Chapter 1. Legacy of Light
The Wind at Uruk'herald
The dry wind tore across the base of Uruk'herald like a living thing, restless, cutting, howling through the crags and ravines as if trying to warn us back. It caught my cloak and flung it sideways like a banner, the same wind that snapped and pulled at the war standards of my band—tattered cloth painted with the sigils of past glories. Frost clung to the stones beneath my boots, a glassy veil that caught the last light of the dying sun and gleamed like the edges of a blade.
Above us, a sharp shriek shattered the air. Harpies. Their forms twisted in silhouette, half-bird, half-woman, gliding with effortless menace on the high currents. They circled far above, always out of reach, yet always watching.
My warband clustered around me in a tense half-circle. No one spoke loudly. A few muttered prayers under their breath, calling to gods we no longer named in public. Others said nothing, gripping their weapons tighter with white-knuckled resolve. We were killers, veterans of the border skirmishes and deep desert raids, but there was something sacred about this place— something that even hardened soldiers dared not mock.
Vulghere, my second-in-command, stepped up beside me. He was taller, broader, scarred like a bear who'd forgotten what fear was. His arms were crossed against the cold, his eyes narrowed at the path that rose like a stairway to the gods. He tugged once at the leather cord around his wrist— a worn charm carved from bones, shaped like a fang.
"You really think the Prophet meant for you to survive this climb?" he muttered, keeping his voice just below the wind's roar.
I gave a dry, grim smile. "Either I climb… or the Light will call someone else".
Above us, the harpies let out another chorus of shrill, echoing cries. This time, they sounded almost amused. The sound bounced off the cliff walls, repeating and distorting until it seemed the mountain itself was laughing at me.
My heart thudded—not with fear, but anticipation. The trial had begun long before I would touch the first stone.
Legacy of Ash and Steel
I thought of my father—and his father before him. I saw them not as memories, but as shadows walking beside me, carried in blood and story. My grandfather had been a general of the second great Empire of Light, commander of the 7th Legion, who led his warriors against the gnoll hordes in the olden days. They said his sword never dulled, his shield never broke. They also said that when he came home, he slept with all candles lit. Sometimes he screamed the names of things that were never written in the annals.
He had earned honor—yet silence followed close behind.
My father spoke of those days with a reverence that bordered on sorrow. He had not been a soldier, not truly. He was a scholar in a time that demanded blades. Yet he carried my grandfather's war stories like scripture, passing them down with trembling hands and eyes full of fire. He spoke of the glory of the Empire—but also the fall. He cursed the same darkness that had spared us, yet scattered our people like leaves before a storm. The Empire was gone. What remained were outposts, uninhabited city-states, fragments.
And now, I stood in the shadow of Uruk'herald, feeling the weight of that broken legacy pressing into my bones. Not just the honor—it was never just that—but the expectations. As if their unfulfilled oaths had latched onto my shoulders like invisible chains.
The world had changed. It had moved on, changed gods, changed tongues. But I remained bound to the stories. As if fate or something crueler demanded I see them through.
Words from the Balcony
The Prophet had stood upon the highest balcony of Uruk'herald—a place few had ever seen—and declared a vision that shook the very stone beneath our feet. "The Light must expand," he had said, his voice ringing across the cliffs like a struck bell, clear and resonant and without apology.
He spoke not only about us elves. All races must unite, he had said, to stand against the darkness. Even the Gnolls were meant to find the Light within them. The words sounded noble—almost poetic.
And yet, in my chest, something twisted.
Could bloodstained claws be taught to heal instead of kill? I had seen Gnolls rip villages apart with laughter on their lips. I had buried brothers who believed they were safe. Redemption didn't just seem impossible—it felt like betrayal.
Still, I had heard the Prophet speak. And something in me had listened.
For whom was I to deny the Prophet?
The Trial's Edge
The trial came like a blade— not with a flourish, but with purpose. The command had been simple: climb to the Prophet's balcony. Alone. No escorts. No rest. No excuses.
The path was ancient and near vertical in places, a series of stone steps carved into the mountainside, most now chipped or worn smooth by time. Snow dusted the crevices, and sheer drop-offs waited to swallow the careless. No one had climbed to that height in a generation. Not even the Prophet descended to meet his followers anymore.
My warband stood in a silent half-circle behind me, watching. Their expressions were unreadable— equal parts awe and unease. Some believed this was a divine act. Others whispered that it was exile by another name.
Vulghere muttered, just loud enough for me to hear, "Madness. Climb a mountain while the Gnolls sharpen their blades."
I said nothing, but my hand drifted to the hilt of my sword— a familiar comfort. I remembered the campaigns in the western desert plains, where Gnoll packs stalked the trading caravans at dusk. I remembered the screams, the smell of blood, the rhythmic chant of battle. I had earned my command through fire and iron, not through visions.
Yet this trial… it was different. It demanded not just strength, but submission. Not just discipline, but devotion. And somewhere deep within, I feared that obedience might break me more than any sword could.
Above, the sun bled its final light across the peaks, and the harpies circled again— closer now. Silent. Watching.
Their wings cast long shadows across the stone path ahead.
Ascent
I lifted my foot onto the first stone of the mountain path, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The wind surged again, tugging at my cloak like a child begging me not to go. Above, the harpies gave a shriek that echoed like cruel laughter, carried on the air as if mocking my first step.
Still, I climbed.
The stones were slick with frost, worn uneven by time and weather. Every footfall felt like a decision. Each movement demanded precision, balance, and the kind of resolve that comes only when turning back means shame. My muscles burned quickly, and my breath turned to steam in the cold, but I pressed on.
I did not think of the summit. I thought only of the next step.
Of the wind. Of the weight on my back. Of the gaze of those below, and the unseen eyes above.
Every fiber of my being screamed to stop— to turn back, to wait, to let someone else fulfill the Prophet's impossible dream.
But I did not.
I climbed.
Under the eyes of gods, demons, and harpies alike, I ascended toward whatever judgment waited above.