Mamir's army had now grown to ten thousand strong. Elves, dwarves, and Eavar's chosen warriors gathered together, resting and training daily in the war camp of the Sahal Kingdom. The clash of swords, the pounding of spears against shields, and the roaring of war cries echoed across the grounds. Their morale was high, for they had won a great victory — yet even greater battles awaited them.
Meanwhile, by the shore, a massive project was underway. By Eavar's command, an enormous fleet capable of carrying thirty thousand men was being constructed. The hammering of smiths, the screeching of saws, and the chants of shipwrights filled the air, heralding the rise of a new hope.
One evening, Mamir and King Eavar stood together on the terrace of the palace. The silver light of the rising moon stretched across the sea like a road of steel.
Eavar turned to him with a serious gaze:
— "Tell me, my friend. When you cross into Trolos, what path will you take?"
Mamir's eyes hardened with resolve as he looked to the horizon:
— "First, I will deliver this army of ten thousand and the fleet to my father, King Visernes of Harland. The Harland army already numbers fifty thousand. With ours added, it will reach sixty thousand. I will arm them with the weapons forged in elf-light and the strongest armors hammered by dwarves. Then, under my father's command, we will march to war against Ostomas. I only hope… that my father will be proud."
Eavar smiled warmly:
— "Every king would wish for a son like you. Every court, every council of advisors would long for a prince of your spirit."
Mamir's gaze grew distant, clouded by sorrow. He remembered… the scorn of the courtiers who mocked his mother as a mere commoner, the cruelty of his brother Harlax, the endless humiliations he had suffered. He lowered his head for a moment, then raised it again, speaking with quiet resolve:
— "But pride aside… there are still six dark commanders of Ostomas left in Elandur. My path lies in defeating them. I will not return until I have cleansed Elandur of their shadow."
Eavar frowned in alarm:
— "Do you mean to face them without your army? What do you mean the army must rest?"
Mamir drew a deep breath:
— "The true enemy is Ostomas, the one who sent them. I will not squander the lives of my soldiers before that final war. I cannot afford heavy losses. That is why I will face them alone. And if I do not return…"
He drew a sealed parchment from his cloak and handed it to Eavar. The crest of the Harland dynasty gleamed upon it.
— "If I fail to return within a year, take this letter — and this army — to Trolos, to my father King Visernes. Tell him this army is my gift to him. Everything he needs to know is written inside."
Eavar rose sharply, his voice ringing with fury:
— "No! You will deliver it yourself, Mamir! No matter what happens, you must return! You cannot fall, my friend — if you do, darkness triumphs. And that would be the last thing you would ever wish!"
Mamir looked into his friend's eyes, seeing the fire of unwavering faith. A proud smile spread across his face. He placed his hand on Eavar's shoulder:
— "I promise. I will return, my friend. And together, we will bring an end to the darkness."
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