Episode 72: Where the Strongman Stalls
Endless battles. Empty packs. Enemies that would not relent. Elahar and his companions were nearly done. The Oathbound appeared once more, encircling them with ruthless purpose. Their Bond of Light held, ironclad, as they advanced.
Elahar felt the weight of his sword grow unbearable, breath hitching in a chest tight with exhaustion. There was nowhere left to run; nowhere to hide. Only the ring of shields closing in.
Brakka swung with what remained of his strength, but even one clean strike was beyond him now. His knees hit earth. "Damn it… Is this how it ends?"
Caron tried to kindle one last flare of sorcery. Sparks stuttered and died against a paladin's shield. "So this is it," he whispered, head bowed.
Elahar watched them and understood—he was no different. They had fought for something, walked their chosen road… and this felt like its edge. He loosened his grip and sank to his knees. Time dulled. In the quiet, Eirina's face rose to meet him—her gentle smile, and the child yet unborn.
Eirina… I'm sorry. I don't think I can make our promise real…
Darkness pressed in, pain numbing to an ache too tired to feel.
The paladins surrounded them and leveled their weapons. "Lay down your arms," came the order.
Elahar set his sword upon the ground. Perhaps this really was the end.
But then a voice cut across the circle. "Do not kill them. They will serve as offerings—for the god's return!"
Offerings? The word jolted him. The fanatic gleam in their eyes told him the rest. They bound Elahar, Brakka, and Caron and dragged them to their feet.
"We march toward the god's revival!" the Oathbound cried. "At last, the new dawn!"
Banners whipped in the wind. Chains bit into wrists. Elahar stumbled along, torn between bitter relief at still being alive and a hollow sense of futility.
Once called the strongest blade among the elves… dragged like this by zealots. A dry laugh caught in his throat.
Brakka, bound and battered, gritted his teeth. "Elahar… Is this really it? Is this how we go out?"
Caron lifted his tied hands, trying to unravel the wards binding them, but his magic would not answer. "I'm… not ready to give up," he breathed.
And so they were hauled away—hope nowhere in sight, the words "the god's revival" ringing in their ears.
Elahar, counting the countless trials they had survived, held on to a sliver of stubborn light. It isn't over. We're still alive. And so long as we live, an opening will come.
He raised his head. Captive or not, their story would not end here.
**
Episode 73: The Rapidly Rising Citadel—and the Prison
Across the continent, the Oathbound marshaled every relic and conscript they had pillaged, raising a colossal citadel in the name of their god. They were fashioning a holy seat for the god's return: walls laced with old magic and sanctified wards, a bastion meant to thwart any assault. The ramparts climbed higher each day, stabbing at the sky—an omen that weighed on the hearts of all who looked upon it.
Chained together, Elahar and his companions were dragged past the furious construction. They had chased their fate to the far edge of this new land, but never imagined a fortress of this scale would be born here. Brakka and Caron traded glances, each wondering what the Oathbound truly meant by their "Path of Light." The citadel's black stone and the order's ruthless rule felt heavier the longer they stared.
Soon they were herded inside—into the citadel's prison. Cells overflowed with resisters and with those the Oathbound had already broken. From time to time, a scream cut the air. People were being hollowed out and remade into puppets who mouthed a god's name.
Oathbound priests performed their indoctrination rites at regular intervals. In the center of the ward lay a sacred sigil; before it, priests chanted, forcing "the will of the god" on their captives. With each intonation, the light waned from the prisoners' eyes, and their voices turned empty.
"Any who refuse the god's will are heretics. All heretics must be purified."
The priest's voice rolled through the block while paladins stalked the aisles, threatening anyone who faltered.
"I only wanted to protect my family," one captive pleaded, shaking. "I never betrayed—"
A paladin shoved him hard into the wall. "Family? You think that outweighs the god's will? You live to obey. Disobey, and you all die."
Watching the cruelty, Elahar and his companions could not help but question what the Oathbound truly sought. They invoked divinity as they crushed and consumed—but what, exactly, was this "resurrection" they served?
Deep in the prison, Elahar, Brakka, and Caron were confined separately. Elahar leaned against cold stone, eyes shut, taking stock. Eirina—left behind—and the child she carried surfaced in his mind. Once hailed as the North's strongest elven blade, now a prisoner in chains—that truth bit deep.
"To wield a god's name like this… Their doctrine is nothing but domination and ruin," he muttered.
Brakka yanked against his shackles, fury flaring. "We're not the kind to rot in a ward like this. Give me my axe and I'll turn this wall to gravel!"
Caron only shook his head, voice cool and precise. "Brawn won't cut it. The warding here isn't something we can brute-force. But…"
A thin smile touched his lips. "We still have one last move."
Elahar and Brakka fixed their eyes on him. There was a steely resolve in Caron's gaze.
"What move?" Elahar asked.
Caron lifted his bound hands and felt along the chain, pupils catching a glint of dim light. "Psychokinesis—and fear. Their holy lattice can choke my sorcery—but not my mind. The moment they slip, I can crack this place wide open."
Brakka grunted, convinced. "Then when that moment comes, we show them exactly who they chained."
Elahar allowed himself a faint smile. Bound though they were, hope remained—not the kind that settles for survival, but the kind that fights to reclaim freedom. In a citadel raised on sanctimony and fear, the three of them held fast to their will.
The darkness inside the fortress thickened—but the spark of resistance did not gutter out. Quietly, the trio waited and prepared, binding themselves to a single promise: when the opening came, they would bring this stronghold down.
**
Episode 74: Escape—and Elysium's Deliverance
While Elahar's party watched for their chance, a distant boom rattled the cells. Something—someone—was attacking the citadel from outside. Elahar decided this was it. Guards scrambled, priests scattered; the Oathbound were rushing to repel the threat.
Brakka's voice went tight. "That's no skirmish—someone big just hit them. This is our window."
Caron nodded and raised his bound hands. A hard light stirred in his eyes. "We don't waste it."
The fortress shuddered under a massive impact. A voice rang out over the din, clear and furious:
"You wretched cult of the Elder God—face Elysium's wrath!"
An airship surged into view beyond the wall—and opened fire. The citadel quaked, sections of masonry shearing away. One of the breaches tore through a wing not far from the prison.
"Ellysium…" Elahar breathed. "Then Rian called them in. Of course—he's the prince."
Caron unleashed his latent will. Amid the chaos, debris rose and hung in the air—bars groaned. With the guards reeling, his mind forced the cell door from its frame. Cold wind knifed through the gap. Fear itself seemed to answer to him; priests who witnessed it faltered and broke.
Brakka spotted a paladin wearing his axe like a trophy. He didn't hesitate. One charge, one blow—and the axe was back in his hands. He stormed down the row, splitting shackles and kicking open latches.
Elahar reclaimed his blade in the confusion. The three sprinted into the corridors. Caron blurred the Oathbound's senses with hex and glamor, Brakka carved a path through those who rallied, and Elahar cut where the wards thinned, always moving.
"No time," Elahar said. "We ride this chaos out."
Brakka barked a laugh, axe whistling. "Elysium throws the party—we'll make the most of it!"
Caron's gaze never stopped measuring angles. "They'll reconsolidate fast. Keep it quiet. Keep it clean."
Threading the melee that spread through the keep, they slipped from shadow to shadow—and finally burst out into the open. The battlefield sprawled before them; above, Elysium's airship hammered the Oathbound's lines with merciless precision.
Elahar looked up at the burning sky. "Rian—without you, this would've ended here. But our fight starts anew."
They ran, free again—for now—into a world already shifting around the fall of a "holy" fortress.
**
Episode 75: Escape? No—Vengeance First
Through the shadowed corridors of the citadel, Elahar, Brakka, and Caron moved swiftly, cutting across the chaos within. The bombardment had cracked walls and toppled halls; the Oathbound were scrambling to raise wards, but their resolve had not faltered. At first the three had thought only of escape. Yet as they fought, a single truth hardened in each of their minds: "This is not about escape. Vengeance comes first."
They drove toward the citadel's core. Oathbound paladins rose to bar their way, but the trio carved through each line. Elahar's blade flowed like a dancer's art—turning aside shields, slipping past armor, striking with precision at every weakness. Behind him, Brakka's axe smashed shields to splinters.
Brakka: "Come then! Taste the edge of my axe!"
Deeper within, the air grew thick. A robed figure stepped forward, trailing a tide of shadow—an Oathbound dark priest. His smile was cold, his hands dripping with power.
Dark Priest: "You made it this far—impressive. But your journey ends here."
He raised a hand, summoning a surge of dark magic. Elahar and Brakka braced to charge—but the priest's eyes locked on Caron, burning with loathing.
Dark Priest: "You… abomination. Show them your true nature!"
Dark power lashed toward Caron. He tried to shield himself, but the blast ripped through, tearing his tunic. What lay beneath froze his companions in place. Etched into his shoulder and chest glowed silver sigils—alien, radiant, unmistakably not human. Marks of the Aetherion.
Brakka: "Caron… what in the hells is that?"
Caron exhaled, weary, resigned.
Caron: "Scars from the Aetherion war. I was wounded—and healed by their power. Part of me… is no longer human. These markings, my strength—they are the legacy of that choice."
The priest laughed with venom.
Dark Priest: "As I thought. Tainted by foreign blood. To purge you is the god's true will!"
He gathered more power. But Caron's sigils flared, silver light flooding out. Debris rose around him, suspended in invisible grip. His voice thundered back.
Caron: "I've long since accepted what I am. My power is mine—whatever its source. You have no right to judge me!"
The chamber detonated with psychic force. The priest screamed as he was hurled back; his robe shredded, staff split in two on the stone.
Elahar and Brakka closed in on their friend. Brakka grinned.
Brakka: "Whatever you are, Caron—you're still one of us."
Elahar nodded.
Elahar: "Past or no past, you're our comrade. Now let's bring this citadel down."
For the first time, Caron allowed himself a smile. The secret he had feared most was now in the open—and no longer a chain. His past was not a curse but a weapon for the war ahead.
Caron: "Then let's end this. We don't have much time."
But another figure emerged to bar the way: a towering paladin wielding a massive maul, known among the Oathbound as their strongest shield.
Paladin Lionel: "Here is where it ends, heretics! Your blood will please the god!"
Every swing of Lionel's maul shattered stone and shook the walls. Elahar blinked across space with his flash-step, but even his speed could not easily breach the paladin's guard.
Elahar: "This one's no ordinary foe… Brakka, steel yourself!"
Brakka roared, charging with his axe. Together with Caron's telekinesis, they pried at Lionel's defense. The silver marks along Caron's skin blazed, locking the heavy maul mid-swing.
Caron: "You preach light, but know nothing of it!"
Elahar lunged in, driving his sword through a gap in the paladin's armor. Brakka's axe fell in tandem, the final blow. Lionel staggered, bleeding, and gasped:
Lionel: "The god's will… will never… fade…"
Elahar stood over him, voice like ice.
Elahar: "You never followed light—only used it as a chain."
Lionel's body fell still.
The three stood together, breathless yet unbroken. Ahead lay the citadel's heart—still swarming with paladins and priests. But with Caron's silver power flaring around them, the trio no longer feared what awaited.
They advanced, vengeance burning in their eyes, into the fortress's core.