The deep roar of a horn echoed across the mountain, shaking the very air. It was loud, ancient, and filled with an ominous weight.

  Rhaelor's grip on his spear tightened. "What was that? A warning? A call to arms?"

  The wooden-armored warrior, who had bowed only seconds ago, jerked his head toward the sound—his posture suddenly stiff with urgency.

  Without hesitation, he turned and ran back toward the mountain. His wooden armor clattered as he disappeared into the rocky terrain.

  "He's retreating?" one of the Ashelian warriors muttered in disbelief.

  The young dwarf gritted his teeth, his hands shaking with barely restrained anger. "No. He's calling for reinforcements."

  The warriors exchanged glances, sensing the shift in the air. The mountains ahead now felt even more dangerous.

  Rhaelor took a deep breath. "We keep moving. Be ready for anything."

  The warrior in wooden armor vanished into the rocky terrain, and before anyone could process his retreat, a loud horn echoed from the mountain.

  Then, the slopes came alive. Figures in wooden armor poured down from hidden paths, weapons raised, voices shouting in a language none of them understood.

  Train, the only dwarf among Rhaelor's army, felt his heart drop. "I knew it! He was calling for reinforcements!"

  The Ashelians gritted their teeth, tightening their grip on their weapons. The elves, their keen eyes scanning the enemy, readied their bows.

  Rhaelor's expression remained unreadable, but his voice was steady. "It doesn't matter. Shields up! Spears forward! Hold the line!"

  The first wave of invaders was almost upon them.

  The warrior who had fled dashed down the mountain, his movements swift and precise. As he reached a secluded outcrop, he cast off his wooden armor piece by piece, revealing a sleek black outfit that shrouded his entire body—except for his sharp, calculating eyes.

  A Yǐngshì—a shadow warrior of the east.

  While Rhaelor and his warriors clashed with the invaders further up the mountain, the Yǐngshì slipped away unnoticed, vanishing into the labyrinthine rock formations.

  Deep beneath the mountain, within a dimly lit chamber, red silk banners swayed gently from the cavern walls. A row of stone lanterns cast a warm glow over the intricate carvings depicting ancient battles and forgotten empires.

  At the heart of the room sat a woman in crimson robes, her presence commanding an air of quiet authority. She reclined upon a throne of dark wood, carved with elegant patterns of dragons and phoenixes. Beside her, a retinue of silent warriors stood at attention, their hands resting lightly on their curved blades.

  From the shadows, the Yǐngshì emerged, kneeling before her.

  "Wǒ de nǚwáng, yǒu rén jìnláile," he reported in a hushed yet firm voice. "Tāmen dài lái le yī gè ǎi rén. Kàn qǐlái, zhè gè ǎi rén zhǎo le wàiláirén lái bāngzhù." (My Lady, someone has entered the mountain. They have brought a dwarf with them. It seems the dwarf has sought help from foreign tribes.)

  The woman's dark eyes flickered with intrigue as she lightly tapped her fingers against the armrest.

  After a moment, she exhaled softly, a faint smirk forming on her lips.

  "Búyào gānshè. Wǒmen zhǐ yào wǒmen dírén de tóu. Zhèxiē wàiláirén, bìng bù shì wǒmen de wèntí." (Do not interfere. We only want the head of our enemy, these outsiders are not our concern.)

  The Yǐngshì bowed his head.

  "Míngbái (Understood)."

  Then, in an instant, he disappeared into the shadows once more, leaving behind only the flickering glow of the lanterns.

  Rhaelor and his warriors pressed forward, their feet steady against the rocky terrain. The battle raged on as the enemy forces threw themselves at them with relentless fury. Yet, despite the intensity of the fight, none of Rhaelor's warriors felt exhaustion.

  Thrian, gripping his spear tightly, drove its tip into an approaching enemy before yanking it free. He barely had time to catch his breath before another assailant lunged at him. With a swift sidestep, he countered, cutting the man down with practiced ease.

  "Wǒmen bùnéng ràng tāmen jìxù shēngcún! (We cannot let them survive!)" one of the enemy commanders barked from the higher slopes.

  "Gěi wǒ chōng! (Attack them! They're only a few!)" their leader roared, waving his hand forward.

  Their forces surged once more, undeterred by their fallen comrades.

  Rhaelor stood firm at the vanguard, sword flashing like silver light as he cleaved through his enemies. His warriors followed, their movements swift, precise, unnaturally strong—just as the Architect had promised.

  The invaders did not understand. They had the advantage of numbers, yet the Ashelians, elves, and their lone dwarven companion showed no signs of fatigue or weakness. It was as if an unseen force bolstered them, making their bodies unyielding like steel.

  As the battle pressed on, Rhaelor's gaze lifted toward the summit. They were close. The mountain stronghold was just within reach.

  Thrian fought with a ferocity that bordered on enjoyment, his spear striking down enemy after enemy. Each swing, each thrust, carried the weight of his vengeance—the pain of his kin lost to these invaders.

  But then, the tide shifted.

  The enemy leader, standing atop the slopes, watched with narrowed eyes. Their foes showed no signs of exhaustion. Their movements were unnaturally swift, precise—untouched by fatigue.

  "Rùqīn! (Retreat!)" he barked.

  At his command, the remaining soldiers immediately turned and ascended toward the mountain stronghold.

  Thrian, still caught in the thrill of battle, shouted after them, "Hey, get back here, you cowards—!"

  Before he could finish, something soft and cold smacked him right in the face. A perfectly aimed snowball.

  The enemy soldier who threw it didn't wait for a response. He merely turned and continued his retreat, as if saying 'no' in the most insulting way possible.

  Thrian stood frozen for a moment, then wiped his face, eyes twitching with irritation.

  "Damn you..!" he growled, gripping his spear tighter. He lunged forward, ready to charge after them—but before he could take a step, a firm hand caught his shoulder.

  "Calm down," Rhaelor said, his voice steady.

  Thrian clenched his fists but exhaled sharply, forcing himself to relax. The battle wasn't over yet. Charging in recklessly could cost them everything.

  They pressed forward, ascending the mountain with caution. The retreat of the enemy had been too easy—and they were right to be wary.

  Suddenly, an ambush.

  From behind the trees and rocky outcrops, enemy warriors sprang forth, weapons in hand. But Rhaelor and his forces were ready. They fought back fiercely, pushing through their attackers. Steel met wood, battle cries filled the cold air, and the snow beneath them turned red.

  Again, the enemy retreated—but just before disappearing into the distance, one of them hurled a snowball directly at Thrian's face.

  Smack!

  Thrian stood in stunned silence, his face now covered in a cold, wet insult. His eye twitched.

  "Son of a—"

  Rhaelor, sensing what was coming, placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Ignore it," he said.

  Thrian exhaled sharply, calming himself. But then—

  It happened again.

  Another ambush. But this time, their enemies weren't throwing weapons.

  They were throwing snowballs.

  Dozens of them.

  The projectiles rained down from the slopes, bouncing off armor, shields, and heads. Some of the soldiers instinctively raised their weapons, but others just stood there, dumbfounded.

  Thrian, however, had reached his limit.

  "That's it!" he roared. "I AM DONE WITH THIS!"

  He charged forward, rage fueling his every step.

  "Thrian, wait—" Rhaelor called, but it was too late.

  The rest of the army had no choice but to follow him.

  Yet, just as they surged forward—the enemy vanished once again, retreating deeper into the mountain.

  "GET YOUR ASSES BACK HERE, YOU COWARDS!" Thrian bellowed after them, voice echoing across the peaks. Never in his life had he been this pissed off—this utterly insulted—by his enemies.

  Before he could run off again, Rhaelor grabbed him, holding him tightly.

  "Calm. Down." His tone was sharp, commanding.

  Thrian gritted his teeth, fists shaking—but he didn't break free.

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  This fight wasn't about pride. It was about winning.

  Thrian heaved against the boulder, rolling it aside with surprising ease—it was round, after all. The entrance had long been buried under thick snow, concealing it from enemies, but Thrian had recognized a sign only his people would notice—a broken crafting table left at the edge.

  The moment the entrance cracked open, a rush of stale, cold air poured out. Without hesitation, Thrian cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed into the cavern.

  "Hey! Is anyone alive!? We brought help!"

  For a moment, only silence answered him. But then—

  "Thrian... is that you, my boy?"

  The voice was faint, yet the echo carried it deep from within the darkness. An old man.

  Thrian's heart pounded. "It's me!" he shouted back, relief washing over him.

  He turned to Rhaelor. "My people are wounded. They won't make it back to the city on their own."

  Even without seeing them yet, Rhaelor understood. The conditions here were brutal, and the dwarves had been hiding, struggling, and suffering for who knows how long.

  Rhaelor nodded. "Magicians, go with Thrian and tend to the wounded. The rest of us will secure the area."

  At his command, several magicians stepped forward. They had learned the art of fire, and with just a wave of their hands, small flames flickered into existence, casting a warm, flickering glow in the cave's gaping mouth.

  The firelight reflected in Thrian's eyes, and suddenly, his lips curled into a wicked grin.

  Oh, this should be interesting...

  The magicians stiffened.

  A cold chill ran down their spines.

  Thrian's chuckle was low, dark—almost too amused.

  As they followed him deeper into the cave, one thought ran through all their minds.

  ...He's planning something, isn't he?

  While Thrian and the magicians disappeared into the cavern, Rhaelor and his warriors remained outside, scanning their surroundings. The cold mountain air bit at their skin, but they stood firm, weapons drawn.

  Then—a sharp signal. One of the scouts raised his hand.

  "Sir, movement to the north."

  Rhaelor followed his gaze. Beyond the snow-covered slopes, a wagon emerged from the greenlands.

  But this was no ordinary wagon. It wasn't laden with goods or supplies—there were no crates, no barrels. Instead, it was built like a small moving house, its exterior reinforced with wooden panels.

  And more importantly—

  It was heavily guarded.

  At least a dozen warriors rode alongside it, their armor catching the pale winter sunlight. These weren't mere escorts. They were elite soldiers.

  Rhaelor narrowed his eyes. "That's no merchant caravan..."

  One of his men whispered, "Should we intercept them?"

  Rhaelor didn't answer right away. His gaze lingered on the wagon, its slow but steady advance northward. Whoever was inside was important. Too important to travel unprotected.

  But they weren't heading to Ashelia.

  They were going north.

  Why?

  After a moment, Rhaelor exhaled.

  "Ignore them. For now."

  But he wouldn't forget.

  Turning back to his warriors, he ordered them to check the path down the mountain, ensuring their retreat remained clear.

  Half an hour later, Thrian and the magicians emerged from the cave, escorting the surviving dwarves. Men, women, and children—weak from hunger but alive.

  Rhaelor stepped forward. "Any casualties?"

  Thrian shook his head. "None, thankfully. They were weak from starvation and dehydration, but we managed to get them food and water in time." He smirked. "Any later, and I'd be carrying half of them on my back."

  Rhaelor nodded, satisfied. "Good work."

  His gaze swept over the exhausted but determined dwarves. They had suffered—but they had survived.

  "We move out now." He looked to his warriors. "Stay sharp. Protect the dwarves. No one gets left behind."

  With that, they began their descent. The battle was over—but the journey home had just begun.

  As Rhaelor's forces made their way down the mountain, their enemies struck again.

  This time, instead of weapons, they hurled metal—ingots, scraps, tools—everything the dwarves once used for their craft.

  "Shield the dwarves!" Rhaelor's voice rang out.

  Without hesitation, the magicians raised their hands, weaving barriers of light and flame to block the falling metal. Sparks erupted as the ingots clashed against their magic, some deflecting harmlessly to the side.

  But not everyone was protected—a few dwarves cowered, arms raised to shield their heads.

  From above, an enemy soldier sneered. "Fěnsuì tāmen! Fěnsuì tāmen suǒyǒu rén!" (Crush them! Crush them all!)

  Rhaelor's warriors stepped forward, using their own bodies as shields. The metals rained down, bouncing harmlessly off their armor. They endured it—unyielding, unshaken.

  The enemy soldiers laughed. They thought they had the advantage.

  They were wrong.

  "They're distracted—CHARGE!" Rhaelor roared.

  At once, his forces surged forward. Magicians hurled fireballs, igniting the snow-covered battlefield. Warriors ascended the slopes with deadly precision, cutting through the enemy lines.

  And while all eyes were on the blazing counterattack, Thrian moved in from behind.

  A wicked grin stretched across his face as he lifted his warhammer.

  The enemy soldiers barely had time to react before—CRACK! Armor shattered, bones crushed beneath the weight of his fury.

  "Didn't like the metal rain, did ya?" Thrian sneered, swinging again. "Here—have some up close!"

  The enemies scrambled in terror. Their leader's expression twisted into panic.

  "Chètuì! Chètuì!" (Fall back! FALL BACK!)

  But before they could flee, Thrian was already upon them.

  With a thunderous swing, he sent one soldier tumbling down the slope. The man's scream echoed as he vanished into the valley below.

  Thrian exhaled, his breath misting in the cold air. "Cowards."

  But he wasn't done.

  One soldier remained—trapped beneath the weight of fallen debris, struggling to crawl away.

  Thrian planted his foot on the man's back, pinning him down. His grin turned devilish.

  "Hey, magicians! Lend me some fire."

  The magicians exchanged wary glances.

  They knew this was coming.

  "Come on," Thrian pressed. "This is for my kin."

  The captured soldier thrashed, eyes wide with fear.

  Rhaelor approached, sword still in hand. His voice was cold, firm.

  "Enough."

  Thrian hesitated—but only for a moment. With a snarl, he stepped back, leaving the man alive.

  For now.

  Rhaelor turned to his men. "Form up! We're heading back—NOW."

  The battle had been won.

  But the war was far from over.

  Night had fallen over Ashelia, the city bathed in a soft glow from lanterns lining the streets. On the northern wall, Vaelora stood where she had been earlier that day, hands clasped in silent prayer. The cold night breeze brushed against her, but she did not move.

  Below, the Elven Chief strode through the streets, speaking with his people. As he passed, he noticed an elf staring up at the wall. Curious, he followed their gaze and saw his daughter, standing alone against the dark sky.

  A quiet sigh escaped his lips.

  Long ago, he had made a promise to his late wife—one that now felt impossible to keep. He had vowed to protect Vaelora, to ensure she never had to endure the pain he once did. But now...

  Perhaps, some promises weren't meant to be kept.

  He turned away, deep in thought. If Rhaelor returned safely, he decided he would speak with him—alone.

  Then—

  "THEY'VE RETURNED! RHAELOR AND THE OTHERS HAVE RETURNED!"

  The cry echoed through the streets. The city erupted with movement.

  From homes and taverns, elves rushed toward the northern gate. Vaelora's heart leaped, her prayers answered. She hurried down the stairs, weaving through the excited crowd.

  At the gate, cheers filled the air. Warriors and civilians alike rejoiced as Rhaelor and his forces entered—victorious.

  Among them, the dwarves who had remained in Ashelia surged forward, gasping in relief at the sight of their rescued kin. Thrian, covered in dirt and bruises, threw his arms in the air.

  "Hah! Look at us now! Thought we were dead, didn't ya?!" He laughed, patting his fellow dwarves on the back.

  From a distance, the Elven Chief leaned against a wooden wall, watching. His sharp gaze followed Rhaelor, noting the way the elves and warriors celebrated him.

  Then—he saw it.

  Rhaelor's eyes scanned the crowd—searching.

  The Elven Chief narrowed his own.

  And there—Vaelora, waving her hand, trying to get his attention.

  As soon as Rhaelor spotted her, he broke away from the celebration, slipping unnoticed through the crowd. He moved with quiet urgency, his heart pounding.

  The Elven Chief watched it all, his mind flashing back to a memory of his youth.

  Once, long ago, he had been like Rhaelor. He had fought, returned home victorious, and searched for the one he loved.

  A sad smile touched his lips.

  "It seems I have broken my promise, Emily." He chuckled softly, whispering his late wife's name.

  And yet—it no longer felt like a burden.

  Perhaps, he had simply been set free.

  Beyond the crowd, Vaelora and Rhaelor met.

  "Rhaelor!"

  "Vaelora!"

  They rushed into each other's arms, holding tightly, as if to prove the other was real. Vaelora's shoulders trembled, her voice thick with emotion.

  "I was so worried... but you're here. You're really here."

  Rhaelor smiled, brushing her hair back gently. "I kept my promise."

  Their foreheads touched, breath mingling in the cool night air.

  And then—without another word, they kissed.

  A moment of pure, untainted joy.

  That night, Vaelora stayed with Rhaelor in his unfinished home—a simple yet sturdy structure, still in the process of becoming a place they could one day call their own.

  The walls were bare, the furniture minimal, but none of it mattered.

  Wrapped beneath the same bedsheet, she lay beside him, her hand resting lightly on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

  For the first time in a long while—she felt safe.

  Meanwhile, the Elven Chief did not sleep.

  While the city rested, he spent the night drinking and celebrating with the rescued dwarves, joining them in a secluded gathering where their revelry wouldn't disturb the sleeping citizens.

  They drank. They laughed. They sang.

  It was a night of relief, a night where both elves and dwarves cast aside their burdens—if only for a few hours.

  Morning arrived.

  The sun's gentle light poured through the windows of Rhaelor's unfinished home, yet neither he nor Vaelora stirred.

  Still asleep, their exhaustion from the previous night had caught up to them.

  Elsewhere, the dwarves and the Elven Chief had also succumbed to deep slumber, their night of drinking finally taking its toll.

  As the city awoke, younger elves and dwarves found themselves in a rather awkward situation—staring at their drunken elders sprawled across tables, benches, and even the ground.

  Faces flushed red with embarrassment, they had no choice but to quietly carry the unconscious drunkards back to their quarters, making sure to let them rest.

  And so—while the city of Ashelia greeted the new day...

  Rhaelor and Vaelora slept on, undisturbed.

  Three months had passed.

  Rhaelor and his army continued their relentless missions to rescue more dwarves. Some were found alive, enduring under harsh conditions, while others had succumbed before they could be saved.

  Under the protection of the Architect, those who survived were brought back to Ashelia, while those who had fallen were given burials of honor, their graves marked with runes of remembrance.

  During this time, Rhaelor and Vaelora's bond deepened.

  What had begun as companionship in battle soon grew into something more. They spent their nights together, sharing the same bed, the same warmth, and the same dreams for the future.

  One evening, beneath the silver glow of the moon, Rhaelor finally confessed his love.

  Vaelora, heart pounding, accepted his feelings. But before they could take the next step, she sought her father's blessing.

  The Elven Chief had long watched over them, silently observing the way his daughter looked at Rhaelor—and the way Rhaelor fought for his people, his convictions, and her.

  When she finally asked, he did not hesitate.

  "If this is your heart's choice, then you have my blessing."

  And with that—Rhaelor and Vaelora were wed.

  The city of Ashelia erupted into celebration.

  There were no objections, no doubts, no complaints.

  Elves, humans, and dwarves gathered as one, feasting and drinking beneath the starlit sky. Songs of love and victory echoed through the streets, and for the first time in a long while, there was joy instead of war, laughter instead of grief.

  Meanwhile, Ashelia itself was transforming.

  After months of effort, the city walls were finally complete.

  With the skilled hands of the dwarves, an agreement was forged:

  In exchange for protection, the dwarves would forge weapons, armor, and defenses—ensuring the city's survival.

  As the days passed, the people of Ashelia stood behind their walls, not as separate races, but as one united people.

  A new era had begun.

  Rhaelor stood alone in the alleyway, his back pressed against the stone wall of the quiet, dimly lit street. The cool night air brushed against his skin, but he didn't feel it. His mind was elsewhere, wrestling with a task that seemed impossible.

  The Architect's command echoed in his ears like an inescapable weight: "Marry all the elven women."

  But Rhaelor couldn't do it. He couldn't force himself to marry any woman other than Vaelora—not when his heart belonged to her. His bond with her was real, deep, and unshakable, and the thought of taking other wives felt wrong, even if the Architect had commanded it.

  Rhaelor's hands trembled as he closed his eyes and whispered the words he knew he had to speak.

  "My Lord," he said softly, his voice barely audible, "Your servant cannot marry all the elven women. Please, reconsider this command. Let me marry just a few of them, if I must, but I ask that you allow me to continue loving my first wife, Vaelora."

  A white cat perched on the rooftop above, its piercing eyes trained on Rhaelor, watching him with an almost knowing gaze.

  The Architect's voice rang out in the silence, calm and clear, though he remained hidden, unseen. "Very well."

  Rhaelor's heart clenched, but he remained still, waiting for the rest of the message.

  "Marry five elven women and make them your wives," the Architect continued. "However, do not marry them yet. Continue to love your first wife, Vaelora, as you always have."

  Rhaelor let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. It wasn't the answer he had hoped for, but it was tolerable. He didn't have to give up Vaelora. He could still love her, keep her as his one true partner, while fulfilling the Architect's command in a way that wouldn't tear his heart apart.

  "Thank you, my Lord."

  The cat on the rooftop blinked slowly, as if acknowledging Rhaelor's submission.

  And as the last words of the Architect faded into the night, Rhaelor felt the weight of the command settle into his chest. He would do as ordered, but he would not let anyone or anything change the love he had for Vaelora.

  Volume 01: Age of Beginning

  March 1st, 2025