The company gathered at dawn beneath the western gate of Lyothara.
Not an army. Not even a battalion.
Just thirty elves—handpicked from the Four Martial Houses, each bearing the mark of their lineage on shield or pauldron.
Darien Valtharis stood before them, armor unadorned, sword sheathed. No banners flew. No horns sounded. The King had been clear: this is not war. This is truth-seeking.
"Listen well," Darien said, voice low but carrying. "We cross the border stones today. Once beyond, we are ghosts. We do not fight unless cornered. We do not speak unless necessary. And we do not—under any circumstance—use high magic. The enemy knows our light. We will not feed them with it."
He turned to his captains.
Thorin Cyreth would lead the northern scouts—men trained in snow and silence.
Elyar Morindel brought healers who could read the land's wounds like pages.
Malrik Darkuan vanished before the muster even ended—already ahead, unseen.
And beside Darien stood Prince Kaelin, cloaked in gray, his presence both honor and burden.
"You didn't have to come," Darien murmured.
"The people need to know their prince walks where others fear to tread," Kaelin replied. His hand rested on the hilt of a blade forged by elven kings. "Besides… I saw the ash. I want to see what makes it."
Darien said nothing. But he nodded.
They crossed the border at midday.
The moment they stepped beyond the last carved stone—the ancient marker that read "Here ends the grace of the Tree"—the air changed.
Cooler. Heavier.
The golden thread in the sky snapped like a broken harp string.
No light followed them here.
For three days, they moved through the Ironfang Wastes—barren hills, dry riverbeds, and forests of blackened pines. They found campsites: cold, abandoned, but too neat for orcs. Weapons left behind. Food untouched.
"Not fleeing," Elyar whispered, kneeling by a firepit. "Waiting."
On the fourth night, they reached the edge of the Black Peaks.
Below, in a narrow valley shrouded in mist, lay what they sought.
An orc encampment.
But unlike any ever recorded.
Tents aligned in perfect rows. Watchtowers built from fused bone and stone. And in the center—a great pit, ringed with torches that burned violet flame.
No noise rose from it. No drunken shouts. No clatter of weapons.
Only chanting.
Low. Rhythmic. In a tongue that made the elves' ears ache.
Darien raised a fist. The company froze.
Through his spyglass, he saw them: hundreds of orcs, standing in concentric circles around the pit. At its edge, a figure in tattered robes held aloft a black shard—pulsing, breathing, humming.
"What is that?" Kaelin breathed.
"I don't know," Darien admitted. "But it is not of this world."
They watched until moonrise.
Then, as one, the orcs turned toward the east—toward Lyothara—and raised their fists.
Not in rage.
In salute.
Back in camp, the elves spoke in hushed tones.
"They're not just united," Thorin growled. "They're devoted. Like acolytes."
Elyar traced a symbol in the dirt—a spiral, like those seen on the few orc corpses recovered weeks ago. "This mark… it's not tribal. It's sigilic. A binding rune."
Malrik appeared beside them, as if born from shadow. "I scouted the southern ridge. There are more camps. Dozens. Stretching all the way to the Ashen Wastes."
Darien stared into the fire. "They're not preparing to raid."
He looked up, eyes grim.
"They're preparing to march."
That night, Darien sent three ravens.
One to Lyothara: "Enemy numbers exceed thousands. Organized. Ritual-bound. March imminent."
One to Frosthaven: "Ready your walls."
One to Elmara: "Search every archive. Find anything on black shards, violet flame, or anti-light wards."
He did not sleep.
Instead, he sharpened his blade—one stroke for every elf lost.
Thirty strokes.
And as dawn bled over the peaks, he whispered the words no elven commander had spoken in a thousand years:
"We are outmatched."
But he would not say it aloud.
Not yet.