GORALVOR

THE sun began to light the sky, revealing a bleak landscape beneath its rays. Dust, ashes, remnants of dead animals, and the odd thornbush or weed spanned a wide stretch of land that, in a distant era, might have been a lush, beautiful valley. Now, it was nothing more than a consumed wasteland. A small gray snake slithered over the soil until it found shelter beneath a pile of stones. It hissed at the air with its forked tongue and curled up, trembling, among the rocks—then fell into a deathly silence.

Danger lurked nearby.

The scent of death followed close behind.

A cold wind swept through the valley, known then as the Valley of Ashes, dragging brittle weeds back and forth. A new storm loomed—rain and ill weather approached. Suddenly, a shadowy rider appeared, halting his mount atop a promontory. After several arduous days traveling that twisted road, he finally glimpsed his destination: a small hybrid citadel nestled among cliffs and ravines in that deep, dark valley. A drawbridge was the only true access to that self-assured border fortress. With an unutterable whisper, the rider commanded his steed to proceed toward the bridge—an audacious act, for all inhabitants of the Living Land knew that the Western Hybrids were known to shoot first and ask questions... if there were any questions to ask at all.

Still, the shadowy rider pressed forward—firm in step, without haste. His horse was a strange specimen, black-coated with elongated legs, outfitted in a fearsome helm adorned with something akin to twin horns. Strange, ancient symbols marked the helm from top to bottom. The creature also wore what seemed to be a heavy copper-hued armor, aged and encrusted with dirt. From a distance, one might think the armor was the steed’s skeleton itself—its cadaverous body forged not from flesh, but solid metal. The mysterious rider adjusted his own helm and matching armor and gripped tightly a long, cloth-wrapped object. As the tattered fabric slid aside, the tip of something sharp glinted darkly beneath the first rays of the rising sun.

In that exact moment, a nearby thornbush began to scorch. At the same time, the cautious gray snake darted out of its hideaway in panic. The shadowy rider and his black steed advanced toward the citadel without pause. That little snake was indeed fortunate—alive, unharmed.

Not so our world.

Not so us.

* * * * *

Far from there, beyond rivers, mountains, meadows, and swamps, a young prince moved stealthily through tall bushes. Armed with a short, golden, double-edged sword, the prince was uneasy. The forest he traversed, known as the Forest of Gold, was far from safe. Used as a natural defense since time immemorial, it stretched across the vast expanse between the Fortress — the capital of his people — and the Dominion, whose dreaded borders lay beyond the mountains known as the Last Ones. Those mountains, and that forest, had always been the finest protection against the hordes serving the Néldors.

Néldors.

That single word made him shudder.

He stopped, alert. His mind and all five senses were sharply attuned to any abnormal sound. “The Thing” they had come to find must be nearby. Not far behind him, a massive, muscular figure — nearly two meters tall, with thick, powerful arms — followed his lead. Remarkably, despite his sheer size, the giant companion made almost no sound as he advanced. Suddenly, a flock of birds-of-paradise took flight. At the young prince’s signal, both men froze. Ormul, the companion’s name, slowly drew a heavy battle axe from his broad back and crept closer to the prince.

“It’s close,” he whispered, casting suspicious glances left and right. “Very close. I don’t like this, my lord. It knows we’re hunting it.”

“I know,” the prince replied. Turning toward him, he placed his left hand on the giant’s shoulder and added with quiet determination, “But I want to do this. The time has come. We must separate.”

Ormul clearly hated the idea. Open-field hunting was his element, but here — deep in the woods, without their mounts... The giant locked eyes with his lord and pupil, and the prince knew instantly he had to show resolve.

“That has always been the plan. You draw it out. I chase it.”

He saw a sea of doubts reflected in his mentor’s eyes, but the young prince knew how to convince him — he’d been doing it since he was a child.

“At your side, my faithful friend. Always at your side,” he spoke the timeworn phrase that the kingdom’s riders used before entering battle.

It worked every time.

“At yours, my lord Akar,” Ormul answered humbly, finally yielding.

And so Ormul vanished into the depths of the forest, leaving the young prince completely alone for the first time in many weeks. Ormul was a fine soldier and an excellent teacher, but Akar smiled, relieved to be free of his company. The hulking warrior was hardly the most entertaining travel companion for a twenty-three-year-old — the age of adulthood in the kingdom of Roühm.

Certainly, no one would have guessed that this young man — barely one seventy tall, with unruly reddish curls, small bright eyes, and a face peppered with freckles — was the greatest hope of an entire nation. His clothes that day — simple, comfortable, worn by days of pursuit — did little to flatter him. But when one looked into his eyes... then it became clear.

His resolve, his strength, his vitality, his greatness.

Akar was hope in a darkened world.

Our world.

It was the rumors that a “beast” had been roaming the Forest of Gold for several moons that had driven him and his towering mentor to begin the hunt for the elusive creature. From the very start, the plan had been for Ormul to flush the animal out—then he would trap it from some secure hiding spot amidst the thick woodland. And at long last, the moment had arrived. Caressing the golden blade of his treasured sword, Akar waited patiently for the beast to show itself.

"You and I, companion," the emboldened prince whispered to himself. "You and I."

A shaft of light pierced the thick canopy of pale-leaved trees that made up the forest, illuminating the red curls of the prince of Roühm. Akar smiled gratefully at the sky.

“Elf’s light shall protect us, my friend.”

A cry shattered his thoughts.

“No—I’m too far away,” he realized, and dashed at full speed toward the direction of that desperate scream.

The familiar sound of Ormul’s axe crunching into something reached him despite the distance. Then, a horrific scream—inhuman and otherworldly—froze him mid-run. The entire forest seemed to hold its breath after that chilling howl. It had been many years since the Forest of Gold had heard such a dreadful sound.

Another cry snapped Akar out of his trance: “Akar! Akar!” Ormul screamed in anguish. “My lord!!”

“Hold on! I’m coming!” Akar shouted back, hoping the creature might become confused by the sound.

He leapt over a thicket, slashed his blade at a branch blocking the path to Ormul’s voice, and burst furiously into a small clearing, free of trees and brush. There, in the center, lay his mentor—bloodied, his right arm brutally severed, a stream of blood gushing from his chest, tearing through the leather armor meant to guard his massive torso. In fact, the severed hand still gripped the heavy axe, lying only a few steps from its agonizing owner. Akar’s instinct to fight faltered—not because of the gore, but because of the horror-struck look in Ormul’s eyes. He had never known a warrior greater than Ormul. And for the first time in his young life, the prince doubted himself.

“What kind of creature could...?” he wondered, shaken.

That moment of hesitation cost him dearly. The beast, hidden nearby in the trees after downing Ormul, lunged at him with treacherous speed. One powerful blow hurled him several bodies’ length away. Whether by instinct or sheer luck, Akar reacted, stabbing blindly. His golden blade struck the attacker, eliciting another pained howl. As the prince crashed violently to the ground, the creature tore the sword from its own body and fled into the forest, stumbling. Akar sprang up, ready to pursue—but a moan from Ormul made him stop. He rushed to his wounded companion, knelt before him, and spoke with trembling voice: “Ormul, don’t worry... You’re going to be fine...”

“My lord,” Ormul gasped, forcing out words with immense effort. “You are... my pride... our great prince...” He coughed fiercely, shuddered, then raised his left hand and added with pride: “Always at your... always...”

Ormul lost consciousness before finishing.

“Ormul! Ormul!” Akar cried out, shaking him. “I won’t let you die. Not here. Not like this!” he swore, filled with rage and grief as he gazed at his mentor’s dying face.

The young prince stood and closed his eyes, focusing as hard as he could. He would not let Ormul die nameless. What he was about to do was forbidden by the oldest, most sacred laws of his people—but he no longer cared. It was the only way to save the life of his brave tutor and friend. He forced his mind to remember the last night he had spent with his father. It was his only memory of him—and it returned often.

A memory full of pain.

He could still hear the background screams. The city in flames. The roar of battle. Smoke from burning homes and fallen bodies. His father kneeling to embrace one of the dying, weeping without end... Akar opened his eyes slowly, utterly focused. He began to recall the words of power—spoken by his father that dreadful night, for the first and last time...

Suddenly, they came to him.

“Dórnah muitcó, dórnah muitcó,” he intoned with growing authority. “Ormul, Dórnah muitcó!”1

At that moment, something shifted within him. A vigoros force surged through his body like fire. A glow ignited deep in his gaze, turning into flame and spilling through his eyes. Around him and Ormul rose a hazy, translucent mist, distorting their forms. Only the reddish gleam in Akar’s eyes remained clear, intensifying until they turned fully crimson—no iris, no cornea, just a luminous red light. His skin began to emit the same reddish glow, easily visible amid the unsettling mist. Akar could now perceive only through light, brilliance, and shadow. His other senses had vanished—no sound, no scent, no feeling.

Only light and darkness.

As the inner flame fully consumed his gaze, Akar extended his right palm toward Ormul’s dying body—perceiving it as a fading, flickering light. He poured all his energy into that dim spark. He had attempted this once, as a child—and nearly died. But now... the sensations were different. More intense. Clearer. More powerful—yet easier to control.

Sweeter.

As his untamed light touched Ormul’s waning spark, the giant shuddered from head to toe, exhaling sharply with signs of pain. At that moment, Akar understood: his companion’s very existence now depended on him. He focused harder, and without understanding how, transferred part of his own light into Ormul’s. It flared with intensity—then stabilized. A new, twisted sensation of euphoric pleasure coursed through Akar. Uneasy with the strange sweetness, he pulled his hand away, trembling.

It had worked.

Knowing the mystical art of kradparuná2 had succeeded, he turned toward the place where the accursed “beast” had fled. He saw its trail—a dirty, darkened coppery glow—its vile blood repulsing him. Aware he could not stay in this state of concentration much longer, he channeled the kradparuná to speed through the forest until, with great effort, he reached what appeared to be the entrance to a cave. He closed his eyes, lowered his right hand, and with one final act of will—renounced the kradparuná.

His senses slammed back into him.

The forest noise was deafening. The thousand scents overwhelmed him. He began to breathe with difficulty, everything spinning. Panicked, he ordered himself to calm—and summoned memories of home and childhood: Long walks with his stepmother, Queen Zulaira. Galloping beside his mentor along the banks of the Royal River. Playing at the beautiful King’s Lake... Little by little, he found peace—remembering who he was and what he had to do.

“I will find you, wherever you are. You’ll pay for what you did to Ormul.”

Though dizzy and reeling, Akar retrieved his beloved golden sword from where the beast had cast it, and headed deeper into the forest, tracking the path that would lead him toward a shadowy tunnel cloaked in brush.

Vengeance was now his loyal companion.

* * * *

The young hybrid male stared indifferently at the horizon. He had only recently been stationed at the citadel of Aqgrara. Grorg — that was his name — hoped, with any luck, he wouldn’t have to endure many more shifts of daytime boredom. The citadel now stood silent after the revelry of the night before. A shipment had arrived from Abismos: food, drink, and females of the latest brood — and everyone, Grorg included, had indulged in the festivities, especially with the eager young females experiencing the males for the first time. The Hybrid Emperor was generous at this time of year, and the alliance with the Dominion was bringing far more wealth to their realm than even the greatest augurs had foretold.

Grorg, like most hybrids of his generation, was happy.

The heavy, stifling air of the Valley of Ashes — unbearable to most living beings of Kárindor — reminded him of his childhood home, Abismos, where so many fond memories dwelled. No news had come for a long time about the other races — no arrogant humans, no foolish onimods.

Yes, Grorg was a very happy hybrid.

Then the sound of galloping hooves approaching the gate he guarded alerted him. No visitors were expected for several moons, so he tightened his vigilance. He didn’t want the Commander of Aqgrara — a hybrid veteran of the Great War — to humiliate him again. Grorg gripped his bow firmly and readied a worn arrow aimed at the path.

“Shoot first, ask later.”

Soon enough, he saw the cause of the disturbance. The strange black horse and its sinister rider had reached their destination. Grorg swallowed hard, unable to believe what he was seeing. He immediately lowered the bow, bowed his head in submission, and dropped to one knee. The rider halted some distance from the trench that protected the drawbridge into the small border citadel. Then he murmured:

– Approach, hybrid.

Like a gust of wind, a chilling breeze carried the words into Grorg’s ears. Though the sinister rider had barely moved his lips, and despite the distance, the words rang loudly inside his mind. Hesitantly, Grorg activated the drawbridge mechanism — but before it lowered, he sprinted across the trench with long strides, reaching the rider swiftly. He knelt again. Before he could speak, the newcomer whispered in almost imperceptible tones:

– Be ready – he said, barely parting his lips and without even looking at him.

Once again, the icy wind touched Grorg’s face, and the words echoed inside him with even greater force. Then the dark rider handed him the object wrapped in old cloth. Grorg turned pale in terror as he felt its cold weight. He began to feel nauseous, without knowing why.

Something was wrong.

Terribly wrong.

The black horse reared and snorted, then calmed. Before leaving, the néldor messenger cast a sideways glance at the frightened hybrid and uttered a single word — with a voice so rough, harsh, and malevolent it cut through bone:

– War.

* * * * *

The “beast” had made no attempt to hide its trail. It had merely fled, panicked, seeking refuge. Broken branches, foul-smelling bloodstains, and giant footprints allowed Akar to quickly locate the cave he’d glimpsed through mystical sight. He took a few moments in hiding to catch his breath and examine the surroundings. He wouldn’t let it catch him off guard again. Akar now had almost no doubt about what he was facing.

Impossible not to recognize them.

Though he couldn’t recall seeing one before, no one in all the Living Land had ever forgotten those ruthless creatures.

The Ruin of the North, that’s what they were called.

Very well, then. He would send them back — one by one — to the hell they had crawled out from.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered, staring at the cave. “You’re afraid. You’re suffering, aren’t you? But I need your heart. When Murahm and the others see it, then they’ll start listening to me. Cowards... I have to finish you now.” He sighed in frustration. “Want me to enter the cave? You’re waiting for me. I know it...” He casually adjusted the bracelet on his left wrist — a beautiful silver band inlaid with rubies, worn by every prince of Roühm for generations — and studied the terrain in front of the cave.

A bad idea struck him.

“Ormul... you’re not going to like this when I tell you.”

— I know what you are and why you’re here! — he shouted as he stepped calmly from the trees. He positioned himself defiantly in front of the cave’s mouth, pointing his golden sword toward it. — Coward! Filthy vermin! Come out if you dare, cursed beast! Come on! What are you waiting for?

Akar thought he heard movement inside, though it was too far and shadowed to see anything clearly. “Now or never,” he thought, before proclaiming boldly:

— I am the Prince of Roühm! Lord of Valtra! I command you to come out and... die!

At that very moment, he raised his left arm and clenched his fist. The sun caught the silver bracelet, making it gleam as if challenging the heavens themselves. Suddenly, a massive shadow appeared out of nowhere, leaping spectacularly toward the defiant prince and his shining symbol.

But this time, Akar was ready.

He had anticipated that the beast would attack the moment it learned who he was and saw the bracelet. With training-born agility, he dodged to the side. The beast crashed against the hard limestone ground. In the few seconds it needed to recover, Akar lunged from behind, stabbing deeply with the golden blade — piercing the creature completely. It raised its arms in one final, desperate motion, howling from pain. Akar withdrew the sword. The creature, over two and a half meters tall, collapsed lifeless to the ground. Then the young prince turned and saw what he had slain.

His worst fears were confirmed.

Disgusted, Akar placed his foot on the fallen adversary. Massive, deformed muscles. Charcoal-dark skin. A spine covered with sharp, protruding spikes. A thick groove running from base of the skull to the forehead. And the stench — Few things in Kárindor smelled fouler. With evident contempt, Akar spoke a single word:

— Gonk.

He tried to flip the massive body, but the gonk was too heavy. He dropped his weapon and strained, breathing hard — until finally, it turned. The forest remained strangely still. Akar sat down to recover next to the corpse, now noticing the creature’s scarred, misshapen face. It was missing one of its small, dark, malevolent eyes. From its tough forehead protruded a rounded bone of pale blue, diffused in countless shades of grey.

That was the kúhec — the gonk’s heart.

As Akar worked to extract the strange relic of nature, he became distracted, inspecting the beast’s dirty nasal slits — no nose, no ears. How could these loathsome beings hear so well? Lost in thought, he failed to notice that something large and stealthy had also approached the cave — drawn by his taunting cries. It moved silently through the brush, stopping just steps behind the unknowing prince. Concealed by the forest’s shadows, it observed him carefully.

Perhaps out of curiosity.

Appetizing curiosity.

Unaware, Akar finally pried free the kúhec and admired its curious shape. The sunlight at the cave entrance dimmed, shrouded by thick clouds. A shadow flitted across the cavern. Nearby, a nightingale began its varied song. Akar raised the kúhec higher, entranced by its beauty. More than rare. It was magnificent. A true wonder of nature. The nightingale fell silent. The lurking creature saw the shadow emerging from the cave, creeping closer until it stood directly behind Akar. At that exact instant, the prince saw a reflection in the kúhec he held — the eyes of what had come up behind him.

But it was too late.

He was too tired and stunned to react.

A powerful arm threw him violently, slamming him against the cave’s rocky wall. Dazed, Akar felt for his temple — blood. His own. Vision blurred. Hearing faded. He thought he heard the roar of a bear beside him. The shadow drew near, savoring his suffering. Akar tried to rise and face this new attacker, but his legs betrayed him. The blow had been too harsh. Resigned, he fell to his knees, hands on the ground, head bowed. A pool of blood began to form beneath him.

“It’s over. I’ve been so stupid,” he cursed himself. “If only —” A low growl came from the attacker. “If only I could warn them that they’re back. If only...”

But his thoughts drowned out as the shadow dashed toward him. Proud as ever, Akar lifted his head, ready to meet death with the dignity only a red rider of Roühm possessed. He would look death in the eyes — as he was taught — and his light would blaze across the infinite.

Because the gonk he had hunted... was not alone.

Akar should have known. Gonks never traveled alone. A second had waited patiently, ready to strike once the human lowered his guard. The first — mortally wounded — had sacrificed itself. Repulsive, yes. But lethal.

It was always one or the other: Them or you.

Just like life itself. Wouldn’t you agree?

Merciless, the second gonk seized the young prince by the neck and lifted him more than a foot off the ground, using only one of its deformed, muscular arms. Akar’s lungs seized — no air. He tried to escape, but neither arms nor legs obeyed. Mocking him, the gonk grabbed the wrist bearing the silver bracelet, sniffed it with disdain... Then spat in his face — a sticky, orange substance. With his dying face bathed in blood, Akar knew he was already delirious. He heard the bear’s roar again — or thought he did.

Then came darkness.

...10th of Ekluv, 20th Euré, Fifth Era

1 Literally: “Man, not to die”

2 See annex “On the kradparuná”. Literally: “The many words”.

THE old elven1 man moved slowly through the chamber, burdened by a painful limp, carefully ensuring that each of the twelve tall windows was securely shut. The light of dusk bathed the hall in a particular ambiance. He, Úlatar, had been the Keeper of the Hall ever since he returned from the Great War, and by the honor of his forefathers, he would fulfill his duty faithfully until his light took its final journey.

“Time to sleep, old friends. Time to sleep,” he murmured—over the years, he had developed the habit of speaking aloud while he worked.

The hall, called the Hall of the Twelve Thrones, stood within one of the seven towers of the royal palace of Krádovel, the most prominent city under the control of the golden folk in Belfáel. Each of those towers had been raised by one of the seven great kings who followed after the departure of the legendary Sun-King Elf. The tower housing the Twelve Thrones was known as the Tower of Dumara. The thrones had been relocated there shortly before the coming of Trávaldor, the ancient and immense capital of what had once been the Council. Thanks to that, the thrones had been spared the pillaging and destruction that befell the city during its fall at the hands of the néldor armies.

The thrones from which the hall took its name were symbols of a lost age of peace.

Memories we left behind.

We had no need for them.

“Tomorrow will be a new day,” the old Keeper whispered.

The hall was truly a space reserved exclusively for kings and rulers, sealed off from indiscreet eyes. When Gorá, the fragmented moon of the skies, shone in full splendor, the dome of the Tower of Dumara reflected its silvery rays in a spectacle rivaled by few things upon the surface of the earth. King Dumara, fourth in the line of succession from the Sun-King Elf, had ordered its construction as a gift for his beloved after her death. Its reflection had sparked the beginning of love for many among the youth of Krádovel. Then, after centuries of vacancy, the upper hall of the Tower of Dumara was chosen to host the twelve thrones brought from afar.

“And then the next one will come. Or so they say,” the old man smiled at his own jest.

The value of each throne was immeasurable. They were forged of pure gold—gold once extracted from the rich mines of the great eastern mountain, Éter-Muná. Every throne was lavishly adorned with letters, symbols, and all kinds of ornamentation finely crafted in silver, copper, onyx, or exceptional diamonds, each throne being unique in its final form. Many of these symbols were inscribed in forgotten languages that revealed the origin of the kingdom each throne served. Moreover, each was crowned at its backrest and armrests with wonderful, peerless gemstones.

“One day, then the next,” Úlatar muttered as he limped from window to window.

Five ruby stars nearly a handspan wide crowned the Red Throne of Roühm. Three dazzling emeralds shone on the Green Throne of the sons of Veühm. White, grey, and black pearls adorned the Pearled Throne of the heirs of the cruel Ura-Ross. Pure ivory, taken from dragon fangs or glodandro claws, formed the White Throne of the vanished Instructors. Sapphires and pyropes adorned the throne of the Zulá nation. Orange topazes framed the symbol of Kádor-Hum.

“Close these three and all that remains is to open them again tomorrow,” the Keeper repeated, as he had done every day for nearly three cycles.2

Opals and beryls could be seen on the Translucent Throne of the Nador nation. Diamonds and turquoises interlinked in the form of a thick broken chain decorated the Grey Throne of the reclusive sígrim. The brilliant and magnificent Golden Throne of the elven people was always the most admired, covered as it was in the names of their greatest rulers and most legendary warriors.

“You... always the same!” Úlatar complained as he struggled to lock the final window—the one that always gave him trouble. The one that pointed directly to the dark stone throne: the Black Throne, the throne of the Dominion.

The only one that truly mattered.

To each side of the Black Throne stood the Throne of Everwood—belonging to the onimod kings—and the Throne of Fire, belonging to the hybrid race, named after the peculiar material it was carved from: a rare steely metal extracted from the depths of Abismos, which by night seemed to glow within like the fire of the northern volcanoes.

Forgotten remnants of another time.

When our world used to shine.

“But we have not forgotten,” the Keeper said to himself as he turned toward the chamber doors.

Unlike the others, the Throne of the Dominion had never been used. No lord of the Empire of the North had ever claimed it, and none had dared usurp such a dreadful seat. Little was known of its forging or its place of origin, though it was believed to have arrived in Trávaldor near the end of the Third Era—also known as Krádovel Akluev—from beyond the Red Mountains, as a gesture of goodwill and offering from the then seemingly defeated Kingdom of the North. For centuries the other thrones had been occupied by kings, queens, or judges of greater or lesser heart, but the Black Throne remained untouched by Council affairs.

Empty of purpose.

Nevertheless, many citizens of Krádovel now saw it as the strongest proof that peace with the enemy—with the Dominion—was possible. Yet Úlatar, who had watched it closely for so many years, knew that this throne was nothing but another threat from the traitors of the North, yet another insult against the free races of the Living Land.

“I’m watching you,” the old Keeper muttered before bolting the doors and locking them.

And sometimes Úlatar felt as though the Black Throne had a life of its own. It seemed to change appearance, though the old Keeper could never be entirely sure.

The Black Throne had been crafted from a strange, blackish material unknown in Belfáel, veined and cracked with even darker striations that coursed like veins across its rough surface. The name of the néldor was carved in the forbidden language of the First Ones, etched with symbols in weathered silver. Just above that name was engraved a single, dreadful word: Béhej’Ari.

The Immortal.

The darkness that swallows all.

On the outer parts of the armrests had been placed a set of sharp fangs, curving inward, the first no more than half a handspan long and each following one larger than the last. Similar adornments, though larger, lined the throne’s back. Each corner was crowned with massive kúhecs that must have belonged to gonks of unimaginable strength. At the throne’s base was drawn the profile of thirteen cracked spheres, coated in gold and bronze. Within each sphere had been embedded tiny gemstones similar to those adorning the other thrones, though in this case, every gem was shattered, blemished, torn... or reduced to nothing more than fine, ugly dust.

Fear.

Horror.

No one who looked upon the Black Throne could help but feel a deep sense of dread and uncertainty—an impression of inevitable defeat, of agony that could only be halted by death.

It wounded the soul.

The old Keeper locked each of the three bolts with his master key. Now the chamber was lit only by a handful of faint torches that would remain burning through the night. Úlatar knew no one would enter. No one ever had since he was named Keeper of the Hall. The Council was but another dream lost in time. His leg flared up painfully—today, it ached horribly. Another jolt forced a grimace from him.

“I’m old, like all of you... I have no more battles to fight,” muttered the aching elf, leaning against the doors to keep from falling.

It was said that these entrance doors were once part of a larger gate, brought from the fallen city of Trávaldor itself. Some even believed they had belonged to the sacred temple of Raessraw, of which only a few ruins now remained near the Roühm stronghold of the Fortress.

Perhaps they were just legends.

Their time had passed.

Now... it was ours.

Just as the old Keeper managed to lock the doors with the key, a hand gripped Úlatar firmly by the shoulder—startling him in a way he hadn’t felt since the days of the Great War. Startled, the elderly elf dropped the master key to the floor, where it clattered loudly against the marble stone.

“Do not fear—I mean you no harm,” said the stranger amicably. “Are you the Keeper of the Hall? Are you the one called Úlatar?”

“What in the—?” muttered Úlatar, turning to see his interlocutor. He immediately recognized the round-faced, smiling man—slightly short of stature—who had asked the question. That peculiar way of speaking was unmistakable. He was an important outsider. Still, the elf retorted irritably, “This is no way to behave, sir! And it is not the hour! The Hall is closed. Closed! Foreigners—always the same!”

Without losing his smile, the other replied, “Summon the Council, Keeper of the Thrones. I invoke my right to do so.”

“Closed! That’s final,” Úlatar snapped, not truly listening due to his annoyance.

“Summon it, Keeper. I must convene the Council. I bring news that must be heard by all. Go.”

Úlatar shifted from anger to astonishment as he realized what was being demanded. The outsider insisted: “I shall not repeat myself a third time.”

He was no longer smiling—his expression now held impatience, rising fast.

“Honorable Gladio Tercio...” stammered the confused Keeper, changing tone. “Such a thing hasn’t been done here in Krádovel since the thrones arrived. It would take weeks to notify the other realms,” he continued to protest. “The elves don’t even have a king to summon... That belongs to another age...”

But the gaze of this Gladio Tercio made the old elf recall his oath of service.

“True, true. My duty is to watch and warn. Nothing more for this poor old cripple, am I right, sir?” Úlatar conceded, albeit reluctantly.

“You will tell them we have found him.”

“Found... sir? Did you say found? My ears are not what they used to be. Found what?”

“Not what, Keeper—whom. We have found him at last. He has finally appeared. Úlatar, tell them the kadorians have found the emissary of the times.”

Úlatar’s jaw dropped at the title. A laugh escaped him involuntarily. What a fanciful claim from this outsider! The emissary of the times... truly?

But when Gladio showed him something he had hidden in his robes, the laughter dissolved into pure astonishment. It was real. This truly was news. One last battle to be fought.

“Remember—you are bound by your oath of secrecy.”

Úlatar nodded and bowed solemnly in honor. Then, with emotion in his voice, he said: “So it shall be, great Gladio. I will summon the Council—and may Elf’s destiny have mercy upon ours.”

Gladio watched as the old elf hurried down the hallways of the Tower—remarkably fast despite his limp—until he vanished from view. Using the torch he carried, Gladio found the master key still forgotten on the ground. He unlocked all three bolts, unbarred the great doors, and entered the famed Hall of the Twelve Thrones.

He walked steadily forward until reaching the marble and granite steps that led to the platform where the thrones stood.

“The thrones,” he said aloud as he climbed the three steps. Then added, “Beautiful. Truly beautiful.”

He respectfully touched the first throne—the one belonging to the realm of Zulá, adorned with splendid lapis lazuli and sky-blue gems. He swept his gaze across the remaining eleven thrones, dimly lit by the torches Úlatar always left burning. At last, he found what he was seeking: a double sphere of deep golden hue etched into the backrest of one of the twelve thrones. Recognizing instantly the symbol of his nation, he sat in the seat without hesitation, awaiting the report that the peculiar Keeper would soon deliver.

“You won’t win. You will never defeat us,” he declared aloud, fixing his eyes on the vacant, shadowed Black Throne of the Dominion. The emperor of Kádor-Hum, Gladio Óptimus, of the family of the Tercios, repeated with fury: “Never!”

Time will tell.

He then pulled a snack from the pocket of his trousers and began chewing calmly.

The Black Throne seemed to respond to his words—its innards stirred, as if it had heard the bold threat of the valiant, round-bellied emperor. A new vein formed, sliding through the dark stone, hidden from Gladio’s sight. He didn’t notice that this new vein joined the countless others that, since distant and forgotten times, slithered across the uneven surface of the Black Throne.

Waiting. Waiting for Death’s call.

* * * * *

All he could see upon opening his eyes was the faint glow of a small nearby fire. He tried to lift his hands to his head, but the pain throughout his body was unbearable, and he could barely move his neck. It was nighttime, the stars were veiled by thick clouds, and he felt cold, hungry... but above all, he felt pain. Once his vision cleared—after what felt like an eternal wait—he realized he was lying in the middle of a forest. Several bloodstained bandages covered wounds across his body, especially on his head, where a slight movement triggered a sharp jolt that left him stunned.

Luckily, the pain was brief.

He noticed odd green three-pointed leaves covering a nasty bruise on his leg—leaves he had never seen before. He could hardly remember what had happened or why he was lying on his back, injured and surrounded by unfamiliar plants. The small fire, the only light source, seemed to be fading, and he wondered whether he would survive the cold night.

Then came a sound.

The silent steps of some nearby creature awakened his survival instincts, and suddenly, fleeting images surged in his aching mind: a friend's scream for help, his hand gripping a bloodied sword, a gaze filled with hatred... Then another wave of pain and nausea overtook him, and he lost consciousness once again.

Later, he awoke, unsure how he was still alive. He couldn't be alive—it was impossible. And yet, there he was: wounded and lost in the Forest of Gold. Although his memories were returning, he still had no idea what had truly happened. As he tried to piece things together, he heard those same footsteps again. The creature was now clearly approaching.

“Perfect,” he thought.

The weakened boy tried to stand but failed. His eyes shut tightly from the pain. The steps circled the flickering fire, fearless and unimpressed. With great effort, he squinted toward the visitor.

And what he saw left him stunned.

A massive bear with dark brown fur had settled in front of him and was staring with curious amusement. Just as the bear lifted one of its powerful paws toward him, a melodic childlike voice interrupted:

“At last, you're awake.” The bear withdrew its paw, flopped onto its back, clearly annoyed. “Don't worry about Jubal. He always gets annoying when we meet someone new,” continued the cheerful voice. The bear huffed but stood up and moved toward the speaker. “You’d better not move, or you’ll never heal properly, young one,” the voice advised.

“Who are you? What do you want from me?” Akar asked.

“Slow down, boy. My name is Hurka,” replied the melodic voice. “You probably don’t know it, but you’re lucky Jubal found you in time. That nasty gonk was about to tear you apart.”

Then the owner of the voice stepped into view. Akar finally saw him. The figure of what appeared to be a “child” no older than twelve or thirteen approached. He wore only a simple loincloth and had thick chest hair that reached his navel. His arms—shockingly muscular—revealed bulging veins, visible even in the weak firelight. Around his neck hung a striking necklace made of yellowish bear claws and a strange tattoo Akar couldn’t make out in the dark. The “boy” stopped beside the bear, vigorously stroking its back, which seemed to please the creature greatly. Then he turned to Akar and spoke with a serious face:

“Recover, young prince of the red riders. You must.”

“How do you know who I am?” Akar asked, perplexed. Before Hurka could answer, he added with disdain: “You’re just a boy—I don’t have time for—”

“A boy?” Hurka interrupted, amused. “I see the youth of Roühm are no longer taught who truly rule the Forest of Gold.”

“Rule?” Akar managed to sit up slightly. “King Adkra—my father—is the only ruler of this forest.” At that, Hurka burst into laughter. “You shouldn’t laugh at the great king of Roühm!” Akar protested, furious. “Even if you're just... just... a ragged creature, with that look and that... that trained bear or whatever— I won’t let you mock my father again! Don’t think—” He stopped as a new spike of pain shot through his shoulder. Once it passed, he added with arrogant defiance: “Don’t think that just because I’m injured you can mock me, foolish brat!”

“Easy there, boy,” Hurka said, still smiling. “You humans are amusing. Our kind have always believed your worst flaw is forgetting the past too easily.”

“What are you talking about?” Akar stared, something unsettling gnawing at him. There was something... unnatural about Hurka. “Who are you? What are you doing here alone? Where are your parents?”

“Who I am? Better ask what we are,” Hurka said. “You should know us—just as your father once did. We are the watchers of life. You red riders gave us a name in these lands that I’m sure you know: minims.” Akar’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “Jubal is my birth-brother. You hadn’t noticed, had you?”

“Minims!” Akar finally exclaimed, staring at Jubal the bear. “They’re just legends to scare children! I don’t believe you! Take me to your elders—that’s an order! Enough nonsense!”

“Are you sure, young prince? You don’t believe? You will. Many things seem impossible, but to our mother-earth, all things are possible. Had your father not departed, he would have explained it to you,” Hurka replied.

“My father departed? What do you know about my father!?” Akar snapped. “You were mocking him just a moment ago, and now you speak as if you were his friend. You know what I really think?” he continued defiantly. “I think you’re just another filthy spy of the Dominion! You’ll get nothing from me, spy!” he growled, lying back down. Then added: “I may be young, spy, but we Roühm never betray our own. And I am... I am his prince. You have failed!”

“If you won’t believe me,” Hurka warned, “you will believe Jubal.”

The bear, who had remained silent thus far, stretched lazily and lumbered toward Akar.

“I’m not afraid to die, spy,” Akar muttered. “I am lord of Valtra. Grand prince of—”

“SILENCE, little human!” two voices echoed at once. The melodic voice of Hurka merged with another, deep and resonant— and, impossibly, it came from Jubal himself. “Only a true minim can fuse his voice with that of his birth-brother. You knew that, didn’t you?” Akar sat up, stunned, as he saw the bear move and speak in perfect sync with Hurka. “I am Hurka-Jubal, watcher of life in the Forest of Gold. And what are you?” the minim asked, with a natural arrogance that made Akar feel very small. “Jubal and I appear to mortal eyes as two beings— but our mother-earth, whom we protect, conceived us as one.” Both bear and “boy” extended paw and hand toward Akar.

“This is our true form. This is what minims are. Your existence, little human, is brief compared to ours. Our blood flowed with life long before yours arrived in these lands.”

“But that’s not—”

“Speak only when asked, little human!” the minim ordered sternly. “We have known all your greatest kings and their noble steeds,” Hurka-Jubal continued. “King Mumka and the beautiful Dubla; Parekna and Góndrak the dappled; and many more we will never forget.” Hurka-Jubal sighed, pausing. “Akar, this is our forest—one of our homes. You proud red riders are mere travelers passing through this world. Never forget that,” the minim warned.

Afterwards, Jubal the bear slowly retreated and lay down, weary, against a nearby trunk. Hurka, returning to his cheerful voice, said:

“Now speak, if you wish, young one.”

“I... it’s just... I can’t believe it,” Akar stammered. “It’s incredible. But if you really are what you say—everything would make sense. Minims! Minims at our border—no, Minims in the Forest of Gold. Wow! I’ve spoken to a real minim! If everything they say about you is true, then I... I’m sorry for threatening you. I shouldn’t have done it. I’m... I guess I’m sorry.”

“Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t yet be a threat to a minim. But you will be, boy. You know, you remind me of Adkra when I met him. I see his strength and determination in you.”

“Really? Tell me more about that. Tell me about my father, Hurka—please. I barely remember him. What do you know of him?”

“I will, young one. But when the time is right. Right now, you are weak, and your only concern must be healing,” Hurka said firmly. The bear rose, sniffing the air with clear anxiety. Hurka tensed simultaneously. “They’re looking for you, Akar. The rest of the gonk’s pack you killed is nearby— and they want your blood, boy. But that’s not even what you should fear most,” Hurka continued, his tone far graver. “Evil is creeping close. We minims won’t be able to protect the Forest of Gold alone for much longer. That gonk you killed proves it. But there is more, young prince. We are all in grave danger.” Akar felt his strength faltering. Hurka’s voice became a soft murmur. “The enemy is preparing. And he seeks but one thing, boy.”

“What is it?” Akar asked, struggling to stay awake.

“To annihilate us, Akar. The Northern enemy wants only one thing...” Hurka’s voice slowed. “...to destroy us all.”

“My people will fight...” Akar whispered, nearly asleep.

“That’s not what matters most,” Hurka replied, gently leaning down to change his bandages.

Exhausted, Akar had one final question.

In a fading voice, he asked:

“What about Ormul?”

“The sleeping giant?” Hurka replied. “Jubal found him. But you should know—neither your friend will be able to leave you, nor you him. Not ever. One cannot defy the will of our mother-earth.”

Akar didn’t understand—what did Hurka mean? That Ormul wouldn’t leave him? That his bond was eternal? But fatigue, pain, and a flood of questions overcame him. He closed his eyes—and despite himself—fell into deep sleep.

“That’s right, Akar,” Hurka whispered as he gently removed bandages one by one. “You must regain your strength. You will need it. The fate of Valtra runs in your blood, young human. You cannot fail.”

Hurka continued for some time, treating Akar’s wounds, glancing now and then at the golden sword lying by the prince’s side.

Remembering.

Oblivious, Jubal began to snore thunderously.

...13th of Ekluv, 20th Euré, Fifth Era

1 The sons or descendants of King Elf. See annex: “About the Peoples of the Living Land”. 

2 One cycle = 7 years