The war room lay in a profound stillness. The council had long since dispersed like autumn leaves caught in a lazy wind, and the maps—once sprawling with intricate routes and plans—were now carefully rolled up and tucked away. The dying fire in the hearth crackled softly, its low, persistent murmurs sending elongated, quivering shadows dancing across the cold, ancient stone walls. Yet amid this quiet desolation, Aelric remained.
He sat alone at the head of the long, scarred table, a single unfurled parchment spread before him like a story waiting to be told. His long fingers, marked by the residue of past battles and trembling faintly from the echo of a violent storm that had swept through hours earlier, spoke of his inner turmoil. Mei-Ling's voice reverberated in his mind—her steadfast resolve, the deep pain etched upon her soul, and the staggering weight of the lonely burdens she carried. She was slipping away, a delicate flame dwindling in the night, and with every beating moment, he was running out of time.
Aelric slowly dipped his quill into a small inkwell filled with rich, obsidian liquid, pausing as if to gather his courage. With a deep, measured breath, he began to write:
Lorientfel, my old friend,
It has been an age since I last had the honour of writing your name—too long, indeed. If I am to speak with unburdened honesty, I confess that this letter should have been penned long ago. Not in the throes of desperation, not on the precipice of what feels like the end, but rather as an elvan brother who has wronged you and failed to make amends.
First and foremost—before any words confound our past—I must say I am sorry.
I stripped you of your title. I exiled you and your beloved from this realm, branding you as traitors, rebels, and enemies to the very crown you once defended with more loyalty than any elf I have ever known. You did not deserve such injustice. Even in those dark moments, I knew it in my bones.
You stood by me when the throne was nothing but a shimmering mirage—hope reduced to dust and expectation. You bled for it, for me. Yet, in return, I allowed fear, pride, and the treacherous machinations of politics to deafen me to every truth you tried to convey.
You were right.
You were right about the corruption seeping through our institutions. You were right about the council and about the tyrannical king I was destined to become if I ever ceased to listen to those who truly understood me.
And still, you never once raised a hand in defiance. You departed with your honour intact while I shattered mine irreparably.
But, dear Lori, I now write not merely with regret—but with a plea. I need my commander once more. I need you.
The Demon Emperor—the one they whisper of as Fenglian—has breached the veil between realities. He scorches everything in his relentless path. Villages, towns, and entire cities that once sang harmonies to the twinkling stars have been reduced to smouldering ruins and ashen remains. And he is not here simply to conquer...
He is here for her.
For Mei-Ling.
She arrived in my life like a burst of flame tearing through a blanket of snow—extraordinary, fiery, and untamed. I failed to comprehend her essence, attempting instead to keep her safely at arm's length. But now, she has become something I can not fathom a kingdom without.
She wishes to confront him alone. She clings to the belief that surrender might be the sole path to halt this encroaching war—that sacrificing herself could somehow spare the rest of us. And I... I find myself at a loss for words to dissuade her.
Yet perhaps you might possess them.
Lori, I do not pen these words as a king. I write as your brother.
Come back.
Come home.
I do not call for your sword—what I seek is the loyalty that once shimmered in your spirit. I long for the elf who stood steadfastly beside me when we were boys, training amidst frost and hardship. I yearn for the elf whose stirring speeches could move soldiers to tears, for the elf who knew me even when I had forgotten my own reflection.
And understand this—Mei-Ling needs more than this solitary figure that I have become. She needs her family, her cherished friends. She needs those who will fight not just on her behalf but alongside her, to remind her that she does not have to bear this immense burden alone.
If there remains a spark within your heart that recalls me—not the king who faltered in his duty, but the boy with whom you once swore an unbreakable oath—then I implore you:
Return.
Stand with us.
Help remind her that we do not sacrifice the ones we love in a futile bid to save the world—we save the world because of the boundless love we hold for them.
With hope,
Aelric
Brother, if you'll still have me.
He signed his name slowly, deliberately, as if each letter was a prayer. The ink dried in the quiet room like a secret sealed away. For a lingering moment, he sat still, his gaze fixed upon the folded parchment as if expecting it to whisper answers in return. Finally, he sealed it with his personal crest, and summoning a raven with a quiet, almost sorrowful call, he fastened the scroll gently to the bird's leg.
As the raven ascended into the silver embrace of the moonlit sky, Aelric remained rooted in his solitary vigil—his hands clenched tightly, his heart an anxious forge of regret and determination. He did not know whether Lorientfel would ever forgive him, but by the grace of the ancient gods, he knew he had to try.
Somewhere far from that quiet desperation, the letter finally found its reader.
****
Somewhere far from that quiet desperation, the letter finally found its reader.
Lorientfel read the letter three times, his eyes scanning the paper as though it were a particularly pesky bug. On the fourth read, he set it down with exaggerated exasperation and rubbed his eyes—not because they burned, but simply due to a grimy, allergy-induced moisture. The ink had smudged, nothing more dramatic than that. There was absolutely no way he was going to cry over Aelric's overly dramatic, parchment apologies for heartbreak.
Clearing his throat in a feeble attempt at regained composure, he was abruptly interrupted as a small sock (of all things) playfully smacked him in the face.
"Lori," Jingfei chirped sweetly while gently bouncing Little Grape in her arms, a sparkle in her eyes. "You look like you just saw a ghost—or remembered your taxes were overdue. What's the matter?"
For a long moment, he remained mute. Meanwhile, Little Grape cooed as she flashed a cheeky smile, confidently shoving a soggy biscuit into her mouth like a tiny queen asserting her irrefutable right to dessert.
"It's... Mei-Ling," Lorientfel finally managed to say, his voice taut like a drawn bow. "She's in danger. Aelric wrote in—believe it or not—a demon emperor has wandered into our realm—"
"Fenglian?" Jingfei nearly dropped the biscuit in sheer horror.
Lorientfel blinked in surprise. "You know him?"
Before Jingfei could earnestly reply, Fror and Gror burst through the door as if summoned by the drama of the moment.
"DID SOMEONE MENTION FENGLIAN?" bellowed Fror, brandishing a frying pan and what suspiciously resembled a rolled-up sock as if they were his holy relics.
Gror, trailed closely behind, unsheathed a dagger with such gusto that it catapulted a teacup off the shelf in an almost balletic display of clumsy fervour. "We're all too familiar with that demon goat-tongued rascal."
In perfect sync, Yueli and Xueyi arrived moments later, expressions carved from ennui and deep disapproval.
"Fenglian?" hissed Xueyi while tightening her bracers as if preparing for a duel.
"That blasted, cursed corpse-king has crossed over, then?" spat Yueli. "I knew our past wasn't done hounding us."
"We barely escaped him once," Gror stated grimly.
"I still wake up terrified of his monstrous war beasts," Fror muttered, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and reluctant humour. "And his ridiculous floating crown—as if he believed walking was beneath him."
From beneath the table, a low growl emerged from Gui.
"Right on, buddy," Jingfei whispered in agreement.
Lorientfel slowly swivelled among the raucous limbs and clattering chaos. "She's determined to confront him alone."
A beat of silence fell, the severity of the news halting the merry madness.
"Nope," Gror said instantly. "Not on our watch."
"Absolutely not," Fror chimed in, already lashing mismatched pieces of armour to his limbs with a flourish.
"She's our friend," Xueyi reminded softly.
"She's family," Yueli nodded in firm agreement.
Drawing a deep, steely breath, Lorientfel's voice hardened. "Then we ride to her aid."
"Do we bring snacks?" Gror quipped with a mischievous glimmer.
"Snacks? There's no time for snacks!" Lorientfel snapped back.
"Speak for yourself," Jingfei countered, a fiery glint in her eyes. "I'm coming too."
Lorientfel froze mid-step. "No."
Her eyes narrowed like a hawk, zeroing in on a particularly infuriating rabbit. "Pardon me?"
"You have to stay here," he insisted carefully, "with the baby."
"I'm not abandoning Mei-Ling this time!" Jingfei declared fiercely.
At that very moment, Little Grape let out an adorably dramatic gurgle in support.
"She's right," Xueyi added. "We need to be together on this."
"She packs all the magic, knives, and deathly looks imaginable. Honestly, she's probably the most dangerous force among us," Yueli exclaimed.
Lorientfel hesitated, visibly torn. But Jingfei advanced toward him, baby cradled with fierce determination, her eyes ablaze with fiery resolve.
"I will fight you on that," she threatened with a tone that would make any tyrant shudder.
Even Little Grape punctuated her sentiment with a magnificently dramatic sneeze.
"...Fine," he sighed with reluctant acceptance. "But what about the baby?"
"She'll be secure in the refuge," Jingfei assured. "With the nursemaid. And remember? She's the terrifying one with a collection of pitchforks and a bizarre obsession with parsnips."
"She definitely inspires a healthy dose of fear," Fror admitted with a grim smile.
"I trust her with everything—even my soul," Yueli added.
Gror gave an exaggerated salute. "She was the one who taught me the fine arts of embroidery and—believe it or not—emotional regulation."
"Now, round up everyone!" Lorientfel commanded, his commanding tone surging forth. "Sound the riders. Dispatch word to every corner of our remaining dominion."
In full theatrical fashion, Fror spun around to the window. "Release the ravens!"
Gror spun in a circle of his own. "Hold up—we don't even own ravens."
"Not until now!" Fror shouted triumphantly as he bolted from the room.
Calm as ever, Yueli produced a scroll from her pocket. "I already sent two hawks. Feredis, Hoki, and Miyx are still stationed at the Monastery of Wizardry—they'll be swift."
"They'll bring enough spellfire—and dramatic flair—to make any theatrical troupe blush," Xueyi added with a wry smile.
"And what of Mirna, Hattori, and Honzo?" Lorientfel queried.
"Havgradić," Yueli replied briskly. "They're on scouting duty. By sundown, they'll have the word."
"Splendid," Lorientfel said with determination. "We ride to the palace. They'll join us there."
Handing Little Grape to the nursemaid—a small, stocky woman whose arms could rival tree trunks and whose glare could reduce armour to molten scrap—Jingfei warned, "If the baby even hiccups inappropriately, send a hawk."
The nursemaid grunted once and whisked the baby away with all the precision of a military operation.
"Right," Lorientfel declared, turning to face his motley crew. "This is it. This is who we are. One more battle. For Mei-Ling."
"For Aelric," Yueli added perceptively.
"For vengeance!" Fror and Gror roared simultaneously, clanging their weapons together with such force that Gror's shin bore the brunt of an accidental yet comical hit.
Xueyi unsheathed a gleaming blade and double-checked her assortment of poisons.
Gui leapt up with a ferocious snarl that resonated like an approving drumroll.
And Jingfei, cracking her knuckles with playful menace, declared, "Let's go ruin someone's day."
With hearts pounding like tribal drums and an array of absurd weaponry strapped to their backs, they saddled their steeds, rode out into the chaos, and brought a whirlwind of delightful mayhem with them.