Though colossal, the great doors yielded at once beneath Eltharion’s touch, ancient mechanisms stirring with a deep and measured groan.

  They swung open in a slow, ceremonial sweep, as though enacting a rite that had waited ages for this moment to arrive.

  A rush of cool, bright air spilled outward.

  Baronsworth entered.

  Before him stretched a throne room vast and majestic.

  Grand pillars of white marble soared upward like titans bearing heaven upon their shoulders.

  Crimson banners hung from the heights—immaculate cloth emblazoned with the sigil of a white lion, its jaws slightly parted in an eternal, silent roar.

  Sunlight poured through immense arched windows, striking the gleaming sigils and weapons displayed along the walls.

  Their surfaces caught the light and scattered it across the chamber in ripples of pale fire.

  And at the far end of the hall, upon a broad dais carved from a single monolith of polished stone, sat Lord Oberon—poised and still, regal as a figure carved from starlight and memory.

  He reclined upon an elegant throne wrought of pale steel and dark wood, a goblet of wine in one hand, his head resting lightly on the other, fingers curled beneath his cheek.

  Long, moon-pale hair fell in straight silken strands on either side of his face.

  Handsome he was, fiercely so—but his beauty was honed to a dangerous fineness, like a blade sharpened past safety.

  His amethyst eyes were deep and fathomless—like the ocean after all stars have set—yet something restless flickered behind them, a disquiet that cut through the room’s grandeur.

  And beneath it all, Baronsworth sensed a slow-burning wrath, vast and ancient, shackled only by will.

  In the center of the room, two Elf-women fought with a beauty so fierce it bordered on sorcery.

  Their garments—little more than ribbons of silk—clung to the curves of their bodies as they moved, revealing fair forms and long limbs in fluid motion, each gesture shaped by years of discipline and hard-won mastery.

  One bore hair of molten gold, braided so intricately it glimmered like chains catching the sun; the other’s was black as obsidian, swept into a high knot that bared the elegant line of her throat.

  Sweat glistened faintly upon their skin, catching the light as they spun and struck—each move a shimmer of muscle and allure.

  Their twin blades carved arcs of silver, but their dance held an undercurrent older than battle lore: a slow, smoldering confidence born of knowing they were watched.

  Not merely observed—beheld.

  By him.

  The lord upon the throne.

  Their hips turned with feline grace, their steps measured as a lover’s breath, yet each strike cracked with lethal precision.

  They circled, lunged, yielded, closed the distance—forms pressing for a heartbeat before breaking apart again, like waves devouring the shore only to slip back into the sea.

  Oberon watched them with interest, a sliver of amusement playing at the corner of his mouth.

  But the smile vanished the instant he saw Eltharion and Baronsworth stride into his hall.

  “Milord—” Eltharion began.

  “Silence!”

  The word cracked through the chamber like a whip.

  A pulse of raw fury flared from the Elf-lord—so sharp and sudden the very air seemed to tense—but just as swiftly it ebbed, swallowed beneath a veneer of regal poise.

  Oberon leaned back upon his throne, eyes narrowing.

  “What is the meaning of this intrusion? Today is the final combat of the Vernal Tournament, and these two,” he gestured lazily toward the female warriors, “fight for the honor of being chosen as my new consort. So…”

  His voice took on a silken edge.

  “You had best offer a reason worthy of interrupting me, Eltharion—or I shall grow very displeased.”

  Eltharion bowed his head low, all his earlier sharpness folded away.

  Baronsworth sensed, with no small surprise, the tremor in the Elf’s voice.

  “My Lord Oberon… I would never dare trouble you with trifles. But this matter cannot wait. I bring before you Varaenthor, Protector of the Realm and champion of Sophia. He has come through the stone portal itself, claiming urgent business that concerns you.”

  Baronsworth stepped forward and bowed deeply.

  Oberon regarded him in silence—long, unblinking, assessing.

  Then, without warning, the Elf-lord rose from his throne.

  The movement was fluid, dangerous, as effortless as a blade leaving its sheath.

  Goblet in hand, he descended the dais with a predatory grace, and as he drew closer Baronsworth’s eyes widened.

  This was the first Elf he had ever seen with a beard—pale silver, matching the mane that fell past his shoulders.

  It gave him an air at once ancient and wild, like some forgotten sovereign of the elder world.

  Oberon paused beside the two warriors, who had ceased their contest and now knelt before him.

  “Well done, my lovelies,” he murmured, brushing his fingers through their hair with an indulgent caress. “A splendid display. Truly, it would pain me to choose only one of you.”

  His smile sharpened.

  “But fate has delivered me a far more intriguing sight today. Your contest could not be decided—even as you fought valiantly. Therefore I choose both. Consider yourselves honored.”

  The two Elves exchanged a quick, breathless glance—delight flickering across their features like firelight on water.

  Then, with a slow, languid grace that felt almost enchanted, they bowed low.

  Their bodies moved in unison, silk gliding over silk, sunlit skin revealing itself in warm, tantalizing flashes as they straightened.

  They slipped away down the hall like woodland spirits draped in shadow and allure—half dancers, half huntresses—vanishing in a ripple of soft footsteps and the faint perfume of sweat and steel.

  Only once they were gone did Oberon at last turn his full attention to Baronsworth.

  The Elf-lord approached slowly, sunlight breaking against his armor in sharp, blinding flashes that turned the pale metal into something almost luminous.

  His hair caught the same light—cool and radiant—so that for an instant Baronsworth could not tell where the gleam of the armor ended and the gleam of the Elf began.

  He circled Baronsworth—measured, silent—each step precise as a prowling beast.

  It felt less like an appraisal and more like the way a great cat studies a creature that has strayed too near its den.

  At last, Oberon stopped before him.

  “Varaenthor…” Oberon savored the name, its ancient weight lingering in the hall. “Lord of Dawn.”

  He paused, and Baronsworth could not tell whether the shift in his tone was mockery or something else entirely.

  “Protector of the Realm.” The words left him low and contemplative. “A title unspoken for an age. Yet you do not wear it as a pretender might. I feel it in you… the Light stirs.”

  He lifted his goblet, drinking slowly, never taking his eyes from Baronsworth.

  “Tell me. How did you come by this gift? Spare me ceremony. We War Elves prefer the direct stroke—the straightest path to victory.”

  Baronsworth inclined his head.

  “Lord Oberon, I undertook a sacred rite. Through it, I communed with my goddess and renewed the covenant that once bound her to my people.”

  “It is true, my lord,” Eltharion said quietly. “With his power, he restored me.”

  Oberon’s gaze slid toward him—sharp, cool, unreadable.

  He took another slow sip of wine, as though tasting Eltharion’s words as much as the drink.

  Then he nodded, the gesture contemplative.

  “I see. And you…” Oberon’s gaze returned to Baronsworth, narrowing with a scholar’s scrutiny. “You bear the look of Asturia indeed. Your stance, your bearing—there is something of Arthorias in you, the first Protector.”

  His voice softened then, dropping into a lower register, touched with a shadow Baronsworth could not name.

  “And something of… another.”

  He paused, fingers lifting to his chin as though weighing some old memory against the sight before him.

  “Tell me,” he said at last, “of your lineage.”

  “I am a Son of Sophia, Lord,” Baronsworth replied, bowing his head. “Son of Godfrey, descendant of Berethor, son of Alistair—the Last Protector.”

  He felt the forbidden truth stir on his tongue, the name of his mother rising behind his teeth—and he swallowed it, remembering Aenarion’s warning.

  Oberon’s expression sharpened with interest.

  “Hm. Curious. I had thought the Sons of Sophia extinguished in the Slaughter of the Sunkeep. Yet here one stands before me. How does a dead line continue to draw breath?”

  Baronsworth’s face grew solemn.

  “I am the last of my house, milord. We were, indeed, nearly wiped from existence that night. But my father commanded me to flee—through the hidden paths beneath the Sunkeep. Only by them did I escape. And only by them have I returned to reclaim my birthright.”

  A thoughtful sound rumbled in Oberon’s throat.

  “And yet…” he tilted his head, studying Baronsworth with unnerving intensity, “you claim to be the last. But I sense another of your blood somewhere in this world. A thread of your line still echoes. Who is it?”

  “I know not, milord,” Baronsworth answered truthfully. “To my knowledge, I alone remain.”

  Oberon’s gaze drifted for a long moment—some calculation unfolding behind his eyes—before he inhaled softly, as though returning from a distant thought.

  “Where are my manners?” he said suddenly, voice brightening with an abrupt, almost theatrical warmth. “You must be parched after withstanding my questions.”

  He snapped his fingers.

  A servant materialized at once, bearing a hammered-gold jug.

  She filled a second goblet and offered it to Baronsworth with a deferential bow.

  “Thank you, milord,” Baronsworth said. “To your health.”

  He raised the cup and drank.

  “To yours, Lord Protector,” Oberon replied, raising his own goblet in return. “This wine is the pride of my realm. Grapes grown on the volcanic slopes of this island—fertile ground forged in fire. I trust it pleases your palate.”

  Baronsworth tasted again.

  The wine was rich, potent, delicious—yet there was something foreign beneath it, some exotic note he could not place.

  “It is unlike any vintage I have known, my lord. Most impressive.”

  A smile ghosted across Oberon’s lips—but his eyes remained cold, fathomless.

  “Good. Good. Now…” he turned, striding back toward his throne with languid ease, “let us come to the heart of things.”

  He seated himself once more, crossing one leg over the other, cup turning idly between ringed fingers.

  “Tell me, Lord Baronsworth—what brings you to my halls? And how did you gain access to a portal that has slept in silence for an age?”

  “Milord,” Baronsworth replied, stepping forward with measured reverence, “I come bearing tidings from your homeland, Ellaria. The corruption of the Felwood has been purged. That realm shines once more with living light.”

  For an instant, a spark flared in Oberon’s eyes—sharp and bright.

  “So,” he asked, “the Great Tree… has been healed?”

  “Yes, milord. The Great Tree, and all that dwells beneath its boughs.”

  Baronsworth drew a deep breath.

  “I have been sent by one who cherishes your friendship still, though long years have passed since last you spoke. I speak of your brother… Lord Aenarion.”

  Oberon’s expression tightened—something dark twisted beneath his features—but Baronsworth pressed on.

  “It is he who taught me the ancient art of the Portals,” Baronsworth continued. “He bade me come and deliver this news. Yet though your realm breathes again, the creatures that once fed upon its corruption have not all perished. Many lie slain beneath your brother’s hand—but the remnants, driven to madness, have fled into Athlos itself. They have entrenched themselves deep within your former capital.”

  His voice lowered.

  “Athlos still holds to its old protections. Faint, weakened—but not yet extinguished. And something within those walls defies them. Aenarion believes a darker will commands the creatures—one that seeks to corrupt, twist, or consume the ancient magics that dwell in the caverns beneath the city. A power older than the Elderwood… and hungry.”

  Oberon’s eyes grew still.

  “He means to challenge this presence,” Baronsworth said. “To face it head-on. But not alone. For he fears that what lurks within Athlos is beyond even his strength.”

  Baronsworth bowed his head.

  “He asks that you return. He hopes the last of the Aenar might set aside their division and stand united against the rising dark. Only together can you purge Athelia of the corruption that stains it still.”

  Then he lifted his gaze, voice steady with reverence.

  “Your lands await you, Lord Oberon. Present yourself, and they are yours to reclaim. And if you and your brother were to march side by side…”

  His voice deepened, resonant as a vow:

  “…it would ignite the hearts of all Elvenkind. Your presence would kindle courage in your warriors—and strike dread into the servants of the Betrayer. Perhaps even into the Enemy himself, who would tremble at the thought of the Elves united once more, their homeland restored, their ancient power standing as one against the shadow unfurling across Mytharia.”

  For a long moment, Oberon’s face betrayed nothing.

  Stone would have shown more emotion.

  Yet Baronsworth sensed the turmoil beneath—the old wound tugged open, the pride inflamed, the longing touched, the anger stoked.

  At last Oberon spoke, voice low and brittle as a crack in ice.

  “So. Once again my brother falters. As he faltered long ago when the Great Tree first sickened.”

  His fingers tightened around his goblet.

  “Had he been diligent—had he cared—my lands would never have fallen to darkness. My people would not have been forced into exile.”

  He rose sharply from his throne, every line of him shifting with sudden, honed precision.

  “But that is Aenarion’s way. He cloaks himself in warmth—honeyed words, gentle smiles, tender assurances. Yet behind those gestures lies nothing but emptiness. Ages upon ages adrift in his towers have hollowed him. He is like an ornate vessel carved with exquisite care…yet entirely void within.”

  A harsh breath tore from Oberon’s chest.

  “He abandoned his efforts too soon when the Felwood cried out for healing. And now he does the same again. At the first sign of struggle, he withdraws—into his safe halls, to his books and his stars—leaving the rest of us to weather the tempest alone.”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  His jaw tightened.

  “He guides. He counsels. He mourns.”

  His eyes burned.

  “But he will not fight. He hides behind what he calls wisdom.”

  His hand trembled once before he clenched it.

  “I call it betrayal!”

  Oberon’s rage broke free.

  His fist crashed against the arm of his throne.

  The sound tore through the chamber like the crack of a felled oak—deep, violent, absolute.

  The pillars answered the blow; dust drifted in faint motes through shafts of sunlight.

  A hush fell so profound that even breath felt like an intrusion.

  Oberon stood rigid, his chest rising and falling with sharp, clipped breaths, eyes ablaze with the fury of centuries.

  Rage and grief warred within him, bright as molten metal beneath the surface.

  When he spoke, the very stones seemed to lean closer.

  “If he truly cared for me, Baronsworth,” Oberon said, voice low and trembling with barely leashed wrath, “then he would have come himself. Or better—he would have stormed Athlos already and placed its keys into my hands. A sign of peace. Proof that my brother’s heart still remembers love.”

  His lip curled.

  “But Aenarion? Hah. He is as selfish as he is cunning. He would sacrifice any life—so long as it is not his own. Should I return and send my warriors into battle, my strength would be diminished… and then, in time, he would proclaim himself Lord of all Elves, leaving us powerless to oppose him.”

  Oberon paced, each step echoing like a drumbeat.

  “No, Baronsworth. He cares nothing for you or I. Always others must take risks in his stead. My soldiers instead of his. You instead of him. And here you stand—hazarding my fury—while he sits behind safe walls, puppeteering from afar, playing us both as pawns upon his little game board!”

  Baronsworth shook his head, stepping forward with earnest resolve.

  “Milord, with all respect… that is not Aenarion’s way.”

  Oberon’s gaze flared, but Baronsworth did not retreat.

  “He cares deeply for all life upon Mytharia. He has done nothing but aid me since the moment we met. It was he who guided me to commune with the Varanir—who gave me the sap of the Great Tree, that I might walk the realms beyond. There, my destiny was revealed. Through that vision I journeyed to the Felwood, restored the Crystal fragment, and reclaimed my mantle as Protector, renewing the ancient covenant with the Divine.”

  Baronsworth’s voice gained strength.

  “And by that same power, your lands were healed. Sunlight returned to the Felwood after years beyond memory. Hope flourished, and my path home was made clear. None of this—none of the victories we now cling to—would have been possible without Lord Aenarion.”

  He stepped closer.

  “It troubles him deeply that you hold such anger against him. If he did not come in person, it was only because he feared you would strike him before hearing his words. I believe his intentions are genuine—more genuine than those of any being I have met. In his heart he longs to embrace you as brother once more, to unite your strength and restore the High Elves to the glory they deserve.”

  Baronsworth’s expression softened.

  “Gil’Galion, too, misses you dearly. I have come to know him as a friend, and he speaks of you with reverence. Believe me, milord—there is only goodwill toward you in Aenarion’s halls. Let go of this anger. It harms only yourself. Bitterness is a poison that weakens the heart and strengthens the Enemy, who delights in seeing brother turned against brother. Release it, and joy awaits you in Ellaria—as well as the thrill of victory over your foes.”

  He faltered suddenly.

  A warmth washed over him—glowing, tingling, rising from his hands and chest.

  The sunlight through the windows seemed to swell, brightening; colors deepened, sharpening, blooming as though some unseen veil had been lifted.

  Oberon regarded him with a strange, knowing smile.

  “Ah… little Gil’Galion,” he said softly. “A clever child. Mighty even in youth. The Athelari foretold greatness in him, and perhaps they spoke true. It is no fault of his that he was sired by my brother… though that cursed blood taints him still.”

  Oberon drank, the wine catching light like blood-red glass.

  “I suspected from the first that Aenarion sent you. Few now live who know the secret of the Portals, and your coming reeked of his machinations.” He waved a hand. “So then. The Varanilin of the Great Tree granted you visions, and set your destiny before you. Interesting indeed.”

  His voice darkened.

  “Yet I suspect that my brother’s tree is tainted as well, if its visions did not warn you of his schemes. Still—its power is undeniable. We of this isle, having left Ellaria ages ago, have long been severed from its blessing. We were forced to seek… alternatives.”

  Oberon stood as though rooted in power, his eyes gleaming with a mingled pride and menace.

  “Alternatives,” he murmured, “that have proven at least as effective. In some ways… even more so.”

  From seemingly empty air, he produced a golden mushroom—no larger than a coin, yet shining with its own muted, eerie light.

  “This,” he said, holding it between two fingers as though presenting a relic, “is Mythistin. The golden cap that grows at the feet of the Valen trees. It hails from our old realm—our beloved home, brought to ruin in the war with the Betrayer.”

  His gaze flicked toward Baronsworth.

  “Aenarion gifted some of their seeds to your ancestor Berethor, did he not? And now a whole Golden Wood grows by your Sunkeep. Valen and Mythistin are bound—one cannot thrive without the other—so I know you have seen these little treasures before.”

  Oberon’s smile sharpened.

  “But by your eyes, I see you do not know their true purpose. ‘Poison,’ the foolish call them. Old wives warn that they intoxicate. That much is true—but not in death. In rapture. Those who take this mushroom taste the drunken bliss of the gods themselves.”

  He twirled the mushroom once, reverently.

  “The visions granted by Mythistin are wilder than those born of the Great Tree’s sap… more primal, less forgiving. But the insight? Unquestionable. The Aen Sothar—our Prophets, partake of them now, and revelations pour from their lips like water from a spring. That is how we know so much—how we see so far.”

  His grin deepened.

  “And since mystical experience seems to delight you, I have taken the liberty of sharing some.”

  He lifted his goblet in casual salute.

  “Ground to a fine powder. Stirred into your wine.”

  Baronsworth’s breath caught.

  The world seemed to pulse—colors sharpening, edges crowned in shimmering light.

  Oberon’s armor blazed with a pale, inner radiance, the white plates catching the glow as if carved from living moonfire.

  And the Elf-lord himself seemed to rise taller with every heartbeat—impossibly radiant, impossibly sovereign—beautiful as a god, terrible as a storm bound in flesh.

  “Oberon,” Baronsworth said sharply, “you drugged me!”

  “Lord Oberon,” the Elf corrected. “And so did my brother, when you visited him.”

  “That was done with my consent!”

  Oberon laughed—a short, amused exhale that did not reach his eyes.

  “Consent? My brother has a way of coaxing such things. Honeyed words. Soft smiles. He likely convinced you that the idea was yours from the start. I am not so patient. I have no time for dances of courtesy. I am direct—yet thorough. And I must be certain you speak truth in my court.”

  He waved a hand dismissively.

  “Do not fret. It was a light dose. Hardly enough to cause… lasting harm.”

  “This is outrageous,” Baronsworth hissed, fighting to steady himself as heat flooded his veins. The air rippled, alive with a low, shimmering hum. “This is no way to treat a guest!”

  “Peace, Baronsworth,” Oberon replied softly. “No evil shall come to you—so long as you remain honest, and respectful.”

  His eyes narrowed, a hunter scenting blood.

  “Now. I believe there is something you are hiding from me. Some truth left unsaid.”

  He circled Baronsworth slowly, each step echoing like a drumbeat.

  “Is it my brother’s true intent? No… you truly believe in his sincerity. Then what is it? The identity of this other one who shares your blood?”

  His voice snapped like a whip.

  “Speak.”

  Baronsworth swallowed hard.

  “I… know nothing of what you speak. Unless—perhaps—you refer to my mother?”

  Oberon’s eyes flared with sudden light.

  “No, not her. But tell me of her.”

  Aenarion’s warning rang in Baronsworth’s memory.

  “…Whatever you do, speak not a single word of your mother’s lineage.”

  But Mythistin thrummed through his body, loosening every thought, magnifying every truth.

  Lying now felt like trying to cup water in clenched fists.

  He drew a slow breath.

  “My mother… is of the line of Belial. Daughter of Lord Farseth. Sister to the usurper Garathor.”

  The goblet spun from Oberon’s hand in a spray of shining droplets and struck the stone with a ringing clang.

  He rose without a wasted breath—white armor blazing, his moonlit mane rising around him like a mantle of power, his eyes burning with ancient, implacable fire.

  “I knew it.”

  His voice rumbled like a distant avalanche.

  “From the moment I saw you, I knew. You carry his shadow—the stench of that cursed bloodline.”

  Baronsworth’s jaw tightened, his fists curling until the knuckles shone white.

  Whether it was anger rising within him or the Mythistin burning through his veins, he could not say.

  But he did not yield.

  He rooted himself like stone, breath steady, spine unbowed.

  When he spoke, his voice carried the tremor of fury held in restraint.

  “Milord, I have shown you nothing but respect since the moment I set foot in your hall—and I ask only that you grant me the same. Truly, I know not what to make of these ancient tales that speak of mortals born from gods. But this much I swear: whether I spring from the line of Bhaal or no, my honor is my own, and stands beyond reproach.”

  Oberon laughed—sharp, bitter, a sound like glass snapping in the cold.

  “I speak not only of the Prince of Lies, Asturian,” he said, voice dropping to a seething whisper, “but of his offspring. The line of the Fallen Ram. The blood of Belial runs in you.”

  Baronsworth’s breath caught.

  “Belial… the Fallen Ram? Belial was an honorable warrior. He stood against the darkness in the end. It is thanks to him that the forces of Light prevailed.”

  Oberon’s expression hardened, ancient grief twisting into something harsher.

  “Yes,” he said slowly, “in the end. When the centuries of slaughter became too heavy for even him to bear. When the screams of the innocent finally pierced whatever soul he had left. Only then did he turn. Only then did he try to right the ruin he helped forge.”

  He straightened, shimmering armor whispering as though alive.

  “You speak of Belial the Redeemed, Baronsworth. I speak of Belial the Oathbreaker.

  The thrall of the Archdeceiver.

  The Ram who led the charge into the Silver Groves.

  The butcher whose blade drank deep of the blood of the Aenar.”

  His voice cracked—not in weakness, but in remembered agony.

  “Many good Elves died to his sword. Noble spirits who deserved to walk in the dawn. And though we triumphed in the end, though the Dark One fell beneath the combined stand of every free soul… it was too late.”

  His hands clenched at his sides.

  “The sorrow of the Aenar drowned the realms. Their cries rang across the heavens themselves. And the gods—moved to pity—offered them solace beyond this world. They departed. All of them. Their laughter, their wisdom, their radiance… gone.”

  Oberon pressed his fingers to his temples, as though warding off voices only he could hear.

  “But their memory did not leave. Their cries… linger. I hear them still.”

  His voice softened to a trembling whisper.

  “They tear at my heart. They rob me of peace.”

  He fixed Baronsworth with eyes bright as polished steel.

  “It is thanks to their sacrifice that your Sunkeep stands at all. And thanks to your ancestors’ treachery that they suffered. If not for the Fallen Ram and his kin, we Elves would have unraveled the very mysteries of creation by now. Suffering would be a footnote in some forgotten tome. The High Realms would blaze with truth and enlightenment.”

  His voice rose, filled with both grandeur and ruin.

  “But the Dark One survived. And so do I.

  As long as he remains, I cannot ascend as the Aenar did. I must stand. I must fight. I must finish the work left undone.”

  He leaned forward, eyes burning.

  “We have trained for this day, Asturian. Trained since the last war. When Bhaal rises again—and rise he will—it shall be my hand that ends him. His doom will be wrought by me, and only then shall I finally rest.”

  He stepped nearer, his armor flickering with a harsh, rising glow, as though some inner star strained for release.

  “And now you reveal yourself… Bhaalson.”

  The word struck like a blow to the gut.

  “I know why you are here,” Oberon spat. “To lure me from my fortress. To draw me back to the ruins of my old home, where shadow coils deepest. To leave me vulnerable.”

  He circled Baronsworth like a tempest given form.

  “But I am not so easily deceived. Your blood betrays you.”

  Oberon paused, studying Baronsworth’s face with unnerving intensity.

  “Yes… I see it now. Perhaps even you do not know it. But the taint of Bhaal sleeps in your veins. He conceived your line—shaped it—and he will awaken it when the moment suits him. Just as he awakened it in Belial. And when that day comes, the Protector, the so-called champion of Light, will turn on us all.”

  His pupils dilated, breath quickening.

  “I see it,” he whispered. “I see it happening before my mind’s eye. You will betray us. Yes. You will.”

  He exploded forth in a single violent motion.

  “I will never unite beside one who carries the blood of the Dark One! Never! For it is because of you—your cursed line—that the Aenar are gone!”

  He clutched his head and groaned, pacing like a maddened lion.

  “My good and wise friends… how I miss your counsel. How I need it now…”

  He descended the dais, each step resounding like a war-drum.

  “Their joy, their laughter, their wisdom—they are silenced forever because of your kind. Because of the sins of your bloodline. They are gone, and they shall never return.”

  He stopped inches from Baronsworth, and the hall grew unbearably still.

  “It is your fault,” he whispered. “The fault of your house. The fault of the Fallen Ram. The fault of all who sprang from his tainted blood.”

  And as he spoke, Baronsworth saw a strange radiance blooming from within Oberon—

  a terrible, incandescent fire,

  the light of wrath wrapped in the guise of a living flame.

  “Do you deny these accusations, Bhaalson—blood of oathbreakers?”

  His voice split the air, thick with sorrow and rage, and behind his eyes flickered the shape of madness.

  Baronsworth did not flinch.

  Though his veins still thrummed with the Mythistin’s fire, he drew himself up—firm, unbowed.

  “I do deny it,” he declared, his voice ringing like a struck bell. “I have spent every breath of my life battling the darkness, as did my forefathers for thousands of years. I do not claim sainthood, but I have walked as justly as I knew how. The Varanir themselves deemed me worthy to bear their mantle, to stand once more as Protector. If they have not condemned me, then neither shall you. I cannot be judged for blood I did not choose—only for my deeds. And I have done nothing to merit the venom of your words.”

  Oberon’s laugh slashed through the hall, wild and cutting.

  In a single motion he drew his blade—a crescent-forged weapon of white-silver and starlit steel, its edge singing with the memory of ancient wars.

  Runes etched along the curve flared to life, cold light rippling down the metal, and for a heartbeat the hall seemed to dim around its rising glow.

  Baronsworth knew it instantly.

  Mirunath.

  The moonlit sword from his dream.

  “So you would defy me, boy?” Oberon sneered. “Do you think that because you can conjure a few parlor-tricks that amuse children and dullards, you can challenge my judgment?”

  “Stand down, Oberon! I am not your foe!” Baronsworth shouted.

  Oberon’s voice deepened, heavy as cracking stone.

  “And who are you to speak commands in the seat of my power?”

  Baronsworth stilled himself, locking the reply behind clenched teeth, fists curling hard at his sides.

  “Just so, boy. Be silent. Learn your place.”

  Oberon’s tone deepened further, every word steeped in scorn. “I will tell you who you are: a nobody. A descendant of cowards and oath-breakers, who clung to the light only when they smelled the turning of the tide. Son of a fool who allowed himself to be cornered and slaughtered like a penned beast.”

  Rage flared through Baronsworth’s vision.

  “You may say what you will of Belial,” he growled, voice low and shaking, “for I never knew him, and I cannot speak to the pain he brought you. But you will not speak ill of my father.”

  Oberon laughed—a cold, delighted sound.

  “Oh, I will say what I please. Hear me, boy: you are nothing. And nothing does not command an Elf-lord in his own court. Least of all the son of a fool.”

  Something inside Baronsworth broke.

  A dam split open.

  Light flooded his veins.

  His arm moved before thought could catch it—instinctive, commanding—and Lightbringer answered.

  Eltharion gasped as the sheathed blade tore itself from his grasp, streaking through the air in a flare of brilliance before slapping into Baronsworth’s waiting hand.

  Baronsworth surged forward.

  Steel flashed.

  But Oberon met him as a gale meets a lone spark.

  He parried with a single effortless motion, locking blades—and laughed, a wild, unhinged sound.

  “Ah! At last the little pup bares his teeth. And sharp ones they are.”

  His eyes traced Lightbringer with something like ancient recognition.

  “This blade… I have not beheld it in many ages.”

  His smile curdled.

  “So. Is this your purpose? To slay me in my own house? Very well, child. Show me whether you are worthy of the title you so boldly claim.”

  He thrust forward, breaking the blade-lock and sending Baronsworth staggering.

  Then Oberon leaped back—farther than any mortal could—landing lightly, almost lazily, as laughter spilled from his lips.

  “Come then, child! Attack me! Show me the might of the Protector of the Realm!”

  Baronsworth roared and plunged forward, bringing down his blade with all the force he possessed.

  Oberon barely moved.

  A subtle turn. A flick of the wrist.

  Steel met steel, and in the blink of an eye Baronsworth’s legs were swept from under him.

  He crashed to the marble floor.

  Oberon laughed again—rich, mocking, cruel.

  “Is that all? Disappointing. Perhaps the gods are more desperate than I thought. Or perhaps…”

  He tilted his head, studying Baronsworth as one examines a flawed relic.

  “…perhaps you are a liar.”

  Baronsworth said nothing.

  Yet fury swelled within him—slow, tidal, unstoppable.

  He rose again, teeth grit, chest heaving, and struck.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Again.

  His blade carved bright arcs through the air—

  but Oberon had become something like a phantom,

  a flicker of motion that dissolved between breaths.

  Steel met only emptiness.

  Another sweep—swifter than thought—

  and Baronsworth slammed to the marble, the impact shuddering up his spine.

  Oberon turned his back on him as lightly as one turns from a broken toy.

  “Pathetic,” he declared, spreading his arms.

  The court exploded into jeers—sharp, cold, merciless.

  Their laughter clattered against the pillars like thrown stones.

  Baronsworth pushed himself upright, breath ragged.

  Light trembled at the edges of his vision—a thin border of gold growing brighter with every heartbeat.

  Oberon’s voice rolled over him, dripping scorn.

  “You are a fool indeed to challenge me in my own hall. Just as your father was—”

  “Hold your tongue!”

  Baronsworth shouted, and his voice carried authority.

  Gasps rippled through the chamber.

  His eyes blazed as he rose to full height.

  “The only fool here,” he said, voice ringing like a drawn blade, “is the one who stands before me.”

  The hall fell deathly still.

  “You wrap yourself in the trappings of greatness, Oberon—surrounded by trembling flatterers too frightened to speak truth. But I am no court sycophant. I see clearly. And you…”

  He wiped the blood from his lip and flicked it aside.

  “…you are blind.”

  Oberon stared, disbelief warring with rising fury.

  Baronsworth stepped forward, every word cutting like judgment.

  “You call me coward? My father stood against impossible odds to defend his home to the last breath. You fled yours. You let carrion beasts and darker things desecrate your birthright for generations. And while I reclaimed my own realm—purged it of filth and shadow—you cower here on a throne of falsehoods, terrified to face the darkness festering around you… and within your soul.”

  Oberon’s face contorted—shock, then rage, then something wounded, almost childlike.

  But Baronsworth’s voice only grew stronger, resonant, unyielding.

  “Yes… blind indeed. Blind as your false Prophets. Blind to honor, blind to hope—blind to the truth standing before you.”

  His stance straightened—proud, regal, ancient.

  A posture not learned but remembered.

  “I am no vagabond wandering into your hall. No nameless wretch.”

  His voice dropped to a low, trembling power.

  “I am Avas Athala… Bringer of Dawn.

  The Sun King. The Redeemer reborn.”

  A gasp tore through the room—far deeper than mere shock. Something primal recognized him.

  Then, suddenly,

  Light erupted from him—

  but it was not pure light.

  It was brilliance veined with shadow,

  radiance edged in darkness,

  as though dawn had risen alloyed with night.

  His form lengthened, blurred, sharpened again—

  a silhouette crowned in burning gold and storm-dark umbra.

  His eyes burned—twin suns rimmed in black flame.

  Wings—half light, half shadow—unfurled behind him for a heartbeat, formed of radiance and void bound together in impossible union.

  Beautiful. Terrible.

  Like a promise of salvation spoken through gritted teeth.

  The Elves recoiled, stumbling back in fear—

  some crying out, others covering their eyes.

  The pillars shook as if the hall could not contain what he had become.

  Only Oberon stood unmoving, unafraid.

  Baronsworth’s voice rolled forth, layered and resounding,

  as though two beings spoke in unison—

  Light and Shadow braided into one terrible harmony.

  “I see you clearly now, Oberon. Your heart is hollow—a vessel scraped clean of mercy, of honor, of love. You mirror the very darkness you claim to hunt. Hatred has carved you into his image.”

  Lightbringer ignited in his grip—gold fire spilling down the blade in living arcs.

  “You violated the sacred law of hospitality. You scorned friendship offered freely. You mocked the covenant of the gods you pretend to serve. There is nothing within you but the echo of wrath.”

  The hall trembled with the force of his transfigured presence.

  He raised the blade.

  “And now, Elf-lord…

  the time has come

  for your corruption to be purged.”

  Oberon did not flinch.

  In the face of Baronsworth’s terrible radiance—half dawn, half abyss—he only smiled, slow and sharp, like a blade remembering its purpose.

  “So,” he murmured, voice deepening with something ancient. “You are not a liar after all. The blood of the Varanir does course through you. But do not presume you are the only one in this hall who commands such might.”

  His cry tore through the hall like a war-horn echoing across the ages.

  Light erupted from him—white-blue, fierce and blinding—bursting outward in rings that shook the banners and made the marble groan.

  His body blazed with living flame, a corona of power flaring behind him until even the air seemed to warp around his radiance.

  He grew—not in flesh, but in presence—swelling into something mighty and terrible, a towering silhouette crowned by fire.

  His shadow stretched long across the floor, deep and sharp, as if cut from midnight itself.

  Baronsworth knew this vision.

  He had seen it in dream and omen:

  Oberon, the Seraphim—Flame of the Warborn.

  Gasps broke from the court.

  Some dropped to their knees.

  Others pressed trembling hands to their chests.

  None dared breathe.

  Oberon’s eyes burned like twin stars as he leveled his curved silver blade, its runes igniting in answer.

  “You dare,” he roared, “to challenge me in my own court. You fling insults and accusations as though your tongue could rewrite the truth. These transgressions, perhaps, I could have overlooked.”

  His voice darkened, twisting with grief and wrath entwined.

  “But what I cannot forgive is the greatest blasphemy of all—you have named yourself the Redeemer of Life.”

  The hall quivered.

  Flame rippled at his heels.

  “It is not the grace of Avas Athala that moves through you — no. What surges in your veins is born of darker legacy. You stand before me wild and unmoored, drunk on borrowed might, maddened by visions your mind was never meant to bear. And within you runs the treachery of the Oathbreaker’s line. I see the same flaw — the same seed — that doomed Belial, and damned all who followed him.”

  He stepped forward, each stride ringing like steel on iron.

  “That taint has already awakened in you. I can see it—in your heart. You have turned on us all, as Belial turned. As Bhaal turned. Father, forebear, and son—three branches of the same poisoned tree. Through your blood sorrow was sown, and upon my people it blossomed into ruin.”

  His voice faltered—only for a heartbeat—opened by a wound time itself had failed to touch.

  “It is because of you that the Aenar abandoned this world. Because of your bloodline that I alone remain to walk these shadowed ages. Because of Bhaal’s sin… my father lies forever silent.”

  He raised his blade.

  Flame coiled along its edge like a living serpent.

  “And now you come into my house—my last refuge—and raise your weapon against me. You dare aim your shadow at my heart.”

  His roar split the vaulted hall like a spear hurled into the heavens.

  “These crimes can only be answered in blood!”

  The flames wreathing him surged higher, distorting the air into shimmering waves.

  His shadow stretched long and jagged across the marble, the silhouette of a wrath that had waited ages to be unleashed.

  “Die now, Asturian—Bringer of False Dawn! Let the world be rid of your cursed line forever!”

  He lunged, blue-white fire incarnate—a comet of rage flung from the heavens.

  Baronsworth met him head-on.

  Light burst from him—golden at its heart yet laced with living shadow that curled like dusk through flame.

  His form brightened and dimmed in the same breath, a dawn carrying its own twilight, a paradox of radiance and wrath.

  At the center of the hall, Elf and Man hurtled toward one another—two living storms on an unalterable course.

  And the world broke open before them.

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