The sky blazed crimson—not from the setting sun, but from the countless lives extinguished beneath it. The clouds above the battlefield wore the blood-red hue of death, and the sun, as if shamed by the carnage, sank lower and lower, retreating beyond the horizon. The world itself trembled, the very soil groaning beneath the stomping of monsters. They had trampled the reborn earth surrounding the ancient abyss, twisting it once more into a cursed land.
And still, the blood flowed. Flesh was torn. The unlucky few had already become carrion for the abominable wretches. A shout echoed across the field. Spears surged forward, shields groaned as they braced, and the howls of the dying rose in a hellish crescendo—again, and again, louder, faster, bolder. Until finally, the war cry split the air:
"Shieldwall—break!"
On command, the thick timber wall parted, revealing lean boys with fire in their eyes. They burst forth like startled roaches from a cracked stone—but these were no vermin. These were spiders: quick, merciless, clutching blades with trained precision. Some bore bucklers, others short swords. All were ready to dance with death.
They had to be. The beasts that surged from the pit were not merely malformed—they were unnatural, like sentient sludge shaped by nightmares. One swipe from their claws could dismember a man. Yet the boys ran, cutting through the rotting stench, riding the wind, blades cleaving through fetid hides. Some creatures didn't even realize they'd been slain—still twitching, gnawing on limbs, only to collapse with their own entrails spilling into the mud.
Among them moved one boy, smaller than the rest, and all the more dangerous for it. His light frame made him slippery—like an eel in water. No emotion touched his face, only duty burned in his eyes, darting like flies over carrion. He dove, rolled, twisted, tumbled through muck and limbs, evading claws that would have gutted a lesser man.
He rose, drenched in blood and bowels, and struck—a clean slice that felled another monstrosity. But he didn't stop. He couldn't. He ran as if Death himself gave chase. And perhaps he did. For if Morteus, god of endings, caught so much as a thought in the boy's mind, the kind skeletal reaper would cackle with joy and pull him into madness.
The shieldwall was distant now. Behind him, chaos swirled. He pushed deeper—further into the pit's perimeter. His body moved without thought, without hesitation. He twirled between gnashing teeth and tearing claws, a single dancer in a grotesque waltz of carnage. He launched into the air, twisting his torso to gather momentum before striking. With his sword deflecting a spear-like claw, and he drove downward like a freshly sharpened drill, draped in crimson red, carving himself a place on the battlefield.
A whistle pierced the sky. The shieldwall closed. The spears drove forward in unison, moving as though part of a single, breathing body. It was a practiced motion—precise, cold, as sharp as steel itself. The ring tightened, step by step, pressing the howling abominations inward, herding them toward the yawning emptiness at the center.
The Hollowgrave.
The creatures screamed, their cries warped and frantic as they hurled themselves into the chasm in one final, desperate surge. Clawed hands raked the air, grasping for anything to hold onto, as though they could still claw their way back up—back from the darkness that had already claimed them.
But the blackness waiting below did not let go.
It was no mere depth—it was alive. A festering wound upon the flesh of the world, pulsing, ancient, and hungry. Ever widening. Ever reaching. It devoured filth and fury alike. The Hollowgrave neither forgot… nor forgave.
And below... black, as if rotting hands reached upward from the Hollowgrave—like a parody of life itself, a warped mirror of a grotesque theater.
The boy—Zeke—did not stop. He adjusted course. The tide of monsters swelled around him like a returning wave, determined to reclaim every inch of soil. Blood ran from his nose. His limbs trembled. He had pushed himself too far. But he had one more charge in him.
Bracing against a stone, he launched. Ribbons of violet-blue light wrapped around his body as he tore through flesh and ichor, breaking free of the swarm and springing behind the safety of the shieldwall with a gliding jump. His breath hitched. Blood filled his nose. The world blurred in red but he was in safety, as he landed behind the shield line.
Then a girl appeared beside him. Her white robe now stained red and brown at the hem. Her expression was harsher than the battlefield itself. But Zeke only smiled, weakly. His weapon slipped from his hand as he collapsed into the mud, utterly spent.
"You overdid it again," she snapped.
"Well, I had to impress you somehow, Dina" he wheezed, flashing a smug grin.
"Idiot," she muttered. Her hand rested on his head as she began to whisper something.
Golden sparks lit the air. Silver streaks curled like threads of silk around them. Her palm glowed so brightly he could see the bones beneath her skin. But the warmth—the tender, shielding light—it was familiar. He welcomed it.
His blood no longer flowed. Only the faint smile remained as he gazed up at her chanting lips. The magic faded like the monsters' cries—swift, silent, final.
"That's it?" he whispered.
"More than you deserve, fool," she said and tapped the boy's knee with her staff.
"Ow."
"Oh, oops!" she called over her shoulder with a wicked grin. "We'll talk tonight!"
"Don't overdo it!" Zeke called after her.
"No more than you do!" she laughed, already heading to the next wounded soul.
Zeke pushed himself upright. The mud clung to him like regret, soaking through his clothes. He walked across the ruined battlefield. Some still drove their blades into the dying. Others dragged corpses aside. The air hummed with the bitter cries of grieving mothers and broken fathers.
He looked out over the horizon. Dusk had nearly swallowed the sun. Only a few orange streaks licked the peaks in the distance. And in the red-tinged gloom, he could almost see the blue silhouettes of wailing souls dancing above the bloodfield.
Zeke stepped over the bloodied soil and approached a familiar body. Over it hunched another boy, clutching it tightly, trembling with sobs. When Zeke placed a hand gently on his shoulder, a glint of steel flashed—already pressed to his throat.
"Elek…" Zeke breathed, stunned.
"You won't take him from me!" Elek hissed, his eyes wild and empty of light.
"I… I don't want to take Tiv. I just wanted to see if you're alright..." Zeke said softly.
Elek laughed—a broken, bitter laugh. His voice cracked, fresh tears burning his cheeks. "What do you care about us? You *enjoy* being here, don't you? You enjoy fighting beside the filth of the gutter, Watching us die like vermin's. Is this what you nobles call 'valour'? I wish—oh, how I wish it was your corpse I held, not Tiv's! I wish it was you who died, Zeke—not him! Do you hear me?!"
Elek's voice rose into a scream. Zeke tried to step back, but Elek yanked his arm, pulling him off balance. Zeke slipped in the mud, falling just as Elek raised the bloody knife high, his twisted grin merging with despair.
Zeke closed his eyes.
He had accepted it.
His sword was too far, shield strapped to his back, and Elek—mad as he was—was still a skilled duelist.
But death did not come.
Instead, a sharp whistle rang out, followed by a flash of searing light that slammed between them. The blade was deflected. A ribbon of glowing force whipped around, striking Elek square in the chest. The impact sent him tumbling backward with Tiv's body still in his arms, crashing against the corpse of a demon like a ragdoll.
Zeke gasped and turned to the source of the spell.
Dina stood panting, not far away, eyes burning with righteous fury. Her nose bled from the strain, the drops staining her once-white robes in deep crimson.
"Dina…" Zeke whispered, barely audible.
"No more… death… today…" she muttered through her breath and nearly collapsed. But she caught herself, wiped her nose, and strode toward the healing tents.
Zeke watched her go, then glanced at the sobbing boy still clutching Tiv's broken body. He wanted to go to him—to offer comfort, though he knew it would be rejected. As he sank deep into his own thoughts, a distant whistle cut through the air.
"Zeke!" a booming voice called.
A towering man waved him over.
Zeke hesitated, then moved toward the pit—toward the Hollowgrave, where the others were gathering.
The rift yawned like a festering wound in the earth, belching up monsters in writhing hordes from time to time. Some bore traces of their former lives—ghoulish distortions of once-human faces, others were things no mind should ever envision. The soldiers encircled the breach, guarding against another eruption.
Zeke stood at the edge, lost in thought, when a massive hand shoved him forward. He staggered, panic tightening his chest—until he caught his balance and spun around.
"That wasn't funny, Eberon!" he snapped.
The large man roared with laughter. "To *you*! You should've seen your face!"
"Unbelievable…"
"Aw, come on. Just a joke…" Eberon's grin faded into something softer, more grim. "But you're right… this wasn't a joke."
Zeke turned back to the abyss. "This was the biggest horde we've seen in ten winters…"
"They're getting bolder," Eberon agreed. "Only three months since the last breach. What in the hells is going on down there?"
"I don't know. Maybe even Morteus doesn't."
"They say the Lord of Shadows himself tore this hole open, a place to toss the dead, not even Morteus steps into this hole…" Zeke murmured.
"Legends." Eberon snorted. "But not all that crawls from this place are corpses. Ghouls I can handle. It's those… mourners. The ones that scream with other people's voices."
Then, a figure approached—tall, elegant, untouched by the filth. His cloak remained pristine despite the mud, his pale skin glowing under the darkening sky. His eyes, a deep ocean blue, shone with golden flecks like caged lanterns.
Eltherelaon Sunflight.
"The legends you whisper are memories to us," the elf said, voice soft as harpstrings. "Not myths, but shadows cast long ago."
Eberon elbowed Zeke. "Great, the frog prince's back."
"Elferelon, what an unpleasant surprise," Eberon called, lacing his tone with mocking courtesy.
"My name is Eltherelaon Sunflight. It has been too many moonturns, and still you refuse to remember it, Eberon, son of Eteron."
"Forgive me, good elf. My halfwit human brain struggles with such syllabic abundance." Eberon bowed dramatically, grinning at Zeke.
"Certainly, However I did not return to the edge of shadow to exchange empty syllables," Eltherelaon said coldly. "I have come to observe the work of the watch's hand—understand the nature of what we fight. Leave the cleansing to my circle. You should cherish the quiet while it lasts."
Eberon rolled his eyes. "There it is again. You and your obsession with claw morphology…"
"Indeed. Their design is quite—"
"Yep. Gotta go!" Eberon raised his hand and marched away. "Coming!" he yelled to no one in particular.
"Southlings…" Eltherelaon muttered, like the word itself offended him. His gaze shifted to Zeke, flickering with recognition.
"You. You are the boy with magic, are you not? Your face seems… familiar. Though you humans blur together even after two millennia."
Zeke bowed politely, startled. "Ezekiel, monster hunter, just two years in the craft. Aludarne guide you, good lord."
"May the Lady of the Moon guard your path—until the shadows beneath it give way," the elf replied, voice like a fading lullaby. "You carry yourself differently. Lighter. More noble. Perhaps born with a silver spoon? But then… what are you doing here, near the Hollowgrave? Your kind does not often send heirs to die."
Zeke remained silent. The elf's words were not meant as scorn. Merely observation. But those unnaturally objective words were like boulders, not friendly curiosity.
"Now is not the time for unravelling such threads," Eltherelaon continued, circling him silently. "Nor would they find soil in your soul, I think."
Then the elf stared into Zeke's eyes, searching. For what, Zeke didn't know. But the world seemed to pause—like it too was trying to remember something it had forgotten.
Zeke shivered.
"I am Timothy Keepsmith's bastard son, good Eltherelaon," Zeke said with a deep bow.
"So, there are still some among you who—though clumsily—remember what courtesy once meant. Tell me, silver-spooned child of man, what are you doing on the edge of the shadowfront? Were you cut from the cloth of court and tossed aside? Or do you merely play the hero while your glory is written in the blood of others?" Eltherelaon's eyes narrowed like razors. His tone allowed no lies, as though he already knew the answer—or would judge him regardless.
Zeke wilted, his body shrinking beneath the weight of the elf's stare.
"No, your grace. My father cast me out years ago, said I was grown enough to fend for myself—and a bastard besides. He taught me to fight, to read, and kept me fed as long as he had to. But after that…"
"Nai norem nai'tar Atar'n, kaima taren kara'n.
Ilya cuinaren, nai maren ni'valen"
(I have no complaint against my father, for he cared for me with kind heart.
But I am grown, and now I must care for myself.)
Something flickered in Eltherelaon's eyes. Not approval. Not sympathy. Perhaps disdain. He snorted and closed his eyes briefly.
"Tharen lalien, vael morikar silen vireniel…"
(You butcher the tongue like a woodcutter does spring shoots...)
he said, tilting his head as if savoring the bitter taste of Zeke's accent.
„Nael tyaren, meldar, nai liraen cuiniel var, Losten nira i lalien—furesien, nai sylaen. Nai alathe, tyellassë ni, lira enaya: Kailea i noren, nai i Alani lala naith aranien!"
(Suppose your intentions were kind, yet your words were like sawteeth to my ears. Please refrain from such crude butchery of my people's tongue in my presence.)
Silence followed, heavy and cold. Eltherelaon clasped his hands behind his back, posture upright, yet tinged with courtly ease. His eyes gleamed—not with rage, but with the glint of experience unspooled across eons.
"Nael cenariel…"
(Nevertheless...)
he continued in a softer tone.
"Maren ni tharen—nira, nai liraen, yaren valen. Yaraen naril, nai menar valarëan."
(Even so, your clumsy attempt shows at least one advantage of noble blood: the will to learn.)
His gaze lingered on Zeke's shoulder, then to his face, as if measuring invisible threads of ancestry. The moment stretched, quiet and electric.
"Nai ni'vala morikar…"
(And take no offense...)
his voice barely moved, but rang clear.
"Nai noren meldarien, Ilya Alani vireniel uvalta menar, naroth ka ithilkar."
(It's just a fact: even the poorest forest druid is worth more than the mightiest human warrior.)
He finished with a polite but icy nod.
Zeke bowed low, shame burning in his chest. "Thank you for your honesty, my lord…"
"One does not thank for honesty—it is the only currency left in a broken world, and it is free. But do not despair, young one…" The elf's gaze softened—just a flicker—and he continued.
"For a human, you've already surpassed more than a few Terakrithian nobles. And even the brutal savages of the northern beasts around us. That… is not nothing."
"I understand. And thank you for your time!" Zeke bowed again, his face brightening with reluctant pride.
"Now go, silver-spooned Zeke. Leave me to my work in silence. Enjoy yourself while you can—for life is but a flicker, and the night... oh, the night is eternal."
He turned. His cloak, still spotless, swirled with the scent of cherries and forest bloom, cutting through the reek of blood and rotted mud like incense before a shrine.
Zeke stood there a moment longer, his thoughts a blur.
He walked back across the torn battlefield, past fallen walls and flickering torches. The lights of the camp reached toward the broken sky, piercing the twisted clouds. He sat on a stump near the fire and watched the flames dance—a soft, mocking echo of battle's rage, devouring wood as hungrily as their blades devoured flesh.
The night had come. The battle was won.
But Zeke's mind lingered on the elf's words.
They always held layers—meanings veiled behind meanings. Eltherelaon had walked Oldtown's streets longer than the city had existed. Few pureblood elves lived the eastern continent at all, let alone one of his rank. Why speak with him? Why waste breath on a cast-out bastard?
Perhaps he saw a flicker of something.
Zeke remembered Eberon, the mercenary who rose from gutter to glory. Maybe Eltherelaon saw Zeke as a lapdog, amusing and harmless. Just as he had likely once looked upon Eberon... yet there was something different now. Subtle, but undeniable. Eberon, for all his frequent jabs and openly voiced disapproval of the elf's lofty airs, had always maintained a curious bond with Eltherelaon. It wasn't friendship in the human sense, Eltherelaon—though he would never admit it aloud—had long since stopped deflecting Eberon's jests. Sometimes, when no one watched too closely, he even played along.
His gaze lifted to the sky. Through the veil of smoke and stars, he searched for answers among the constellations.
A figure emerged, singing—a clear, melodic voice drifting like mist between the tents. More followed behind him, tall warriors with taut frames and brotherly wide steps, forming a living rhythm around the firelight. And among them walked Dina—clean, composed, her eyes glancing upward at the men not with shyness, but with that sisterly boldness that somehow disarmed even the fiercest soldier.
They gathered around Zeke and the fire with cheers and laughter, collapsing on the benches in a whirlwind of warmth and mirth. The weariness that had gripped Zeke only moments before seemed to melt from his shoulders as he laughed and bantered with the others. For a brief moment, the world felt light.
Dina settled beside him, her head gently resting against his shoulder. A few nearby voices hushed as her hair brushed across Zeke's cloak—but he, having known the girl for so long, gave it no heed. To him, it was nothing more than the closeness of kin. Or so he let it seem. He didn't dare let more show—not here, not now, not yet.
He turned to Eberon, who sat beside him, a tankard of ale in hand and an ever-growing smirk on his face.
"Eberon!"
"Why you're talking to *me* now—?"
Before he could finish, one of the soldiers elbowed him in the ribs. "Watch your tongue, fool. They're just kids."
Eberon scowled, rubbed his side. "Alright, alright... speak, you little weasel."
Zeke grinned. "How can you talk to Eltherelaon like that?"
The mood around the fire dipped, heads turning slightly toward them.
Eberon let out a snort. "What, did the frog prince stare deep into your soul too?"
"He didn't speak at first... but I swear, just standing there—his presence felt like it would crush me."
"Don't let it get to you. These elves are stronger than they let on. Eltherelaon's older than these mountains, and still looks like a powdered court baby's rear." He laughed, hard, and the others around the fire joined in.
"As for us getting along?" Eberon wiped the corner of his mouth with a sleeve. "I'm good at what he needs. And let's be honest—these pointy-eared sages look at us like toddlers running with steak knives."
Zeke tilted his head. "And what exactly are you good at?"
"This," Eberon grunted, patting the massive warhammer lying beside him. "What'd you think? That I warm his woman while he watches from the couch during the nights?" He roared with laughter, and this time even the most stone-faced among them cracked a smile. Dina rolled her eyes with practiced precision.
"How long have you known him?"
Eberon shrugged. "What does it matter? To him, it was probably yesterday. To me? Maybe... fifteen years? He was caught in some vampire ambush—got surrounded while dealing with a case of missing children. My squad was nearby, just kicked out of a tavern, full of fire and piss. We jumped in. Somehow we survived."
He leaned back with a grin. "And since then, I'm his favorite human—though he insists I'm the most irritating one. Eltherelaon is like a rotten cheese: tough on the outside, but stinkier the closer you get."
Another burst of laughter erupted around the fire. Then Eberon stood, shouldering his hammer with one hand.
"Alright, you loafing lot—bed. The sun's not gonna wait for your sorry hides."
One by one, the group drifted off to nearby tents or stumbled toward alehouses still faintly glowing in the distance. Zeke remained by the fire, Dina curled against him, her breath slow and warm against his chest.
She was already asleep.
He didn't want to wake her, though part of him stirred. There was something there. Something more than he dared admit—even to himself.
Gently, he shifted, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling the travel blanket from his pack. With careful motion, he laid her head onto a pile of cushions behind them, then lowered himself beside her, letting the firelight dance on their faces.
Even in sleep, she clung to him, limbs tangled like knotted ropes at sea.
And Zeke… let her.