"Could you not have waited until morning, Nutrin?" Loran flung open his chamber door, eyes still adjusting to the dim corridor light. Before him stood Sir Nutrin, the King's Guard commander, pale-faced and breathless.
"My apologies for waking you, Your Majesty," Nutrin said, his voice trembling. "But you must see this."
Loran's brow furrowed, sleep vanishing in an instant. "What is it?" he asked, noting Nutrin's haunted expression.
Nutrin averted his gaze. "A stranger, Sire. Found upon the shores of Filuir. She... she is not human."
Loran eyed him skeptically. "Not human? What do you mean?"
"Her ears are pointed, Sire. Skin as pale as moonlight. She speaks in a tongue unknown to us. It seems to be Atharian."
Loran's chest tightened. Atharian? Impossible. That language had long been forgotten, known only to him and a few in Red-Eriel. Without hesitation, he followed Nutrin to the council hall. "Who else knows of this?"
"Only the guards who apprehended her, myself, and you, Your Majesty," Nutrin replied.
"Good." They arrived at the chamber where she was held. Four royal guards stood at attention, bowing as Loran approached with Nutrin.
"She is within, Your Majesty,"
"Open the door," Loran commanded. The guards complied, and Loran stepped inside, accompanied by Nutrin and the guards. The room was cold, the air biting. They searched, but she was not there. A gentle breeze drifted through the open balcony, revealing her standing there, gazing at the night sky and moon.
Her long, silvery hair flowed like a waterfall in the wind, adorned with gems that sparkled like stars. She wore a gown that seemed woven from moonlight itself, an ethereal being from another realm.
Loran was captivated, speechless at the sight. Nutrin approached. "Your Majesty?" he whispered.
"Reveal yourself!" Loran called out. The elf turned, her ocean-blue eyes meeting his as she stepped forward. The guards drew their swords, warning her to keep her distance.
She halted. "Yiterakhac man'nan ev ulha ner yahum!" she declared, her voice like a song on the wind.
Loran was startled. He understood: Command your men to sheathe their swords. He raised his hand, signaling the guards to comply.
Cautiously, Loran circled her, eyes locked onto hers. "Nen fhalar, an ar nen ulaim ikhar? You are an elf; what brings you here?"
She smiled, returning his gaze. "Nen malar, al nen fhalar kunna. You are human, yet you speak the tongue of elves."
Loran's heart pounded. This was no dream. An elf from Atharia stood before him.
She continued, "Ita rakhum, terakh ain dun Aratharia kunna lal a malar irra'dan hur ekhin. It is well; the last time I spoke Atharian with a human was five centuries ago."
"Athran Thazeiros, by name." She now spoke in the common tongue.
"Athran? You spoke with him?" Loran asked, astonished.
"Indeed, Loran, son of Erion," she affirmed, her voice gentle yet firm. "Before you drew breath, I met Athran, your forebear, the first king of Estravar." She paused, eyes fixed on Loran.
"I am Mirienviel, sent once more from Atharia to the realm of men, to meet with you."
Loran stepped onto the balcony, tension etched on his face as he looked out. "Should Oceareest and Snotrezia learn of your presence, they would unite and raise arms against me," he warned.
Turning back to Mirienviel, he asked, "Why should I welcome you and risk my kingdom, Mirienviel, Elf of Atharia?"
Mirienviel met his gaze with serene determination. "Loran, son of Erion, I come in peace. My presence here is not to incite war, but to prevent it."
"Prevent it?" Loran scoffed. Her magical aura and beauty did not sway him. He was a Thazeiros, stubborn as his father.
"Have you forgotten that humans harbor resentment toward your kind?" Loran asked cynically. "Had the westerners or northerners found you, they would have slain you on sight."
"You must depart," Loran stated firmly. Nutrin and the guards approached to escort her from Red-Eriel back to Atharia.
But Mirienviel declared, "Ik'nurim dun'yarkha dun'lakharin, yon luk'ha dun'unamir firh ik'lakharin erek'hun. In the east, I shall establish my throne, and let my descendants sit upon it forever."
Loran was taken aback. "Wait," he ordered Nutrin, his body rigid. Slowly, he turned to Mirienviel, eyes wide with disbelief. "That phrase... how do you know it?"
The words echoed a secret of the Thazeiros lineage, spoken by Erion to Loran on his deathbed. How could Mirienviel know them? Loran's mind swirled with questions.
Mirienviel observed Loran's stunned expression, as if recalling a distant past. "These words have been passed down by the rulers of Red-Eriel to their heirs. They were spoken by your ancestor, Athran Thazeiros, to me. I was there when he uttered them, a witness to his oath to the elves to rebuild ties with Atharia."
Loran stood silent, torn. On one hand, he could not easily trust an elf appearing with such claims. On the other, the words Mirienviel spoke—known only to the Thazeiros—gave him pause. Could she truly have met Athran?
"Our worlds are intertwined more than you know, Loran, son of Erion," Mirienviel continued, her voice gentle yet resolute. "Descendant of Athran, you are part of a promise made centuries ago. A promise forgotten by men, but not by us."
"Leave us," Loran instructed the guards. "Except you, Nutrin. Stay."
Loran regarded Mirienviel with suspicion, yet a hint of curiosity flickered in his eyes. With only the three of them remaining, he asked, "What do you seek from me?"
"You must believe the truth I am about to reveal," Mirienviel replied firmly.
"What truth?" Loran's voice lowered, as if dreading the answer. A great secret, long hidden, was about to unfold. Could he bear it?
Mirienviel stepped closer, her oceanic eyes reflecting deep seriousness. "Malakar, the Lord of Darkness, lives still."
Loran was stunned, heart pounding as if struck by an arrow. "Malakar?" Had he not been vanquished centuries ago? Was it not Athran who destroyed him in the Blackrock Valley? "How can he still exist?" Loran asked, disbelief shaking his voice.
Mirienviel nodded slowly, understanding the confusion and fear that now stirred within him.
"I will show you what truly happened five hundred years ago," she said gently, pulling a small mirror from beneath her cloak and placing it on the table before them.
The mirror was unlike any Loran had seen—its frame was carved with intricate patterns, made of a material that shimmered like silver and obsidian fused as one.
Loran eyed the mirror with skepticism. "What is this?"
"This," said Mirienviel, "is a window into the past. Through it, you will see the truth that has long been hidden."
Cautiously, Loran approached the mirror. Nutrin stepped closer as well, curiosity drawing him in.
"There's nothing in it," Loran muttered after staring for several moments. "Only my own reflection."
"Look again, child of Athran," Mirienviel whispered, before chanting in the ancient tongue of Atharia, her voice echoing throughout the chamber: "Lurnak'har ardum nim, lurnak'har, lurnak'har serknum."
At once, the mirror flared with a blinding light that filled the entire room. Loran shielded his eyes, but when he opened them again, his reflection was gone.
"Your Majesty, look!" Nutrin cried out.
Loran stared into the mirror—and saw a vision that seized his breath. It was as though he were no longer in the room, but stepping into the depths of the mirror itself.
Seven radiant figures stood amidst an ancient forest, towering trees surrounding them, their golden leaves glowing with an ethereal light.
Mirienviel stepped closer, her fingers brushing the mirror's surface as if stitching together a long-lost memory.
"They are the Ararnior, servants of Arfa and Afra," she said, her voice soft yet firm with reverence. "They were once our leaders—before the darkness claimed one of them."
Loran leaned in, watching intently. And then Malakar appeared within the vision—his once-wise face now cloaked in shadow.
His sword, wreathed in black smoke, plunged into the earth, releasing a crack of darkness that spread across the mirror's surface like a spider's web. Loran drew a sharp breath. A cold shiver crept down his spine.
"What does he want?" asked Loran, his voice trembling between fear and anger.
Mirienviel nodded, her eyes still locked on the mirror. "He wants everything."
"Long ago, Malakar was one of the most revered among the Ararnior. His power and wisdom were nearly unmatched. But behind all that… there was darkness in his heart—a darkness born from never feeling enough."
The mirror shifted: Malakar stood tall upon the highest tower, staring out at an endless horizon. His eyes, once filled with wisdom, now burned with an insatiable hunger, like fire blazing in the blackest of nights. Atharia is not enough, he whispered to himself. I can be more than this. I can rule everything.
"He began to question his purpose," Mirienviel continued, her voice unsteady. "He believed his power and wisdom were wasted in the service of Atharia alone. He wanted more—he longed to conquer Santara, and even beyond. His greed consumed him, dragging him into whispers of darkness."
The mirror shifted again: Loran saw Malakar standing amidst the ruins of a shattered temple, surrounded by two Ararnior glowing with golden light. Arathiel, the leader of the Order, raised his sword, while Lirandor, the strongest among the mages, summoned brilliant magic in his hands. But Malakar only smirked, revealing his wicked plan. In a flash, he drew his blade of shadow, and with terrifying precision, pierced through Arathiel's radiant shield—right through his heart. Arathiel fell like a dimming star in the void, his light fading with each drop of blood that soaked his broken chest.
No...! Lirandor screamed, unleashing his magic. But Malakar was ready. With a curse that echoed like thunder, he turned the spell back upon its caster. The dark magic wrapped itself around Lirandor, tearing through his flesh from within, separating bone from sinew. The agony was beyond words. Lirandor crumbled, shattered into pieces.
Loran tried to steady his breath, disbelief on his face. "He killed them… so easily."
Mirienviel lowered her gaze, her eyes glassy. "Yes. Two of our greatest Ararnior fell to him. But the remaining four did not give up. They combined their powers and finally imprisoned Malakar beneath the earth."
The mirror shifted once more: the four remaining Ararnior stood atop a collapsed mountain, their hands raised, radiating blinding light. Beneath them, Malakar was bound within a circle of sacred runes—symbols of the gods Arfa and Afra. His once-arrogant face was twisted in hatred and despair. You cannot stop me forever! Malakar roared, his voice rumbling like thunder. But the Ararnior held firm. With their final spell, they sealed him into eternal darkness, locking his power behind an unbreakable seal.
"They banished him," Mirienviel said, her voice trembling, "and trapped Malakar beneath the earth. Since then, his name was never spoken again, and peace returned to Atharia."
Loran stared into the mirror, filled with awe and a trace of fear. "But why did they disband the Order of Aratharion?"
Mirienviel took a deep breath and explained that, haunted by what had become of Malakar, the surviving Ararnior chose to dissolve the Order.
"In fear that their power might one day fall into darkness again… that another Malakar could rise," she said. "And so, they handed over the authority of Atharia to us, the Elves, to guide and lead our people ourselves," Mirienviel added.
The mirror changed once more: the remaining four Ararnior stood in the great hall of the Order—an enormous temple of white stone adorned with intricate carvings that told tales of their glory. Moonlight streamed through stained-glass windows, casting colorful lights upon the marble floor. But pride had vanished from their faces. Their expressions were weighed down by sorrow and exhaustion, as if the burden they bore had grown too heavy.
One by one, they removed their ceremonial robes—the sacred symbol of the Order of Aratharion. Robes once adorned with the emblems of light and balance now felt like chains. Slowly and solemnly, they laid the robes before the Elven leaders standing opposite them, acknowledging that their time as keepers of balance had come to an end.
They turned and walked toward the great doors of the temple. Each step heavy, each stride a final sacrifice. As they disappeared into the mist of night, their footsteps faded into silence.
"Since that day," whispered Mirienviel, "they wandered… never seen, never heard again. Only their legends remain, reminding us of the price of peace."
She continued, "Then came the Fall of Southern Santara. The news reached us at the very moment Aldar—one of the long-lost Ararnior—appeared, trying to warn us of Malakar's return."
Aldar had sensed the shadow rising once more in Santara. He knew Malakar, the Lord of Darkness, had clawed his way back from his grave beneath the earth.
The mirror showed Aldar—his face lined with worry—pleading with the High King of the Elves to sail with an army to aid mankind. But history was not in their favor. It was the Elves who once drove humans from Atharia. To sail for Santara now would seem foolish, for mankind bore resentment, even hatred, toward their kind.
Yet Aldar would not be swayed. He felt responsible for ending Malakar, once and for all. With the blessing of the Elven High King, he gathered a small company of brave and loyal warriors—Mirienviel among them—and set sail for Santara.
They followed the waning moonlight, the stars dimming above them as their ship drifted away from Atharia. The light of Nuldin—the guiding star—was gone. A dark force had risen, cloaking the world in terrifying shadow. Cold winds swept across the sea, whispering dreadful things and carrying the ashes of Southern Santara's ruin.
They arrived at the coastal city of Mundor disguised as merchants. But upon setting foot on land, they were met with celebrations. Songs of triumph rang through the streets, singing praises of the three human kings and their heroes who had defeated Malakar at the Blackrock Valley—five days before the Elves arrived.
The journey seemed in vain, though relieved to hear Malakar had been vanquished. Yet Aldar, wise and watchful, knew that not all was as it seemed. He could feel Malakar's presence still clawing at his skin.
He sent the company to Red-Eriel, the one human realm that still preserved the Atharian tongue and bore no grudge against the Elves. There, the King of Estravar ruled—a man they had heard called the Bane of Malakar, the Light from the East. His name was Athran Thazeiros.
Mirienviel led the company to the king, revealing who they truly were. She told him Aldar had sensed the Dark Lord's return. But the court burst into laughter at her words—for everyone knew Malakar had been destroyed.
Athran himself, who had struck Malakar down with his own hand, felt insulted by her claim and moved to have them cast out.
But in that very moment, Aldar, having barely escaped the South through a collapsing portal, appeared before them, collapsed and bleeding. He had found traces of Malakar hidden among the ruins of Firethiel, the Southern Kingdom. The truth was undeniable. Malakar had not been destroyed.
After counsel with his advisors, Athran decreed that the truth would remain within the palace walls. The world had only just begun to heal. Word of Malakar's return would shatter that fragile peace.
Aldar, knowing that Malakar would stop at nothing to conquer Santara, urged Athran to rebuild the alliance between mankind and Atharia. Together, they could face the darkness.
But Athran knew the hearts of men—scattered across the West and North—still harbored bitterness toward the Elves. Only he and his House in Red-Eriel, along with the Lords of Estravar, remained open to peace.
All he could offer was a promise—a vow uttered from the depths of his soul to Mirienviel and the Elven people—that one day, his descendants would restore the bond between the humans of Santara and the Elves of Atharia.
"Ik'nurim dun'yarkha dun'lakharin, yon luk'ha dun'unamir firh ik'lakharin erek'hun," were the words spoken by Athran Thazeiros.
Then Aldar set off on a journey to find the remaining Ararnior, seeking to unite their strength once more. Mirienviel and her company sailed home to Atharia, quietly nurturing a secret alliance with the kings of Estravar.
From king to king seated on the throne of Red-Eriel, this truth was guarded as a sacred secret, passed down only to the heirs of the crown.
That legacy reached King Erion, Loran's father. But death claimed him too swiftly, stealing his breath before he could pass on the tale to his son.
"And so, here I stand before you, Loran, King of Estravar, Son of Erion, descendant of Athran the Light of the East, to pass on this secret and uphold the oath of your forefathers," declared Mirienviel.
The glow from the mirror slowly faded, and Loran's awareness returned to the chamber. His face had gone pale, his breath short and uneven. He looked at Mirienviel with a gaze clouded in thought, his eyes echoing the confusion and unease stirred by what he had just seen and heard.
"So," Loran finally spoke, his voice low but resolute, "you came here to remind me of an oath sworn by my ancestors? A vow I had no knowledge of, one I never even knew existed?"
Mirienviel gave a slow nod. "Yes, Your Majesty. That oath is the key to protecting both Santara and Atharia from a shared threat. Malakar and the darkness he commands have not yet been truly vanquished. Aldar felt it... and now I feel the same tremor."
Loran exhaled heavily, his hand clenching into a fist. For a moment, he turned to Nutrin, who subtly shook his head in caution.
How could he believe any of this? His father had never spoken of it. There were no records, no clues. Only the tale of an Elf from a realm long estranged from humankind.
Loran stared hard at Mirienviel, as if trying to unearth the truth behind her words. "And what if I choose not to believe you? What if I decide to turn my back on this oath?"
Mirienviel bowed her head, her face calm but firm. "Then the darkness will return."