down without a fight. "Back off!" announced Vil, his eyes gleaming blue with an arcane aura.

"Tarry!"

The voice echoed loud and clear throughout the dell, silencing every scorn and snarl, and the daemons complied with iron obedience. Their eyes looked up to the high rise of the cliff, where stood the shadow-daemon great and mighty – the same one they had met in the Arcaneum.

"These are not intruders," he told the daemons, "they are guests, your master has been expecting them!"

The daemons curled back in remorse with a tongue of apology, crawling back as slowly as they had arrived and fading away into the reds. "Sheathe your swords, my lords;" the shadow-daemon approached them, "for no blood shall be shed on this hallowed ground this day."

Vil nodded and sheathed his blade; Mey did the same right after. "Follow me, the Oracle is expecting you," the daemon said with a smile, his dark cloak furling away to reveal but elven beauty, in years a bit younger than Vilyánur, brown of skin and black of hair.

"Well, that was a rough start," Vil replied, urging Mey to follow him to the tower.

But in Mey's mind was something else – question of leagues and lineages. Something's strange about him, Mey thought, his scent resembles Vil so much, it's almost uncanny. Not even does his uncle smell so much like him. And so he kept thinking, but did not bother telling Vil. He'd just tell him his nose was blocked.

The two followed the daemon in, minding not those who guarded the tower. For five minutes they walked through a horde of devils and vampires, but none of them were hostile to them.

From the barren red wastes the tower shot up like a beacon of hope, harnessing a tempest on its head which wound around it like an anaconda. From the inside, the tower looked much bigger, with a multitude of rooms, daemons keeping its serenity, as much oxymoronic it sounded.

...

They walked up to the top of the tower, where resided the Oracle: at first a hooded figure sitting on a couch, busy with a strange contraption, the likes of which neither of the two had seen before.

"Father," said the shadow-daemon, "I have brought Vilyánur to you."

"Yes..." said an elderly voice, much resembling Vilyánur's, "good work, Raucion. Bring him in, tell Marais to prepare some snacks."

Once they looked at the Oracle, they felt as if it had all been obvious for too long. The Oracle was a high-elf, resembling Vilyánur to the fullest, even having the same scent as him – save for that he was far older and wiser.

The old elf's royal garb spoke much about his position in the ancient days, his chaotic powers felt justified now, though the only thing which felt too peculiar to Meneldir was that he had the same scent as Vilyánur, even more so than his uncle, the king.

He thought of informing Vil of that, but his silence spoke otherwise – as if he knew it, and he pointing it out would be too obvious.

"What a pleasure it is for me to meet the famed heroes: Vilyánur Sarmäcil and Meneldir Fionhen," he took the lid off a jug, "tea?"

"Yes please," said the two in unison as they took their seats.

The oracle continued on his work, Vil and Mey sitting there awkwardly staring at him.

"Excuse me, Oracle sir," said Meneldir at length. "You seem oddly familiar to Lord Vilyánur, why is that? Did you know Eldärion Ciryòmar, Vilyánur's father?"

"I didn't know him, I still know him."

"You mean . . . King Eldärion is alive?" asked Meneldir with enthusiasm, Vilyánur remained silent.

"No! No!" he corrected, "King Eldärion is dead, but Eldärion is not. He still dwells in the hearts of those who remember him . . . he still wishes for the days when the world was simpler. He wishes he were not here, and instead with his son."

"Hear that Vilyánur?" he smiled, "anyway . . . so, how did you know him? Were you the court wizard or something?"

"The court wizard has always been Ancalidor," he answered, "I am not that . . . but I was a part of his legion, where I won't say."

"You don't need to," said Vil with tear-laden eyes.

"Oh, Vil..." said the Oracle, "can I call you Vil?"

"Yes, sir, as you wish!"

"Ah..." he nodded, "so is it Morthaur again? I know he is stubborn, prone to episodes of fury. Do not worry, it will all be good, for the bulk of his forces still remain unmanifested, not ere a thousand years can they return. The forces you will face will surely be a weak one; one untrained in the arts of war-craft . . . whereas you elves already know what to do."

"What should we expect?" asked Vil, "will they be easier than Krayn was?"

"Well," he scratched his chin, "not per se, for he will be far stronger . . . but still nothing you cannot hold back against."

"Good to know," Mey nodded, "we were planning to avert him from gaining a foothold on our world, maybe by reinforcing the stellar gates."

"And you had the right idea," said the Oracle, "but just not exactly, for the gates on your world are too small to invite a force as great as Morthaur. Unfortunately, that doesn't mean you are free, for there are other things which he can use."

"Ah, things like?" asked Mey.

"I believe you've already encountered something similar: a siphon of some sorts, even though a device like that would've been too frail to bring in anything more than a lesser legion of daemons."

...

"I see . . . so what tool is it that can bring Morthaur into our world?"

"They look little more than ancient tombs these days, but in their entirety they are hubs of immense power. Daemon-mounts they are called, do you know of them?"

"I do," said Vil. "They're a nexus of great energies, a tool to terrible effects."

"Yes..." said the Oracle. "so that is what you're looking for, and do you know how many daemon-mounts are there on Alledoria?"

Vil shook his head sideways.

"Sixty-three," the Oracle answered, much to the two's dismay, "however, only two are grand enough to bring a Chaos God in: one of them lay deep in the Dark Tower, and not even the most foolish would attempt to use that, thus on the only other site of one of them will the cultists of Morthaur gather, trying to bring him in with the use of sacrifices. If you can find a way to disrupt the ceremony, or even thwart them ere they reach the pit, you will win."

"But the losses will be great," said Vil. "Even in his weakness, he has enough power to destroy half of the planet."

"Yes," said the Oracle, "and that is where your old enemy comes in: remember this, all daemons are but elements of nature, and nature holds no grudges."

"You're asking me to go to a lesser daemon-mount and bring Krayn into his world? In his full power, and ask him to aid me to stop Morthaur?"

"I'm not, you thought of it," the Oracle smiled. "And Lord Vilyánur, I applaud you for that intelligence."

Mey smiled, "and one last question, sir: why do you think Morthaur is upon us? What have we done to upset him?"

The Oracle looked puzzled, "in truth I do not know, but there are theories. One: he wants to stop you from learning whatever spell your ancestors were cooking, and two: he has come for the elven unions as a whole, and you are just the beginning."

Mey's eyes widened, that's exactly what Vil said.

"Yes, I know I am not the first to suggest it," the Oracle nodded, "long after today, there will be much debate on this matter."

Vil nodded back, suddenly falling into a strange gloom. "What is it, Vil?" asked Mey.

"Oh, nothing," Vil replied, "It's just that . . . I feel like a lost sheep calling to the wilderness for help. First to Caravir, then to Vyro, then to The Dark Tower, then here to Xyroth, and now back to Alledoria . . . what are we doing again?"

Mey looked at him in silence, it was true, but he never thought about it.

"Or maybe a lost shepherd looking to the stars for his way home," the Oracle smiled, handing them a cup of tea. "Or maybe not home, but rather in search of the treasure."

"Is that a reference to The Shepherd?"

"That's for you to find out," the Oracle shrugged.

"What's The Shepherd?" asked Mey.

"It's a children's story," Vil replied, "about a shepherd: a young boy naïve and adventurous, who one day sets off in search of a 'grand treasure'. The story's pretty long, detailing the adventures of the boy," he drew a deep breath in, "at last he uncovers the treasure, but is left unsatisfied. At last he realises: the real treasure was not the gold, but rather the memories, the adventure was a reward of its own, an exercise which drives the cogs of life."

Mey shook his head, he never thought of all of this. "Damn, you're one wise old elf," he turned to the Oracle, only to see him laughing silently to himself. "Also, how did you tame all these daemons, and have a half-daemon son?"

"It was a gift from Morthaur," he replied, "for my valiant deeds, he rewarded me handsomely. And though half-daemon Raucion may be, I still love him as his father, and I feel ashamed at myself for not treating his brother the same way I treated him."

Mey nodded, but Vil seemed to be broken by his words. "I'm sure he'd forgive you," Vil responded to him, somewhat in a relieved mood.

"Anyway, supper will be ready in a while. Marias is an excellent cook."

*****

For two days they lingered there, Mey alienated as the Oracle and Vil seemed to be uncannily aligned towards each other. Is it what I think it is? Mey wondered, yet somehow dismissing his feelings.

Thus at last, on the eve of the second day, they prepared to leave. "As much as I hate to say it, you have a quest, so go then. I shall be watching over you, and may the gods do the same as well."

"Thank you, lord," thanked Mey as he prepared to walk out. "Come, Vil!"

"Just a moment," the Oracle stopped him. "Can I have a word with you?"

"Uh, very well," said Vil as he came away towards the Oracle, "yes, lord?"

"I may be invading your privacy, but who is exactly Meneldir to you?"

Vil blushed, "well, uh, he's . . . he's just . . . he's just a friend."

The Oracle laughed aloud: "A friend?"

"Yes, nothing more," said Vil in embarrassment, the Oracle continued laughing.

"Anyway, is King Arvedui content to know that his son has you as his consort?" asked the Oracle, his hand on Vil's shoulder, somehow causing a wave of glee to pass through Vil's troubled mind.

"I think so," answered Vil with a smile, "what about you, dad?"

The Oracle smiled heartily and joyfully. "Yes, I do . . . I'm proud of you, son."

Vil nodded, tears filling his eyes. Thence he smiled and turned back, heading off towards Mey, only to stop and turn back once more: "one last question: why did you abandon the throne?"

"Well, I've been king for three thousand years, and I've learned something..." said the former-King Eldärion. "Ruling a kingdom requires politics, and I am no politician."

"See you then?" lamented Vilyánur, embracing his father and walking away. As he boarded the dinghy, Meneldir looked at him with curious eyes. "What?" Vil questioned back, "can a son not have some good time with his father? Oh well, I did know it was him all along, ever since I saw him the first time."

"Explains the familiar scent," said Meneldir, pushing the boat to the river, cursing himself for not figuring it out a bit earlier.