The night was silent, broken only by the crackle of the campfire. The wounded old man had already been laid to rest. As Mamir and Visrok kept their guard, the leader of the White Cloaks stepped forward.
"My name is Seron Valar," he said in a firm voice. "We are the White Cloaks. For centuries, we have guarded the balance of these lands. We serve neither throne nor gold. Our only duty is to seal the darkness your ancestors once awakened."
Visrok leaned forward eagerly.
"That darkness… it was born from Ostomas's quest for immortality, wasn't it?"
Seron nodded.
"Yes. And that seal is weakening. You, princes of Harland, must face this truth if you wish to protect your people."
Mamir held Seron's gaze for a long moment. What began as suspicion slowly shifted into trust.
At last, he drew a deep breath and nodded.
"Very well… If what you say is true, we cannot win this war alone. If Harland's sword joins with your knowledge… perhaps we can stop the darkness."
Seron smiled faintly.
"That is exactly why we are here, Prince Mamir."
As the campfire burned low, Mamir was finally convinced. The White Cloaks were now their allies.
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