The halls of the Elven sanctum shimmered with ancient light—roots of towering trees curling around pillars, their leaves glowing faintly with a silver hue. Lyra stood at the heart of the chamber, her obsidian cloak stained with dust and her eyes hollowed from sleepless nights. The Queen of the Elves, Syltheriel, watched her from atop her throne of living wood, flanked by sages and spirit-kin.
"You come to ask for war, child of the Dread King," Syltheriel said softly, her voice like wind through crystal.
"No," Lyra whispered. "I come to ask for hope."
The silence between them was heavy with history. Once, Kael had extended peace to the Elves—choosing alliance over conquest. And now, his absence left a vacuum that threatened to swallow the realm whole.
Syltheriel stepped down from her throne, her white-gold robes brushing the ground like mist. "You seek our aid, though the world calls your king a monster."
"I know," Lyra murmured, her voice cracking. "But I know the man behind the crown. He saved us all once. He can do it again… if I can bring him back."
Syltheriel studied her for a long moment, then extended her hand. "Then we shall stand by the old vow. For roots that grow deep do not break in the storm."
A burst of light flared through the sanctum as a sigil glowed beneath Lyra's feet—a sign of renewed alliance.
Back in Dreadhold, the skies had turned a bruised shade of violet. On the highest balcony of the Obsidian Keep, Valdran stood with a messenger, his arms crossed.
"They're coming," the messenger said. "Every kingdom that once feared Kael is uniting. Their banners march toward us."
Valdran's eyes narrowed. "Let them come. Let them taste what they fear."
Moments later, one by one, the Thorns began to arrive through teleportation gates, their domains answering the call of Dreadhold. Luna and Eclipse led the Nightfang battalion—beastkin adorned in silver war paint. From the volcanic highlands, the crimson-armored forces of Thorn Korrath emerged, chanting war hymns in sync with the beat of drums forged from dragonhide. Thalia brought her skyborne rangers, gliding down on wind-touched wings. The mountain warriors of Grimhold marched in behind their massive Thorn, axes glinting in the twilight.
Valdran stepped forward as they all gathered in the central war chamber.
"This is no longer about kingdoms," he declared. "It is about Kael. It is about the people who believe in him. We will not let them take Dreadhold."
The air trembled with magic, loyalty, and the rage of the forgotten.
Meanwhile, in the shadows of an ancient ruin where Kael was once held, the wind still carried the scent of blood. Lyra stood where he had been torn from her, holding the last remnants of his cloak. She turned her gaze northward, where war would come.
"I'm not letting you go," she whispered. "Not to fate. Not to them."
And the wind answered with silence. But her heart burned with fire.