Baronsworth emerged from his tent into the brightness of day. The men saluted as he passed, his stride quick but steady toward the guest encampment. His mind churned with possibilities, with doubts, with half-shaped hopes. There was much to ask — and likely more to hear.

  The guest quarter lay in a well-ordered corner of the camp, a place of courtesy and welcome. A neat row of canvas tents stood beneath the banner of the Golden Gryphons: a knight in bright armor astride a winged beast of gold, its wings spread wide upon a field of white and sky-blue.

  A soft breeze stirred the air; birds called faintly in the distance. Hard to believe that only hours ago, blood had been spilled beneath these same skies.

  He hailed a guard and asked after Solon. The man pointed toward one of the larger tents.

  Baronsworth crossed the yard in long strides, the pounding of his heart rising with each step. He lifted the flap and stepped inside.

  Solon was there—seated comfortably on a padded chair, a bowl of fruit on the table beside him. He looked a world apart from the broken captive of the night before. Bandages peeked out from beneath a clean tunic, and his face had regained a healthy flush.

  The lines of exhaustion had softened, and in their place was something like serenity. He looked, Baronsworth thought, like a man restored.

  The old man turned, and his face lit up.

  “Baronsworth! Good to see you, lad. Come in, come in.”

  Baronsworth smiled faintly and took the seat across from him. “I trust you’ve been well cared for?”

  “Oh, more than well. Your men are kindness made flesh,” Solon said, chuckling. “I’ve been tended like a prince — food, rest, fresh clothes. It’s more than I ever expected. To be honest, it feels less like a mercenary’s camp and more like I’ve woken in a royal court!”

  Baronsworth smiled. “We do what we can. Siegfried’s dream is to preserve something of the old ways — to bring a sliver of Aeneria into every palisade we raise, every fire we kindle, every meal we share.”

  “Aeneria…” Solon echoed softly, the name seeming to stir something deep within him. “Yes. I met your Siegfried yesterday — briefly. Didn’t say much—doesn’t need to. There’s a strength in his stillness.”

  He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “But there’s something else. His face…is familiar, somehow. As if I’ve seen it somewhere before.”

  Baronsworth glanced at him. “Curious. He does carry the bearing of a nobleman. Before all this, he served as a knight — high-ranking, and much honored. He fought under King Alfred, before Aeneria’s fall.”

  Solon’s eyes brightened with understanding. “Alfred,” he murmured. “A finer man never wore a crown. He ruled with quiet wisdom, and bore its weight with grace. Aeneria was a light in the dark… one of the last. I remember the day we lost him. The world felt colder after.”

  He exhaled, the memory heavy. Then a wistful smile crept into his voice.

  “The gods may delight in his company now, but truth be told… we mortals had greater need of him here.”

  Baronsworth laughed gently. “Is there anyone you haven’t met, old man?”

  Solon laughed again, shaking his head. “Keep walking long enough, lad, and you’ll find the world smaller than it seems. But no—you didn’t come to hear me talk of kings and ages past.”

  His eyes sharpened, the warmth still there, but joined now by something older—a gravity that made Baronsworth sit straighter in his chair.

  “You came to ask about your family.”

  “Yes,” Baronsworth said. “I have so many questions, I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “Perhaps we should start, then, by the beginning.” Solon replied gently. “Tell me—how much do you know of your family’s history?”

  “I know some,” Baronsworth answered. “What I remember from what my father told me, years ago. We are descendants of Alistair—the greatest hero our people have ever known. The Lightbringer was handed down to us by the goddess, Sophia.”

  Solon gave a measured nod. “Alistair was a great man. But it is not entirely fair to call him the greatest hero of our people. History, true history, is vast and deep—and much of it has been lost for millennia. There were many great heroes in your lineage, Baronsworth. Your family’s legacy stretches farther than you know.”

  He leaned in, his voice growing quieter, more reverent.

  “The blade you carry… it was indeed a gift—from Sophia herself. Not just any Celestial, but the Varanir of Light and Wisdom. In her luminous aspect, she is the patron of insight, clarity, courage—all that gives grace and grandeur to our civilization.”

  His gaze sharpened. “But Sophia has another aspect, one far more terrible. In that guise, she is the goddess of war, of strategic brilliance and ruthless cunning. Her spirit blazes with righteous fury—she shows no mercy to the wicked, no patience for cruelty or corruption. In that form, she is swift and unforgiving.”

  Solon looked Baronsworth straight in the eye.

  “Does that remind you of anyone?”

  Baronsworth leaned back in his seat. “Perhaps,” he admitted. “Some parts, at least. It’s true, I’ve never had much tolerance for those who prey on the helpless. But in truth… I don’t feel very wise. I feel more like a blade, one that Siegfried points at our enemies, and where he commands I strike, and I destroy.”

  Solon smiled. “You are far wiser than you give yourself credit for, young lord. But this... blood-mindedness—that comes from another part of your lineage. Tell me, what do you know of your mother’s people?”

  “My mother?” Baronsworth pondered. “She belonged to a house called the Sons of Belial. I know they were warriors—great warriors, though my parents never spoke much of her kin.”

  Solon nodded slowly. “The great Asturian bloodlines were each named for the Varanir whose essence they most embodied. Your father's people are the Sons of Sophia. My own people descend from Tyrion, Celestial of Knowledge. Others trace their lines to Helm, or to Aribeth. And there were more, once—now forgotten.”

  He paused.

  “But your mother’s line—the Sons of Belial—were not named after a Varanir. They were named after their first patriarch. Belial the Ram.”

  Baronsworth nodded, his brow furrowed. “I always wondered about that. It seemed strange.”

  “There is a reason,” Solon said softly. “A truth long buried. Belial’s essence... came from none other than Bhaal.”

  Baronsworth recoiled, eyes wide. “What?” he breathed. “Bhaal the Betrayer? The one who ignited the Great War of the Gods? Who sought to unmake creation itself? You’re saying he is the root of my mother’s line?”

  His voice wavered. “That... can’t be.”

  “Oh, indeed he is,” Solon said, his voice touched with a wry chuckle—a private jest, known only to himself. “In more ways than one.”

  But he did not leave Baronsworth long in confusion.

  “Bhaal did not seek to destroy creation. Rather, what he sought was dominion. He wished not to unmake the world, but to rule it—utterly and eternally. Bhaal was the greatest of the Varanir, mightiest and fairest in equal measure. He believed that the Creator had fashioned him for a singular purpose: to reign over all life, to sit alone upon the throne of the heavens as King of Kings, Lord above Lords.”

  “But it is the Father who reigns,” Baronsworth said quietly. “It is He who sits upon that throne, and watches over all things. Why would Bhaal believe he could take it for himself?”

  Solon’s eyes grew somber. “Fear,” he said. “That was the seed. The root from which all his ruin grew.”

  Baronsworth frowned. “But what could such a mighty being have to fear?”

  Solon gave a slow, almost sorrowful smile.

  “Bhaal feared being replaced. But to understand this, you must first know the beginning of the story.”

  He reached for a nearby cup filled with wine, and after taking a sip, cleared his throat with deliberate care. His voice, when it came again, was low and resonant—almost ceremonial.

  “In the beginning, the Father spoke a simple command: ‘Seek all that is good and beautiful. Go, and bring forth the Light.’ From that first utterance came the Song—the great Music of Creation, woven into being by the Varanir according to His will. From that divine harmony were shaped the stars, the spheres, the heavens… and the entirety of creation.

  For an age, all was light and harmony. The universe sang with order and splendor. It was a time of wonder, of peace—a paradise of beauty and serenity. The Varanir ruled the heavens with wisdom and joy, the Father content to observe from afar.”

  He paused, letting the silence stretch.

  “But then,” Solon continued, “the Father brought forth a new creation—a being unlike any other. He called him Adamus, the Sun King. And he was glorious beyond telling. Greater than the Varanir themselves, complete in his being, radiant in every aspect. He laughed with stars and feasted beneath the light of creation. The songs tell of how he rode upon a great dragon and drank from the wells of eternity.”

  Solon’s voice had taken on a hushed reverence, but now it grew darker.

  “And that was when the first shadow fell upon Bhaal. He beheld Adamus, and jealousy festered in his heart. He believed this radiant being had been created to replace him—to take from him the glory that once had been his alone. That jealousy grew, slow and poisonous. It soured into resentment, and in time, into hatred. Not only for Adamus, but for the Father Himself.”

  Baronsworth listened in silence, the hair on his arms standing.

  “In secret, Bhaal began to plot. When the moment came, he approached Adamus with honeyed words. He spoke of injustice. Of destiny. He invited him to join in rebellion—to cast down the Father, and take the throne of the heavens for themselves.”

  A subtle smile touched Solon’s lips. “But Adamus laughed—for he saw through the deception. He turned and departed.”

  A pause.

  “And that,” Solon said quietly, “was the moment everything changed, forever.”

  His eyes fixed on Baronsworth, his voice growing more grave.

  “The Great Betrayal. Bhaal, maddened by humiliation, struck. In his fury, he drove his blade into the back of the Sun King. He struck him down, and then, shattered Athalion, the Sunblade—the divine weapon through which Adamus channeled the power of the celestial light.”

  Baronsworth’s breath caught in his throat.

  “The other Varanir, sensing the song of Adamus had fallen silent, came swiftly to the place of the treachery. But they arrived too late. There, they found Adamus broken, his radiant form marred, his sword in pieces—and Bhaal standing over him, triumphant and unrepentant.”

  Solon’s voice lowered to a whisper.

  “Such was Sophia’s grief and fury, that she hurled her spear at Bhaal with a cry that shook the firmament. The blow struck—wounding him, and he fled. The Varanir gathered around the fallen Adamus… and wept.

  Solon continued, his voice lowering to a reverent hush, “It is said that they took what remained of Adamus—broken though he was—and bore him to the Grand Temple of Light, at the very Heart of Creation. There, beneath the highest vault of the heavens, they laid him upon the Altar of Eternal Flame, and cried out to the Father, pleading for mercy.

  They begged Him to restore the Sun King to life. And in their desperation, each Varanir offered a part of their own essence—to empower the act of resurrection.”

  Baronsworth’s eyes brightened as he listened intently to the tale.

  “A grand symphony erupted—a chorus of divinity, light and harmony woven into being. The Song rose in terrible beauty, a dance of primeval radiance that shook the cosmos. And for a moment, it seemed their prayers had been answered.

  Solon’s voice deepened. “But…unseen to them, the blood of Adamus had been tainted—mingled with the ash of Bhaal, scattered when Sophia’s spear struck true. And so, when the light coalesced to bring Adamus back into the world, what emerged was not one being—but many.”

  “From the altar rose two: Arthorias the Radiant, blazing like dawn, and Arya, the Noble One—twin flames born from the divine spark. The firstborn of the High Men. Your ancestors.

  Others followed. In pairs they came, stepping forth from the radiant cradle— each one shaped by the divine essence of a Varanir who had offered their strength.”

  He paused.

  “But when all thought the miracle complete, the light stirred once more. And from its depths came one final child.”

  Solon’s expression grew grim.

  “Belial.”

  Baronsworth's hand found his goblet, taking a sip of wine as he hung on to Solon's every word.

  “Each of the Highborn bore a stronger imprint from one Varanir than the others—a dominant echo, shaped by affinity. Arthorias, it was clear, had taken most from Sophia: light, wisdom, clarity of purpose. But Belial…”

  Solon met Baronsworth’s eyes.

  “Belial bore the mark of Bhaal.”

  A silence settled between them.

  “He was the fairest and strongest of all the Firstborn, just as Bhaal had been among the gods—terrible in beauty, unmatched in might. And it is from him that your mother’s line descends. The Sons of Belial are shaped in his image—and through him, in the image of the Fallen One.”

  Baronsworth remembered fragments of these stories—half-formed memories from long ago, when his father would sit beside the hearth and speak in that low, steady voice that made the flames seem to dance in time. As a boy, he had cherished those tales. As a man, he had dismissed them.

  There was little room for stories of fallen gods and celestial wars in the day-to-day life of a mercenary. Knowledge is power, his father had once told him, but only knowledge put to use.

  And what use was myth, when steel and coin ruled the world?

  Yet now, hearing Solon's voice and the ancient truths it carried, that long-buried part of him stirred—the wide-eyed child who had believed the heavens sang, and that the gods still watched over the world.

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  “What happened then?” he asked.

  Solon’s eyes glinted with memory, as if he had lived those distant ages himself.

  “Bhaal, wounded by Sophia’s fury, had fled from the scene of his betrayal. While the gods wept for their fallen brother, he descended into the sacred halls of the Elves—and demanded they bend the knee. At that time, they were ruled by the last King, Thedas, the Moon King.”

  He paused, his voice darkening.

  “Thedas refused him. With pride and dignity, he stood his ground. So Bhaal slew him in treachery. Thus began the Great War.”

  Baronsworth listened, unmoving.

  “Some of the Elves, bewitched by his honeyed promises—wisdom without trial, power without cost—turned from the path of the Light. They followed Bhaal into shadow. And so they became the Dark Elves: beings of terrible beauty and cruel cunning, twisted mirrors of their kin. Their sorcerers unlocked the forbidden secrets of the stars, and their hearts turned to ash. Where once they sought harmony, they now sowed despair. Where Bhaal sought dominion, they craved annihilation. If he was a tyrant, they were his mad zealots. And such is the mark of Bhaal’s touch—nothing it reaches remains unspoiled. Though he dreams of order and dominion, he is the god of chaos. All he builds collapses into ruin beneath his grasp.”

  Solon paused, and his eyes seemed to peer through the fabric of time.

  “Even among the Celestials, some fell under his sway. Many joined him—not openly at first, but in secret, cloaked in shadow, whispering allegiance through veils of lies. The war that followed shook the pillars of creation. Whole worlds burned. The ancient homeland of the Elves was consumed in flame, reduced to ash and cinders. Hope withered. Light dimmed. It seemed all would fall.”

  Baronsworth’s brow furrowed.

  “But… how? With such power, and many allies on his side—even gods—how did the Light prevail?”

  Solon’s voice steadied, as if reciting sacred memory.

  “Because Bhaal made a grave mistake.”

  He paused, his gaze fixed on Baronsworth, as if seeking to imprint the truth onto the young man’s soul.

  “He believed Belial—bearer of his corruption, forged with a spark of his darkness—would become his greatest weapon. And for many ages, it seemed so. Belial the Ram, proud and mighty, served him with relentless fury, an instrument of terror and ruin. Countless lives fell to his blade, and the darkness he brought spread far and wide.

  But even then, a flicker of the Divine Flame—the gift of the Father, who breathes freedom into every soul He makes—burned within him. All beings, no matter their origin, are born with the right to choose. And in the hour of deepest shadow, Belial made his own choice. He remembered who he truly was.”

  Solon smiled.

  “He turned on the Dark Lord. Rebelled against the shadow in his blood. When it mattered most, he stood with his kin, and lifted his blade against the gathering night.”

  Baronsworth sat in silence.

  “So… Belial was a hero?”

  Solon nodded, and for a moment, his eyes were filled with something like pride.

  “Yes. And his turning shifted the tide of the war. When the Asturians united—when the lineages of light and strength stood as one—evil faltered. In that darkest hour, Bhaal was pushed back.”

  Baronsworth leaned forward, his voice tinged with awe. “What happened then?”

  Solon’s gaze turned distant, as though peering into an age long buried beneath dust and memory.

  “The gods convened to craft a new world,” he said, his voice like the telling of an old, solemn hymn. “Mytharia—our earth. It was to be a gift, a sanctuary shaped from the most magnificent elements of the cosmos. The Father’s primal command was the inspiration for the song of this realm—a chorus of goodness, of beauty, of light unrestrained. Mytharia was meant to be a reward for the race of Men, whose Firstborn had stood with the Light in the Great War. And for the surviving High Elves, within Mytharia a new homeland would also be granted—the sanctuary of Avastan, set at the Heart of the World.”

  He paused, reverently.

  “For a time, peace reigned. An age of golden light, unmarred by shadow. But Bhaal’s lust for dominion was not so easily buried. He waited in exile—wounded, yes, but far from defeated. And when the world had grown soft with peace, when its guards were lowered… he struck.”

  Solon’s voice hardened.

  “His return was swift. Brutal. The attack fell like a sudden onslaught, and on that day, his victory was nearly complete. But the hosts of Light rallied, and with their strength united, he was cast down from the heavens. He was vanquished, his physical form, destroyed.”

  Baronsworth frowned slightly. “I recall these stories from my childhood… but your version differs. There are details—meanings—I’ve never heard.”

  “Yes.” Solon nodded slowly. “Much has been forgotten. Twisted. Reduced to myth.”

  He continued, “It is a tragedy, but our people no longer remember who we are—or who we once stood against. It has been millennia since the Great War of the Gods. Too long. Time has a way of dulling even the sharpest truths. Most dismiss these tales now as bedtime stories, or relics of a priest’s imagination. But they are not. The Lorekeepers have preserved fragments… yet the only ones who have kept a faithful record of what truly transpired are the High Elves.”

  Solon’s posture straightened, his eyes fierce with urgency.

  “If we are to stand against the darkness rising once more, we must first remember what has been forgotten.”

  Baronsworth crossed his arms. “But if Bhaal was destroyed—truly destroyed—how can he still be our enemy?”

  Solon’s expression darkened.

  “His body was unmade, yes. But a Celestial is not so easily killed. His spirit, wounded and wrathful, retreated to Mortharas—the tortuous pit that formed in the Underworld when he was first cast down. It is a place twisted by his presence, steeped in hatred. If he could not reign in the heights of heaven, then he would crown himself lord of the depths. There he remains,” Solon’s voice turned grave. “Plotting. Scheming. Waiting.”

  Baronsworth's features shifted into a look of deep perplexity.

  “But I was taught the tale of Alistair the Protector—how he faced the demon horde, slew their king Astaroth in single combat, and sealed the portal to the Hells. He gave his life to close the gate, to ensure they could never return. His sacrifice gave us freedom—forever.”

  Solon’s eyes softened, tinged with sorrow.

  “That tale is true. In part. Alistair’s sacrifice was noble, and it bought us an age of peace. The portal was sealed. And to our knowledge, no others remain. But freedom is never eternal while Bhaal still endures.”

  He leaned back, folding his hands.

  “So long as our foe remains, the world will never know true peace. He will not rest—his will is dominion, not merely over Mytharia, but all the realms in creation. And though the manner remains shrouded in shadow, he gathers strength even now, amassing power in his infernal dominions through dark means we have yet to fully comprehend. For those with eyes to see, the signs are clear: the darkness spreading across the land, the corruption in the hearts of men… the wars, the discord, the rising tide of hatred—they gather above the mortal world like dark clouds thick with dread. These are no coincidences.”

  He held Baronsworth’s gaze.

  “But do not despair,” Solon said, his voice firm with conviction. “For he was defeated once—and he can be defeated again.”

  “It took all the forces of Light to defeat him,” Baronsworth said quietly. “But it came at a great price, did it not?”

  He was remembering now—fragments of half-forgotten tales once whispered beside hearthfires, of gods and ruin and victories won in mourning. Once, they had seemed like fables, but now, they echoed with a grave sense of importance, as if they were warnings that should not be forgotten.

  Solon nodded solemnly. “Yes. Bhaal was cast down… but the cost was immeasurable.”

  He drew a long breath, his voice steeped with memory.

  “As I mentioned, the ancient homeland of the Elves was utterly destroyed. Not by Bhaal’s hand, but by their own—when, in the hour of deepest despair, they summoned a being of terrible power, a primordial spirit of flame and destruction, older than even the gods who shaped this world. When the darkness had all but consumed their realm, they called upon their last hope—a fire strong enough to scour the corruption. They succeeded: Bhaal was driven back… but in the wake of the destruction, all had been consumed. Their cities, their forests, their towers of starlight—all were swept away in the conflagration. The Elves were left without a homeland, scattered and broken.”

  Baronsworth listened, silent.

  “Mytharia was not crafted for them,” Solon continued, “but when the time came, our ancestors welcomed them. Men opened their gates to the Elves—not out of pity, but out of honor. We had fought side by side in the Great War. There was kinship between our peoples, a bond sealed in blood and fire. The High Elves were received with open arms, offered shelter and soil upon which to build anew.”

  He paused, his gaze softening.

  “And in time, they returned that kindness. When Asturia fell to the sea—when our own people became wanderers, cast from our homeland by cataclysm—it was the Elves who welcomed us in turn. Their halls became our refuge. Their songs of mourning, our own. And in the high places of their realm, we found footing once more.”

  Baronsworth nodded slowly, a faraway look in his eyes. “The High Elves.” he said softly. “My mother would often tell me stories of them. How they loved the forests and all things that grow, how they sang to the stars and whispered prayers to the moon. She said their beauty was only surpassed by their wisdom—that to look into their eyes was to glimpse into something eternal.”

  Solon smiled. “Aye, lad. The High Elves have been our allies since time immemorial. They walked beside the Asturians in the Elder Days, when the world was still young. I believe they will be invaluable in the battles to come. Their leader, Lord Aenarion, is among the oldest beings still living—a sage of vast knowledge, and a warrior of great renown. He has seen empires rise and fall like the turning of seasons. But above all, he is a good friend. You must go to him, Baronsworth. He will know what comes next.”

  Baronsworth’s eyes widened. “Go to the Elves?” He paused, breath catching. “I’ve dreamed of it, truly. When I fled my home… Ellaria was the first place I thought to go. But as I traveled, the people I met scoffed at it—told me the Elves were myths, stories for children. That if they ever lived, they vanished long ago.”

  He frowned. “I even made my way once to the Elderwood. I walked beneath trees so tall they swallowed the sky… but there was nothing. No song, no sign of higher life—only a deafening silence.”

  Solon nodded slowly. “Aye. I understand why many doubt their existence. The Elves guard their solitude fiercely. They cherish the old ways, and it grieves them to see the folly of Men—we, their younger brothers, too hasty to draw swords and blood in the name of greed, too blind to heed the quiet truths.”

  Baronsworth leaned forward. “So they hide, then? That’s why no one’s seen them?”

  “That’s part of it,” Solon replied. “But there’s more. Ellaria is no ordinary land. It is enchanted—saturated with ancient magics that still sing through root and river. Long ago, when the world was broken by the Great Flood, Lord Aenarion wove a great incantation upon his homeland. He sealed it with a protection, a shield against the decay of time, and the wrath of the outside world. Within Ellaria, the seasons do not turn. It remains a land of eternal spring, where flowers bloom forever, and the stars shine brighter. It remains untouched, as it was in the elder days.”

  Baronsworth’s voice grew quiet. “But… how does one reach a land that cannot be seen?”

  Solon’s eyes gleamed. “There are ways. Once every ten years, the tides of the world shift. The waters that surround Ellaria recede, and the land-bridge that connects it to the mainland rises from the sea—a path of white stone older than any kingdom of Men. It remains for a short season, and on the first day, if one stands on the western cliffs, one might glimpse Ellaria across the waters—just for a breath of time, before it vanishes again beneath the veil.”

  He leaned forward, his voice rich with conviction.

  “And you are in luck, Baronsworth. This is the tenth year. The season is nearly upon us. Destiny calls, and the stars align. I believe it could not be clearer: the path to Ellaria is opening… and you are meant to walk it.”

  Baronsworth shook his head. “I still don’t understand. You’ve given me a lesson in myth—in ancient history. But what does any of it have to do with my father… or with what’s to come?”

  Solon regarded him kindly. “We are like trees, Baronsworth. And for a tree to survive the fiercest winds, it must first grow deep roots. By learning your past, you learn who you are—what sacrifices were made so that you might draw breath, and what mistakes were carved into the bark of your line, so that you need not repeat them.”

  He folded his hands before him, his voice low and certain.

  “These are the roots that make you strong—unshakable. If you know who you are, where you come from, and where you are meant to go… then you are invincible, my boy. You will walk the world with wisdom, and fate itself will rise to meet you.”

  Baronsworth’s gaze grew distant. “My father used to say something similar. Know thyself, he would tell me. But I never quite understood what he meant.”

  “You are more than your name, Baronsworth—more than your nation, your sword, or your titles. You are not merely the son of a noble house, nor the rightful heir of the Sunkeep, nor the champion of the Golden Gryphons. Those are but roles—masks worn by circumstance.”

  He leaned forward, his gaze turning contemplative.

  “The truth of you runs deeper than any of those things. You are a son of the Father-Creator—a soul eternal, woven from light and love. That flame you feel within you? That is the Eternal Fire, gifted by the Father Himself. You were not made by accident, but by intention. With purpose. With destiny.

  You are the child of two mighty legacies: the blood of Sophia, the goddess of light and wisdom, and the blood of Bhaal, the dark god of war and chaos. You are born of the union of shadow and radiance, of cruelty and compassion, of judgment and mercy. A son of both heaven and the hells.”

  Solon’s voice grew soft with reverence.

  “I do not know what your destiny is,” he added, voice lower now, “but Lord Aenarion may. He has walked since the first sunrise, and has navigated the currents of fate longer than any of us.”

  Solon stood, moving toward the hearth, his tone growing solemn.

  “We Asturians… we are not what we once were. Exile has thinned our blood and dimmed our memory. The wisdom that once crowned our people now lingers only in fragments and fading songs. We are a shadow of the greatness we once embodied.”

  Baronsworth nodded slowly. “My father spoke often of the lessening of our people. How the old knowledge—and the old strength—slip further from us with each passing age. How our numbers dwindle, and our people, especially the Highborn, struggle even to bear children…”

  “Aye,” Solon said with a trace of sorrow. “The day of the Great Flood broke us. When our homeland was drowned beneath the waves, and the skies were torn asunder… Bhaal nearly destroyed us then. If not for your ancestor Alistair, we would have perished altogether.”

  He stood and walked to the fire, gazing into its light as if it held memory.

  “With his dying breath, the Betrayer cursed the world. His corruption seeped into the bones of Mytharia. A poison not easily purged. Since then, this world has slowly darkened, age by age. And Bhaal despises us above all others—the race of Men—for our will cannot be chained, our hearts long too fiercely for freedom. He believed we would bow to him when the time came. He was wrong.”

  Solon’s voice became quiet.

  “And yet… the curse lingers. Our kind suffers still. We endure, yes—but diminished. A shadow of what once was.”

  He turned back to Baronsworth, his expression solemn, but lit with hope.

  “But I do not believe the gods spared us from extinction only to wither away in silence. No. The prophecies speak of a New Dawn. Of a time when the Light shall return to this world, and the land shall be green again.”

  Baronsworth felt something stir deep in his heart. Long-buried words awoke, whispering through the chambers of his mind—a voice he hadn’t heard in many years. The verses spilled from his lips, almost of their own volition:

  “And lo—there shall rise an age of unending shadow.

  The sun shall perish from the sky, and warmth shall flee the earth.

  The heavens shall darken, and the Black Sun shall rise—invincible.

  The winds shall howl through silent fields, and all shall fall to ruin.

  In that dread hour, the sons of Light shall rise in defiance,

  To stand against the sons of Darkness.

  Brother shall fall beside brother, and even the stars shall grow dim.

  Hope shall flicker like a dying flame, and all shall seem lost.

  Yet from the ashes of despair shall rise the Redeemer— Avas Athala, the Sun King reborn.

  And in the final battle, upon the first dawn, The Eternal Night shall be broken…

  And the Sun will rise again.”

  His breath caught as he spoke the words. The ancient prophecy, now whole in his mind.

  Solon nodded, his face grim. “Yes. I believe that age of darkness is upon us now.”

  He leaned forward, his voice heavy with years. “I am old, Baronsworth. I have seen much. But never, in all my days, have I witnessed a time so steeped in malice. Brother turns against brother. Friends betray one another. Endless civil wars, famine, plague… Even the earth seems weary of its toil. And yet—creation exists in balance. When darkness grows, the Light must rise to meet it.”

  He exhaled slowly, the breath drawn deep from some quiet, hidden well within his soul. “Many among the wise believed the Great Comet was the herald of that Light. To us Asturians, it had long been a sign—marking the dawn of a new age, a time of redemption. But to the Elves… it meant something else. They saw in it a warning. A coming of tribulations. An age of fire and fury. And I cannot say they were wrong. For not long after the Great Star passed overhead, the Orcs poured down upon the Western Holy Empire, and the lands fell into chaos unprecedented.”

  “Yes,” Baronsworth murmured. “And then, the Great Purge.”

  Solon nodded slowly. “Aye. All that blood. So much suffering… and for one reason alone.”

  He turned then, facing Baronsworth fully. His eyes were steady — filled not only with sorrow, but with certainty.

  “They were searching for you.”

  Baronsworth flinched, as though struck. “Me?”

  “Yes,” Solon said. His voice was quiet, yet unshakable. “You, Baronsworth. There are those among us who still believe in the prophecy — that Adamus, the Sun King, would one day return. That he would be born again in mortal flesh, and walk the earth as a man.”

  A faint smile touched his lips, deepening the lines at his eyes. “Your mother believed it, too.”

  The words landed like a blade through Baronsworth’s chest. He struggled to breathe. “You mean to say… you believe the Sun King is—”

  “You.” Solon finished the thought gently, yet with finality. “Yes, lad.”

  He set a hand upon Baronsworth’s shoulder. “I know it is a great weight. But as above, so below. If the divine once took on flesh, then from the flesh of man the divine can rise again.” He lifted his palm skyward, then pressed it softly against Baronsworth’s heart. “I believe it is your fate. That is why, when I learned you yet lived, I wept with joy. It meant the darkness had not won. There is still hope for the Light.”

  Baronsworth shook his head. “This… this is folly, Solon. I am but a man.”

  “No, laddie,” Solon said, his tone unwavering. “You are far more than that. Surely you’ve noticed by now—your strength in battle, your force of will, how others look to you, follow you, trust you without question. That power… it isn’t just common sway. It’s charisma, in the truest, oldest sense—a gift from the gods themselves.”

  Baronsworth opened his mouth, then closed it again—speechless. His thoughts raced like wildfire across dry grass, each one sparking a dozen more, none of them settling. At last, he found his voice.

  “There is one thing you’re forgetting, wise Loremaster. The Sun King… he is said to be born of the blood of Solaris, the sun god. And the ancient line of Asturian kings has long since faded from the world.”

  Solon nodded, unshaken. “Yes, I am well aware. The High Kings of Asturia, for all their might and glory, were not the Sun King—only guardians of the Throne of Dawn, keepers of the vigil until the true heir would appear. Their blood was noble, certainly, but they were mere stewards—waiting for the day Avas Athala returns, just as we all have waited.”

  He held Baronsworth’s gaze. “And for all my learning, I do not presume to see every thread in the tapestry. That is why you must go to Ellaria. Lord Aenarion sees deeper than any being I have ever known. The stars speak to him. If anyone can unweave this fate… it is he.”

  He saw the flicker of uncertainty in Baronsworth’s eyes and softened his voice. “I don’t ask you to believe me here and now. Only to make space for these words—in your heart, if not your mind. Let them linger awhile. Let them breathe.”

  A pause.

  Then he leaned forward, his tone hushed—inviting. “Was that not why you sought Ellaria in the first place? When you fled into the wilds, with your past in ruins and your future unknown—wasn’t it the wisdom of the Elves you yearned for? The truth written in the stars, waiting to be read? Do you not still wish to know… why you were born into this world?”

  Baronsworth said nothing. He sat motionless, staring into the hearth’s flickering glow, as though the fire might reveal something hidden. Shadows danced across the stone floor—shadows of memory, of longing, of destinies still unwritten. His thoughts, once honed like steel, now twisted in a vortex of doubt and awakening. Everything he had known seemed to tilt, as though his very soul had shifted.

  At last, he spoke.

  “You have great wisdom, Solon the Elder. I see now why your people once named you their greatest Loremaster. This is… much to carry. But I have made my choice. I will heed your counsel — and prepare for my journey to the realm of the High Elves.”

  Solon gave a small, approving nod, the firelight casting a gentle gleam in his eyes.

  “Son of Wisdom, indeed.”