Behind the clearing, a gate of beeches,
The canopy rustles without end,
Once in a hundred years,
A bard sang,
For the Elven King.
— Finlógin, the Dark Bard

Khóruin and the remaining men descended into the city. He desperately needed reinforcements. Dark clouds rolled across the sky. In the west, they were stained by a vast, blood-red glow.

A group of Hwarnij suddenly marched out of a side street. A significant portion consisted of black-clad members of Hagias’s guard, led by Chardan. Khóruin breathed a sigh of relief.

“Chardan! The temple is in danger! I couldn’t break through the werewolves. Vathila and the others are inside, defending the Aderan!” he called out. If they are still alive, he added in his mind.

“That’s exactly where we’re heading! Join us, we’re going to the southern staircase!” Chardan replied, and Khóruin breathed a sigh of relief once more.

The kestrel circled above their heads. It shrieked and flew a little way toward the west. But then it returned and, with a wild cry, headed west again. It returned once more.

“I think we should go by the western entrance instead. The southern one might not be passable,” Khóruin said.

“Hagias is already heading for the western one,” Chardan replied. Khóruin nodded. So Hagias won and is putting things in order. It pays to stick to his orders, he thought. The fire-bearer and the warrior set off back toward the southern entrance of the temple. The kestrel flew above them.

Howling, shouting, and the sounds of battle echoed through the sacred grove around the temple. Whitehead’s men struck the werewolves from all sides, pushing them against the walls of the building and slaying them. The light of Aderan torches flickered among the shadows.

When Chardan and Khóruin fought their way to the southern staircase, they found only collapsed, splintered ruins scorched by fire. The kestrel shrieked reproachfully in the air and flew to the west. The warriors followed it on the ground.

At the western stairs, which looked completely intact, Hagias was just arriving with his detachment. At first, Khóruin did not understand why Askra, standing at the top of the stairs, looked terrified for a moment. Soon, he was to understand.

“Hey, you there! Be careful! The stairs are icy!” the sorceress called out, her eyes fixed over Hagias’s head, clearly addressing the first ranks of soldiers. Through her expression and posture—her whole being—she made it clear that she, of course, never doubted for a moment that Whitehead would ever slip on something as trivial as frost.

Khóruin didn’t know if he imagined it, but a smile flickered across the king’s face, and Hagias’s gait changed. When he stepped onto the first stair, he slowed down somewhat.

Despite the warning, several Hwarnij slipped on the frosted staircase and tumbled down. On the way, they lost both their dignity and their grim expressions, and they did not spare curses or questions about where the hell frost came from in the middle of autumn. Askra’s face was hidden by a veil, but her eyes were laughing.

Taihun arrived after Hagias with a small group of his soldiers. Near the center of the temple, he met with Khóruin, Ghar the Younger, Askra, and Ivain. They gathered around the sleeping Alphia and the injured Vathila to embrace one another, grateful to be alive. Ghar’s dog, Anila, who had trotted in behind Taihun, ran joyfully around the group. Chardan and the king’s warriors remained at the perimeter of the structure; Hagias was giving new orders to them and the remaining Aderan priests and fire-bearers.

It wasn’t long before Plantain and Ghar the Elder also entered. The High Druvid, however, looked gloomy, with pain in his eyes. He slowly descended toward Khóruin’s company.

“Do any of you know who set the Arkian forest on fire?” he asked directly. Everyone froze. They looked at one another and then through the western arch at the red sky. Only Taihun stepped forward and bowed his head.

“I did. I did it myself,” he said.

“Why did you do it, Taihun? I feel the pain of the suffering, dying trees. There are dozens, hundreds of them. If the Druvids do not manage to summon rain, the entire woods and some Druvid settlements will be reduced to ash.”

“My Lord, I had two hundred men and a few dozen archers that Kira could send me. On the other shore, over two thousand enemies were preparing to attack. I did not lose a single warrior, I defended the western part of the island, and most of the savages there met death in the flames. I know what I did, and I am prepared to bear the consequences. I am a builder and a soldier—and such is my mind,” Vathila’s brother said.

“Very well then. When the time comes, you shall plant a hundred new, young trees. Now, see that you rest; the battle is not yet over,” Plantain nodded.

Taihun did not need to be asked twice and sank tiredly onto one of the temple steps. Meanwhile, Auragon bent over Vathila and touched her gently. He closed his eyes in concentration. The girl’s wounds began to heal right before the eyes of the Hwarnij. The healer’s face lost its expression of pain; her lips smiled.

“Thank you,” the blonde breathed gratefully, and Askra embraced her joyfully.

Before the High Druvid could answer or examine Alphia’s injuries, however, Ghar the Elder called to him. He and Hagias were standing right by the dying Aderan, conversing quietly. When Plantain joined them, they were quickly telling him something. They spoke softly, but louder fragments of the conversation revealed that at least at some points they were not speaking Hwarnij. The Druvid looked desperate and dismissive. The smith and the king, on the other hand, were stubborn and unyielding. Whatever they insisted upon, Auragon could not resist them for too long.

“I give you my consent,” Auragon finally said in clear Hwarnij. His voice broke at the last word.

Ghar Varkias turned and walked toward the tired and decimated group around Khóruin.

“If we are to save Arka, a human sacrifice is needed,” he said. The members of the company looked at him in silent, incredulous suffering and exhaustion.

“Long ago, this ritual was performed once before,” the Master Smith continued. “Just as a besieged herd throws one of its own to the wolves so that it flees, the enemies pursue it and move away from the rest, so now we too shall lure away the darkness. We do not have enough strength for the morning Song—and without it, the sun will not rise. Without sunlight, there is no hope of defeating the werewolves who hold the entire northern part of the city. The darkness lies too heavily upon us.

Therefore, it will be necessary to choose someone who will represent Arka itself. Upon him we shall transfer the burden of darkness, so that he may carry it out of the city—and there perish with it. The darkness will follow him; it will cling to him until the last moment, for it does not know and does not understand self-sacrifice.

The sacrificed must be strong. He must be the strongest, so that he can carry the darkness far enough. He must not sink under his burden too soon. Therefore, we have chosen you, Ghar, my apprentice. Do you accept this task?”

Perhaps for the first time, Ghar understood the meaning of what was said before anyone else in the company. Because he did not resist the understanding. He looked around at his frozen friends standing nearby. The next hours… and the next decisions… were to decide the lives of them and all of Arka. The blacksmith’s apprentice looked firmly into the eyes of his master.

“Yes,” he said. His words fell into the absolute silence like seeds into plowed soil, both lightly and heavily, detachedly and bindingly. And they stripped silence of its inviolability.

“What a terrible ritual you have devised!” Vathila breathed through a constricted throat.

“There is no other way,” the smith replied coldly.

It seemed as if the healer was awakened by the sound of her own voice. Even in Askra’s eyes, instead of the initial expression of horror, defiance began to flash. Both women stepped forward, toward the massive smith, while the others stared speechlessly.

“Why Ghar? Do you have to choose sacrifices among us again? We all almost died defending Arka and the Aderan, was that not enough?!” Askra snapped.

“And all that just because of you! You allowed the werewolves into the city—that is why Tiriaka and many others died! You started your struggle for power in the moment of greatest need instead of defending Arka!” the healer added. Her gaze flickered to Alphia, who still lay unconscious. Vathila thought that if the huntress were awake, she would probably have thrown herself at Hagias with the intent to kill him…

“It has never happened that evil passed the trial of the Aderan…” the Master Smith said.

“Who else was to recognize what was happening if not you! You, who are so much more powerful! And we are to pay so dearly for your mistakes?!” Vathila nearly shouted, on the verge of tears.

“No, not Ghar, no…” the sorceress muttered.

“You are equally related to everyone in Arka, either by friendship or by blood ties!” Varkias snapped.

“But Ghar is among my closest! He has already done enough for you! Do not ask this!” Askra gritted through her teeth.

“We need the strongest one, who will not fall under his burden before carrying it far enough,” was the dry answer.

“Why doesn’t one of you go?” the healer demanded.

“Because we are not Hwarnij, and the sacrifice must be undertaken by one of the Hwarnij. Ghar also differs slightly from you, as he and Alphia were not born in Arka. But that is absolutely negligible compared to how much we differ.”

“Who even are you? What are you really? From where do you bring your insane rituals? Are you truly what Vismian showed us?” Vathila’s voice trembled with anger.

“Yes. We are.”

“So he was right after all! And you killed him for it!”

“We did not kill him for what he showed you, but for the lying way he interpreted it.”

“Why should we believe you? Who knows what black abyss you crawled out of! When do you intend to tell us what you truly are? How much longer must we risk our lives for you in ignorance?”

“Moderate yourself, woman! You know nothing! We will tell you everything, but not now.”

“And when, then?”

“Later.”

“Do you not think Ghar has the right to know?” Khóruin intervened in the conversation. His voice sounded firm, calm, and deliberate.

“Very well then,” Ghar Varkias slowly nodded when he saw how all the members of the company were staring at him intently. He leaned against one of the stone steps. His eyes were fixed in the distance as he spoke again:

“Long ago, this world was different. Back then, four magical objects existed; in each of them, one element was bound. To the four elements corresponded four strong races, four nations. From time to time, however, it was necessary to re-forge the artifacts so they would maintain the power that resided within them. But it happened that at one such moment, the artifacts were in the wrong place, in the wrong hands—they were not renewed, and their power tore itself from its bonds. The world began to collapse.

One powerful man, a smith, then tried to re-forge the artifacts in great haste. However, he created only one. Then death overtook him. That artifact was seized by a sorcerer, a half-elf. And with its help, he created the Erzurum Empire, which he rules as the Eternal Emperor.

The three of us were then journeying through the collapsing world, and some others with us. We tried to find a place where we could save ourselves. Ain…” the smith faltered for a moment, then resumed, “Hagias carried the Aderan hidden in a hollow staff. Suddenly, gray trees began to grow around us—and from beneath their bark stepped beings who wanted to join us. We brought them here and called them Hwarnij.

The world is now but a shattered mosaic of shards. Only places remain that abound with some power that protects them against the constantly encroaching chaos. A strong place is the Erzurum Empire under the protection of the artifact. Similarly, the Aderan protects Arka, but it has a reach ten thousand times smaller. The three of us have traveled this changed world for many years and studied it. About thirty years ago, we returned to Arka.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Everyone knew the story of how Arka was besieged thirty years ago, how Whitehead became the commander when the previous ruler died in battle, and how the city did not fall only thanks to Hagias’s cruelty, hardness, unyieldingness, and his military capabilities.

“Who are you? Who were you?” Vathila asked.

“We were High Elves. We worshipped the White Flame, which does not consume. But in the collapsing world, we managed to strike only this,” the smith said, pointing to the Aderan.

Then he turned to his pupil: “Prepare yourself, it is time. Remove all your clothes and leave only a loincloth.” The young smith slowly nodded and obeyed.

Taihun approached Hagias: “Is it truly necessary?”

“Was it truly necessary to set that forest on fire?” the king retorted.

“No. But that’s not the point now. I chose one of the options. There were others. Are there not others here too? Can the burden not be divided somehow? Or can the Aderan burning in the forest be used to summon the day?”

“There are other options. If you get me another three thousand Hwarnij to sing here in the temple, the sacrifice will not be needed,” the king replied coldly. “Ghar is to symbolically represent Arka; his burden cannot be divided. And the fire you set is suitable for repelling an enemy, but for summoning the sun, it is essentially useless; it is not pure Aderan.”

Ghar, meanwhile, had set aside all his things. Only over the amulet he had used for light earlier did he hesitate. The Master Smith nodded that he could keep that.

“Ghar…” Vathila whispered and embraced the blacksmith’s apprentice. She had to stand on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. “If I ever have a son, I will give him your name. And with him, you will return and be with us again.”

“Thank you, Vathila. Take care of yourself,” the strongman stroked her hair a bit clumsily.

“It will be hard for us without you,” Askra said.

“Don’t you do anything stupid with that magic of yours,” he admonished her.

“Of course not,” the sorceress replied, and a flash of a smile that flickered across her lips under the veil momentarily illuminated her tear-filled eyes.

Taihun just embraced Ghar without a word. “Look after Ivain,” the blacksmith’s apprentice said quietly.

“Ohhh nooo…” the bard groaned when the strongman patted him on the back in farewell. Khóruin was the last to turn to Ghar:

“I don’t know what is happening here. But whatever it is, we will not forget you. Ever. Thank you, brother.”

“Take care of Vathila… And when I leave, hold Anila. So he doesn’t run after me…”

The two men briefly embraced. Then Ghar, at Hagias’s signal, descended to the Aderan.

The priests raised their hands and began a strange song. The Great Flame sank even lower until it was almost invisible. The darkness became nearly tangible.

“Place your palms over the fire!” the king commanded. The young smith reached out his hands over the space where the Aderan was dying. Soon the voices sounded more clearly and the flame shot up. Ghar felt no heat or pain. Only a kind of unknown heaviness, as if he were suddenly dressed in armor that was too heavy. At the same time, he perceived the meaning and importance of the burden placed upon him. He slowly lowered his arms to his sides.

“Now go,” Hagias said, “go to the western shore; you will find a boat there. On it, you will cross the lake to the cliff from which the waterfall falls. From this cliff, you shall cast yourself down, to your end and to the end of the darkness!”

Ghar nodded and took several steps toward the temple exit. He looked back one last time. His eyes scanned the group of his friends. Khóruin was holding Anila by the neck; the dog was whimpering uncomprehendingly and reproachfully. Vathila was crying in Askra’s arms; Ivain had his arms around both girls’ shoulders. Taihun was missing; he must have slipped away during the ceremony. The young smith’s gaze stopped on Hagias. And then, Ghar pulled a horrific face at the king and stuck out his tongue.

Whitehead gasped. No one had dared show such insolence toward him for hundreds of years! Even a lost battle would not have hit him harder. The members of the company widened their eyes, and a suppressed laugh crept onto their haggard faces. But by then, Ghar Karian of the Kvanari was trotting away from the temple, toward the fate he had accepted.

It began to rain. The glow of the fire in the west was fading. The drops falling into the Aderan did not even hiss, as if they disappeared before they reached the Great Flame. Askra and Vathila stared blankly toward the temple portal. Alphia lay lifelessly on the stone step, and the rain soaked her hair and clothes and ran down her cheeks like streams of tears.

Ghar stopped on the shore. Taihun was waiting there for him with a small boat. Plantain had sent him during the ritual to prepare it.

“Which way, ferryman, to the realm of Death?” the blacksmith’s apprentice asked. Taihun could not speak. He just stepped back and pointed to the prepared boat.

Ghar boarded and leaned into the oars. The rain thickened. The weak lights of Arka disappeared in a darkness where nothing could be seen. The strongman felt he perceived the proximity of death, the proximity of some transformation, the proximity of the end. But it did not terrify him. He followed a hertofore unknown sixth sense that unerringly determined the direction. He didn’t know how long he rowed across the lake.

When the boat finally ran onto the sand and he stood on the shore, he didn’t even realize that the journey to the waterfall took a whole day. At least that’s how long it took when they left for the sea and returned.

I saw a tree here after all… an iron tree… Perhaps it was decided even then. Or not? it occurred to him. Suddenly he knew that the iron tree was somehow connected to Hagias, that it was Whitehead’s symbol.

Despite the unnatural weight he carried, Ghar easily climbed the cliff. The waterfall plunged into the lake far below with a roaring and thundering. The smith stood on the very edge of the rock.

Suddenly, a dazzling flash lit up the dark clouds. A huge light blinded Ghar and a thundering deafened him. He felt a blow that knocked him into the abyss. With a cry, Ghar fell, pain seizing his body as if he were burning. The impact on the surface knocked the breath out of him.

Ghar Karian Kvanari sank into the icy waters of the lake.

The rain suddenly stopped. A bright glow rose in the east. For a moment it was uncertain if it was just raging lightning. But the clouds tore apart, and to the mighty Song of the Hwarnij, after the long night, the sun rose once again.

In the streets of Arka, the Hwarnij marshaled; Taihun and Khóruin with Plantain’s long sword were among them. The Arkins struck the werewolves with immense strength and determination. The beasts, dazzled and caught off guard by the sunrise, mostly fled; their strength was ebbing, their battle fury passing. The warriors pursued and killed them with merciless thoroughness. To the last one.

Injuries from the battle were treated by the healers with Hwarnij magic or cauterized with the Aderan so that the contagion would not spread.

Kira, who had been cut off with her people at the northern bridge during the night, set out to meet the Hwarnij until both groups met in the city. Plantain shook the blood of the wolf-monsters from his gold-green short sword and embraced the Queen of the Silver Beech. The sun had driven away the cold and the darkness.