Mamir, Visrok, and the Whitecloaks arrived at a ruined village after days of travel. Once filled with the laughter of children, the streets now lay silent. Roofs had collapsed, doors were torn apart, and the silence felt like the whisper of the dead.
As they reached the village square, a chilling cold swept through the air. Shadows slithered out from between the crumbling walls, twisting and rising. At first, they looked like smoke, but soon they took form—nightmarish creatures born of pure darkness. They did not scream, they did not speak; they only attacked.
Mamir's soldiers drew their blades and fought bravely, but their weapons were useless. Every strike passed through the creatures as if cutting mist. One soldier swung with all his might, but the shadow's claws tore him apart in seconds.
Mamir roared with fury and swung his sword again and again, but nothing worked. Then Seron Valar's voice thundered across the chaos:
"Steel cannot harm them! Only the Light of the Elves can cut through shadow!"
The Whitecloaks immediately revealed their rare weapons—swords glowing with silver light, spears that shimmered like stars, and arrows tipped with radiant flame. All were forged with the sacred magic of the elves. But their numbers were pitifully few.
Seron, his hands trembling, handed one of the radiant swords to Mamir and a shining spear to Visrok.
"You must wield these. It is you who must protect your people."
When Mamir grasped the glowing blade, the shadows recoiled. Visrok hurled his spear, and the moment it struck, one of the shadow beasts screamed and dissolved into smoke.
Side by side with the Whitecloaks, Mamir and Visrok began cutting down the shadowspawn. Each strike of light shattered them, each flare of brilliance forced the darkness to retreat.
But their soldiers had no such blessing. With only ordinary steel in their hands, they were helpless. The shadow beasts ripped through them mercilessly, and one by one they fell. Their dying cries echoed off the stone walls as the village was stained with death.
When the battle finally ended, only Mamir, Visrok, and the Whitecloaks stood alive in the square. Around them lay the broken, lifeless bodies of their men.
Mamir closed his eyes, stabbing the radiant blade into the ground. His voice was heavy, broken:
"I could not protect them…"
Seron Valar laid a hand on his shoulder.
"No, Mamir. Their deaths were not in vain. The true enemy has revealed itself. This… is only the beginning."
And in the distance, the horizon darkened, as if a tide of shadows was rising.