Prologue - The Last Light

“Echoes guide the souls lost. Mana lit the voided dark. In their absence, we find strength; in their memory, we forge destiny.” — Words of the First Light Lord, spoken on the Final Day of Inandyl in the year 120 B.B.I

255 YEARS LATER

To a common Akerothian, Einarr might have seemed like just another traveler. But beneath his measured stride and watchful gaze, a storm of purpose brewed. Each step brought him closer to Witheters, to the Tower of Light, and to a confrontation years in the making. The weight of his mission pressed upon him, heavier than any armor he'd ever worn.

His walk was rhythmic, almost as if he were following a specific number of steps, a habit born of years of discipline and caution. Glancing behind him, Einarr counted the figures trailing in his wake, his pupils narrowing into vertical slits as the whites of his eyes yellowed slightly. His face, paler than that of a typical Akerothian, bore a single scar that ran across his left eye and extended downward, a mark of battles long past but never forgotten.

Under his obsidian cloak, those who walked near him noticed his armor—not unusual in this heavily guarded place—but it was a mixture of dents and scratches. This was a man who had seen his fair share of battles, perhaps too many. The pommel of his blade, Nexus, rested on his waist, glistening on the left side of his body. Even sheathed, the weapon seemed to pulse with a dark energy, as if it were drinking in the very light around it.

Beside him, his steed—a creature whose ebony coat glistened in the sunlight—trotted with a grace that belied its formidable presence. The horse, Aten, moved like a living shadow, its hooves barely making a sound on the well-worn path.

As Einarr neared the border of Witheters, the capital of Batesian, he encountered not only physical barriers but also a palpable tension that hung in the air like a brewing storm. Each checkpoint was a testament to the city's wary heart, its gates guarded not by mere men but by the scars of past sieges and the silent oath to repel any future threats.

Batesian embraced its people with heat so intense it seemed to warp the very air before them, turning the horizon into a mirage that danced out of reach. Einarr's eyes tried to adjust, but his efforts were in vain. The air was just too warm. Despite the heat, their agriculture persevered; the nearby farms enjoyed a bountiful harvest, and dew glistened on the grass. As he walked on it, the grass felt solid yet moist. The air may have been warm, but the fresh waters that ran nearby still reminded him of home.

Einarr tightened the saddle on Aten, keeping a close eye on those walking behind him. He did not want to be followed. He stepped aside, letting others pass before him, to have a moment for reflection. As he did, he noticed how the shadows seemed to cling to him, as if drawn to his presence. He dismissed the thought, focusing on the task at hand.

"Oh, thank you, kind sir. Are you sure I can step ahead?" a merchant asked, clutching the reins on his cart with a grip so tight you might think someone was trying to take it. His eyes darted quickly at an emblem pinned on Einarr's cloak before staring at him once again.

"No, please go ahead." Einarr rushed the merchant along with his hand so as not to welcome further questions. There was something calming about his voice. It put people at ease, though Einarr knew it was more than just his tone. It was a gift, one that he had learned to use sparingly.

He followed as the guards called forth each of the awaiting visitors. He turned his head towards Aten, but his ears focused on the conversations being had beside the gates.

"Reason for your visit, personal or business?" a guard inquired. His spear pointed towards the sky, its head reflecting the sunlight that filtered through the portcullis.

"Business; I'm here to sell my harvest, sir." The friendly merchant spoke out as he lifted the cloth protecting his vegetables and stock. The greenery on display stood out in stark contrast to the reds that draped the gate walls.

"If you are here to sell, then you should have your license. Please present it." The guard said, unfocused on the man himself but inspecting the wares he presented.

"Oh, that. Here you are. My reading isn't so good, I hope I signed it all okay?" The merchant responded as he handed a folded piece of paper to the soldier. It seemed less rigid than papers presented by others. "Sorry, it's a little wet; the heat is getting to me."

"Ugh, fine. Take your vegetables and head down to the second checkpoint. Pay your toll along with the merchant fee." The guard signaled with his hand, continuing to not pay attention to the merchant.

"Next!" His voice boomed through the queue, each person rising to attention as they took another step forward and the questions started again.

"I wonder, Aten, what do we do now?" While gently stroking the mane of his most dependable ally, he whispered so as not to disturb anyone in line. The horse nickered softly, its dark eyes seeming to understand more than a mere animal should.

He had no documents to present to the guards. He was here for personal reasons, but you do not enter a city within Batesian without proof, especially not the capital of Witheters. The wars here shattered hope and kept the people vigilant. Einarr's hand unconsciously moved to Nexus, feeling the cold steel beneath his fingers. The blade seemed to hum in response, as if eager for what was to come.

Einarr watched as the final few visitors filtered through, and within moments he was the last. He stood alongside Aten in the grass-laden off-road, glancing as he saw two armored men begin their approach. The sun gleamed across their armor. An average person would have had impaired vision. Their hand needed to be raised in defense, but Einarr stood there, unyielding. The light seemed to bend around him, casting deeper shadows than one would expect in the bright day.

"A steed as noble as yours is a rare sight in Witheters, stranger," remarked the first guard, his gaze not on Einarr but on the mare that moved like shadow-made flesh beside him. "What winds bring you and your companion to our gates?" The first guard approached Aten, his hand rising to meet the mare's chin.

"You may ask, but depending on whether you touch my horse, the answer may change." Einarr stood firm, his eyes fixed on the first guard. The second guard noticed the tension. This was the same man who paid no mind to the merchant. His clipboard now rested upon his waist, gripped in a singular hand.

"Spen, do not touch it." The second guard spoke with a force only seen in militant leaders. The sun entered his helmet, exposing his determined blue eyes. Within them lay a sense of duty and honor. Traits that Einarr knew all too well. "We do request that you tell us of your purpose here, sir."

Einarr rested his hand on Nexus. He used his other hand to rifle through the satchel he kept on his belt. The sound of coins, glass, and paper repeated as he kept looking before looking back up at the guards.

"I don't have my papers. It's been a long journey. I think they may have been lost in my last bout." He said. His voice was metallic and resonating, with an undercurrent that seemed to make the shadows around him deepen.

"You can't come in without docu-" Spen spoke with speed, with a slight strain on his voice from being unable to pet the horse. The raised hand of his ally quickly cut him off.

"You appreciate that we have people to answer to. We cannot simply let you enter. Who are you here to meet? Perhaps we can send word and have your story confirmed." The second guard asked.

Einarr's gaze shifted to Spen, who fixated on the open satchel. The coins he held cast a warm glow on Spen's face. Einarr never considered bribery as an option. Can honorable men be bribed? The thought was fleeting, replaced by a darker one. There were other ways to persuade, ways that dwelled in shadow.

As he clenched his fist to attempt an alternative method of persuasion, an interruption came from a distance. Closer to the gates, the merchant stepped slowly forward, his back bending towards the ground.

"Sorry, lads, I meant to tell you. My friend here is going to help me today as the guard for my wares. I have all the documents here." The merchant supplied the papers to the guards, and as the second guard reviewed them, his demeanor changed.

"Apologies for the holdup, sir; fees seem to have been paid, and you have all the relevant details for an appointed guard. I wish you both a good day of selling." He said this as he extended his hand out to Einarr.

Einarr took it, shaking it with a significant grip. He was right. This guard had also seen his fair share. As their hands touched, Einarr felt a brief surge of power, as if the very essence of the guard's life force was there for the taking. He quickly suppressed the urge, reminding himself of his true purpose.

The pair walked away, Spen still eyeing Aten and the bundles of gold within Einarr's satchel.

"I saw you struggling there. I hope it's alright. I jumped in." The merchant turned his body now, setting the pace for their walk towards the gate. "The name is Perrigrin, Perrigrin Aybara. You can call me Perri; all my friends do."

"Thank you, Perrigrin. I must ask, why help me?" Einarr unbuckled his bag from Aten, swinging it across his shoulder as the pair followed the set pace.

"My daughter was going to come with me, but she had other plans, so it's just me today. I saw your badge, a fellow traveller from Mesym?"

Einarr nodded, his hand unconsciously moving his cloack over to cover the badge. It was a relic from another life, one he had left behind long ago.

"There you go, just like me. I'm from Kornik Farms. As my father would say, everyone in Mesym is our neighbour, no matter how far their doors are from ours." Perri said.

His walk slowed slightly as they finally approached the gate. He presented the papers, and as the portcullis lifted, the sound of metal grinding on metal created a sharp echo in the air. Einarr felt a strange sensation as they passed through, as if he were crossing a threshold not just into the city, but into a new chapter of his life.

Upon entering Witheters, the city's vibrant embrace enveloped the pair, as the hustle of commerce and the sounds of conversation washed over them like the late tide. The major thoroughfare, wide and grand, featured buildings of ancient stone lining its sides. These buildings had intricate carvings adorning their facades, telling tales of the city's storied past. These edifices, some standing for centuries, bore the weight of history with stoic grace, their windows aglow with the warm light of hearths and lanterns. The air was filled with the aroma of freshly baked goods wafting from open doorways, intermingling with the salty tang of the sea, evoking the city's profound bond with the waters that embraced it.

As they stepped deeper into the capital, the majestic avenues transformed into a lively marketplace. It was pulsing with life. This was the true soul of Witheters, a kaleidoscope of both color and sound. The stalls buzzed as patrons attended the loud calls from the merchants, their voices yelling with a symphony of eagerness and charm. Some peddled clothing from the other regions of Akeroth, while the rest sold wares ranging from spices that promised heat to forge metals from the unknown. Newcomers in the city eagerly dived into haggling and buying.

Einarr's keen eyes caught details that others might miss. A pair of guards, their armor bearing the emblem of the Light Lords, hurried past, their hushed conversation carried on the wind.

"...another Luminant missing. That's three this month," one whispered.

"Quiet," the other hissed. "We're not supposed to speak of it."

Einarr's brow furrowed slightly, filing away this snippet of information. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth, quickly suppressed.

"It's just bracing, isn't it? My father took me here when I was a boy, still in awe every time I visit." Perri said as he waved at familiar friends within the city walls.

Einarr nodded silently, his eyes constantly scanning their surroundings. The shadows seemed to deepen wherever his gaze fell, though none but him seemed to notice.

Perri, undeterred by Einarr's reticence, continued, "You know, there's something about Witheters that always feels like coming home. Don't you think? Where are you from originally?"

A shadow passed over Einarr's face. "Home is... a complicated concept."

"Ah, a wanderer then?" Perri's voice held no judgment, only curiosity. "Must be exciting, seeing all corners of Akeroth. Though, I imagine it can get lonely."

Einarr's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Loneliness is preferable to some companionships."

Perri raised an eyebrow, sensing the weight behind Einarr's words. "Sounds like there's a story there. Bad falling out?"

"You could say that," Einarr replied, his tone making it clear he didn't wish to elaborate.

They walked in silence for a moment before Perri spoke again, his voice softer. "You know, my old man used to say that a man's past is like a heavy cloak. You can try to shed it, but its warmth is always there when you need it."

Einarr's eyes flickered to Perri, a mix of surprise and something deeper in his gaze. "Your father sounds like a wise man."

"He was," Perri nodded, a hint of sadness in his smile. "Taught me everything I know. Even taught me about people. For instance, I'd wager you're not just here for a holiday, are you?"

Einarr's hand instinctively moved towards Nexus, but Perri raised his hands in a placating gesture.

"Listen friend. We all have our secrets. I'm just saying, whatever brought you here... I hope you find it."

As they continued their walk, Einarr immediately noticed the imposing statue of an amoured warrior standing solemnly in the city's square. The figure, imposing and regal, bore a striking resemblance to a seasoned warrior, with a stern expression that hinted at the weight of leadership. In its hand was a greatsword that seemed to glow softly, even in the daylight, a symbol of his connection to the ancient powers of Light.

Perri, noticing Einarr's fixed stare, sought to ease the tension by providing a brief history. "That's our First King, Tenebris Suncloaked. He saved Batesian from destruction by stopping a rogue Giant. It was a fierce battle but it's said that without him, we wouldn't be here today."

Einarr's expression hardened momentarily at the mention, a reminder of the deep-seated conflicts and the lost balance between the people of Akeroth and Mana. Akeroth's history underwent a sharp turn when it went from a world where the Giants were present to one where only their memories remained. But there was something else in his gaze, a flicker of recognition quickly suppressed.

Perri, misreading his silence for curiosity, hastily added, "It's a lot to take in, I know. Tenebris' act was heroic, but it sure changed how we interact with Light. These days, regular Lightless like me don't wield it. It's all in the hands of better people than me. Those who know how to manipulate it with tools and relics."

Einarr's silence held firm, a testament to his unwavering resolve. But his eyes lingered on the statue, as if seeing beyond its surface to some hidden truth. "I have to say though," Perri whispered as he scanned for nearby guards. "I don't agree with what the Light Lords did to him, to take his home like that? Unspeakable"

Beyond the market, the architecture of this land rose to the peaks of perfection, its Drakarian influences not lost on either visitor. The towering structures loomed with a blend of opulence and authority, their intricate carvings and soaring spires commanding attention. Each guarded the skies like sentinels, spires that pierced the very heavens. Within this circle of towers stood the tallest structure, The Tower of Light, which served as the home to the Order of Light Lords and their Elite Guard, The Luminants. Each Whitestone brick of the beacon captured the final rays of the sun. A glow, almost ethereal, ablaze. Legend has it that the God of Fire, Kalios, bestowed this tower upon the people of Batesian. Even today, it stands as Akeroth's tallest structure, a sight many visitors seek.

"Ah, the Untouched Tower. It really is breathtaking. During the wars, they say this spire remained standing without a single missing brick or cracked window. It's truly beautiful." Perri said as his eyes rose in awe. A smile extending from cheek to cheek.

Einarr walked in silence. His eyes settled on the Tower of Light, and a deep, unspoken turmoil churned within him. The sight of its reaching spires, etched against the dimming sky, was like a key unlocking the chambers of nostalgia he'd long since tried to seal away. This tower, a sentinel of stone and ambition, had once been his beacon, guiding him towards a destiny he'd eagerly embraced. Now, it stood as a testament to paths diverging, a silent observer to the dreams he'd had to abandon.

Time passed, yet the sight still stirred reverence and longing for a part of himself left within those walls. The tower, bathed in the last light of day, appeared both majestic and haunting, embodying the dual nature of his feelings towards it and the life it represented. As the sun dipped lower, Einarr noticed how the shadows seemed to lengthen and deepen around him, as if responding to his presence.

"The markets are lively today," Perri remarked, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them. His voice, rich with the timbre of experience, carried a note of warmth that seemed to invite confidence without demanding it.

Einarr's response was a measured nod, his eyes scanning the throng of people as if searching for something unseen. "Lively." His voice was low, and the word carried a multitude of meanings. It was a rare verbal bridge from a man who walked in solitude, even in the company of others.

Perri chuckled softly, the sound a gentle nudge in the quiet space between them. "You know, I remember when the streets were nothing more than dirt paths, and the tallest building was the mill at the edge of town. Times change, people change, and yet here we are." His words trailed off, a thoughtful expression shadowing his features as he glanced at Einarr, perhaps seeking a glimpse into the enigmatic warrior's thoughts.

The surrounding city thrummed with energy, but Perri seemed to draw a quiet strength from this vibrancy. It existed in stark contrast to Einarr's demeanor. Nevertheless, despite their differences, shared words and moments were creating an undeniable bond.

As they approached the town square, Perri's steps slowed, and he turned to face Einarr fully. "I may not know much about the battles you face or the demons you chase," he said, his voice carrying a sincerity that went beyond the surface, "but remember this, lad—the weight of a man's sword does not measure his strength, but how he carries his burden with grace."

In that moment, words were unnecessary; the depth of their connection transcended even spoken language. With a final nod, Perri turned away towards the markets, leaving Einarr to face the looming silhouette of the Tower of Light alone. The farmer's simple wisdom held a beacon of hope, reminding him that no one is truly alone, even in the darkest times.

As Perri's figure disappeared into the crowd, Einarr felt a momentary pang of regret. The merchant's kindness had touched something within him, a part he thought long buried. But he quickly steeled himself. There was no room for such sentiments now. He had a mission to complete, a destiny to fulfill.

The Tower stood as a truth beacon amidst the lively capital. The silhouette stood in contrast to the setting sun; as the day lost its light, the tower brightened its own. Einarr approached with measured caution, taking each step with reverence and unresolved emotion. As he drew nearer, the shadows seemed to deepen around him, as if drawn to his presence.

The guards stood vigilant, embodying the steadfast might of Batesian. Adorned in white and red, their armor not only served as a testament to their allegiance but also mirrored the colors of the region itself—red for the enduring strength of its people and white for the prosperity that flourished under its watch. The guards, figures of discipline and authority, bore halberds that gleamed under the setting sun, their edges sharp and ready.

As Einarr made his approach, the air grew tense. It was a silence that spoke louder than words. His steps, measured, carried him to where the guards barred his path, their expressions unreadable behind helmets that were adorned with the emblem of Batesian—a fierce wolf.

"Halt, state your purpose," one guard said, his voice echoing off the ancient stones of the Tower's entrance. The command acted as an undeniable barrier, like the looming stone walls.

Despite the simplicity of his attire, Einarr's commanding presence stood in stark contrast to the ornate displays of the guards before him as he paused. He reached for his left hand. The guard's grip on their weapons visibly tightened, but Einarr moved his hands up before moving once more.

With a calm that belied the storm within, he slowly removed his gloves, revealing hands marked by the scars of countless battles. Yet, it was not the scars that drew the eye, but the mark etched into his skin—a symbol of a time long past. The mark of the Luminant: a sword with antlers elegantly arching through its blade and a crescent moon cradling the blade to its hilt. As he revealed the mark, the shadows around him seemed to writhe, as if recoiling from the symbol of light.

The guards leaned forward, their eyes narrowing as they took in the emblem. It was a symbol known only to those within the inner sanctum of the Order, a mark of distinction and service that spoke of secrets and allegiances hidden from the common eye.

"He bears the mark," the guard said to his comrade, his tone shifting from authoritative to one tinged with a hint of curiosity, perhaps even respect.

The guards exchanged glances, the yellow of their tabards a stark contrast against the darkening sky, a silent conversation passing between them. After a moment, the lead guard stepped aside, the tip of his halberd shifting to point towards the ground—an unspoken acknowledgement of Einarr's right to pass.

"As you will, Luminant," the guard intoned, a formal recognition of Einarr's claim.

With a nod, Einarr stepped forward, crossing the threshold. Behind him, the guards resumed their posts, a silent promise to protect Batesian's legacy, no matter the mysteries or challenges that lay hidden within the Tower's ancient walls.

As Einarr moved past the entrance, he noticed an enormous figure laying just outside the tower, partially hidden in the shadow of the grand structure. It was a Moonseer Dragon, its skin a brilliant cyan that glowed like the sea itself. It's chest bore marking reminiscent of the moon phases, each one increasing in size as the eyes led down. The dragon lay asleep, its massive body curled protectively around itself, exuding an aura of both immense power and serene tranquility. A set of wings, shimmering in the light wrapped around it like a blanket, guarding it from the cold air that approached with the night. it's breath came in deep, rhythmic gusts, each exhalation sending a faint wave of warmth through the air. Its presence was a reminder of the formidable guardianship that the Tower commanded and the ancient alliances that fortified its walls.

Einarr paused for a moment, taking in the awe-inspiring sight. The dragon's presence was a symbol of the deep-rooted history and the mystical forces that surrounded this land. It was a rare and humbling sight, even for someone of his experience. He knew its rider well and so resumed his steps, feeling the gravity of the place and the weight of his purpose here. As he passed the dragon, he felt a strange sensation, as if the shadows around him were drinking the creature's latent power.

Navigating the Tower of Light was akin to traversing the very pages of history. As Einarr ascended the spiraling staircase, his footsteps echoed softly against the well-polished stone, each step a stark reminder of his past—a past intertwined with the very essence of this place. Cool air filled the tower, silent and reverent, as if the walls held lost secrets. Torches mounted on the walls cast flickering shadows, their light dancing over ancient tapestries and carvings that depicted the lore of the Order.

He walked towards the office of The Head Light Lord. The door, like a gateway to a shadowy and intricate past, loomed ahead. He took a deep breath and pushed through the large oak doors. The office of his former mentor and captor revealed.

As Einarr stepped into the sanctum, his gaze fell upon Solamon, who looked up from his work with an expression that mingled surprise with stoic resignation. Solamon's physical presence commanded immediate attention, his stature imposing yet worn by the years of leadership and burden. His hair, a distinguished mane of silver, framed a face marked by deep lines—each one telling a story of decisions weighed and fates altered. His sharp and penetrating eyes held a glint of the wisdom and the weight of command that had defined his rule over the Order.

Solamon wore the traditional garb of the Light Lord, a garment that spoke volumes of his status and the respect it commanded. The robes were a rich tapestry of the Order's history and its values, woven from fabrics that shimmered with a subtle, enchanting light. The dominant color was a deep, celestial blue, reminiscent of the sky as night stands strong, symbolizing his pursuit of knowledge and truth in the darkness.

Intricate patterns of silver thread adorned the hem and sleeves, depicting the sacred sigil of the Order, the same sigil Einarr bore on his skin—a sword enveloped by a crescent moon and antlers that gracefully arched over the blade. They were the patterns of a guardian, mixed with the wisdom that the Luminants swore to uphold.

The clasp was the Order's Sigil. It fastened the cloak at the neck, a beacon of his authority. Like a shadow, the fabric followed him, the edges catching the light that illuminated the room, casting ethereal patterns across the stone floor.

The room itself was lit by a series of floating globes of moonlight, their radiant light filling every corner with a cool, soft glow. This display of control over moonlight was a mark of Solamon's power as a Moonseer, but to Einarr, it was a mockery of the divine gifts they had been granted. This was as a joke, a disrespectful use of their godly endowments, turning sacred power into mere utility. As Einarr entered, the shadows around him seemed to deepen, as if trying to shield him from the overwhelming light.

Solamon, seated amidst scrolls and arcane relics, appeared every bit the sage and leader of the Order, his demeanor calm yet commanding. The light cast upon his features revealed a mix of surprise and contemplation at Einarr's arrival.

"Einarr," Solamon began, a note of solemnity in his voice. "Your presence here is unexpected. I assume you've come because of Light Lords."

Einarr's expression remained impassive, his stance resolute. "Their fate is of no concern to me," he stated, his voice betraying none of the turmoil that brewed beneath the surface. "I am here for you, Solamon, to remind you that some powers should not be taken so lightly."

Solamon studied Einarr for a moment, the lines on his face deepening. "I had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that time had tempered your resentment. Light, in the wrong hands, brings nothing but destruction. Our actions, however drastic, have always served to prevent such outcomes."

Einarr's lips curled into a grim smile. "Spare me your justifications, Solamon. You cloak your ambitions in the guise of protection, claiming to be the world's savior. But it is your Order, your actions that have sown the seeds of discord and war. You speak of keeping the truth, yet every word you spoke to me was nothing more than a lie."

As Einarr spoke, the shadows in the room seemed to deepen, the light from Solamon's globes dimming imperceptibly.

Solamon's gaze did not waver, his voice carrying a note of sadness. "I had hoped you would understand in time. The power you wield, which we all wield, requires guidance and restraint. The Lord's disappearance, the chaos that follows—it only underscores the necessity of our mission."

"You're wrong." Einarr's disdain was palpable. "Your mission has only ever brought suffering. And now you sit here, surrounded by your precious scrolls, still believing you can control the fate of this world."

The tension between them thickened, a tangible force that filled the room with the weight of unspoken accusations and regrets.

"Call me what you will, Einarr. A tyrant, a misguided fool. But know this: what I did, I did with honor, in the name of peace and prosperity." Solamon said, his voice laden with a complex mixture of regret and resignation. "Despite everything, I cannot help but think of you as a son."

The word hung in the air, a provocation that stoked the fires of Einarr's resentment. "A son?" Einarr's reply dripped with venom. "You saw in me nothing but a weapon to be wielded. My power, not my well-being, was your concern. And now, you dare speak to me about family, after what you took from me?"

Solamon's expression shifted, the sorrow deepening in his eyes. Yet, beneath the surface, an unwavering conviction remained. "I understand your anger and your sense of betrayal. But believe me when I say that everything I did, I did believing it was for the greater good. You think I don't grieve for the path you've chosen?"

It was then that Einarr reached for his blade, Nexus, its dark steel pulsing with a light that seemed to devour rather than illuminate. Runes of Light etched along its length glimmered with sinister energy, each one a silent testament to a life taken. As Einarr drew the blade, the room filled with his audible intake of breath, laying bare the gravity of his actions. The shadows in the room seemed to coalesce around Nexus, as if drawn to its power.

"You understand nothing, Solamon" the words barely escaped Einarr's lips as the first of his tears crashed onto the marble floor.

Solamon's gaze locked onto the weapon, the horror unmistakable in his eyes as he recognized the runes of his fallen comrades.

With a resolve hardened by years of contemplation and sorrow, Solamon reached for his own weapon, Freedom. As Solamon unsheathed the blade, tendrils of orange smoke curled from its opalescent surface, weaving into ribbons that trailed behind him, creating a dance of light and shadow. Each ribbon birthed another, a network of ethereal roots that sought the heavens, their whispers echoing the solemnity of the moment.

Drawing upon the moonlight that filled the room, Solamon closed his eyes momentarily, focusing his energy. The globes of light around them began to dim as their power was drawn into the blade. The room grew darker, the once-bright moonlight now concentrated into the opalescent surface of Freedom. The blade absorbed the light, amplifying its brilliance until it shimmered like the sun itself.

"So, that is why you are here," Solamon stated, the realization of true intentions settling like a shroud. "So be it. But know this, Einarr, I will defend the Order against you, and I do so with a heavy heart."

As the light infused the blade, the tendrils of white smoke thickened and expanded, becoming more vibrant and ethereal. The energy pulsed through the weapon, enhancing its power and causing the ribbons of smoke to swirl and weave more intricately. The light within the blade seemed almost alive, casting Solamon in a halo of celestial energy.

Einarr, Nexus pointed towards his enemy in this moment, faced Solamon, the distance between them charged with the echoes of a thousand possibilities, of paths diverging and converging once more in conflict. "This is the only way," he said, his voice a mix of defiance and sorrow. "Your Order, your ideals—they've caused enough suffering. It ends now."

As the two stood, a momentary silence enveloped them, a breath in the shadow of destiny. Then, with a fluidity born of necessity and honed by years of training, they moved, performing a ballet of light and darkness. Their blades mourned with each clash, singing songs of loss.

The room, once a bastion of quiet power and scholarly pursuit, transformed into an arena of light, shadow, and swirling energies as Einarr and Solamon faced off. Each man, fueled by conviction and haunted by memories of a shared past now shattered, was prepared to unleash the full extent of their abilities.

Einarr, his blade Nexus aglow with runic magic, cast a menacing silhouette against the walls lined with bookshelves. The air crackled with tension, as if expecting a clash. Solamon, with Freedom in hand, stood resolute, the opalescent blade casting ethereal shadows that danced across the room.

As the first blow struck, the sound of steel against steel resonated with a clarion call that marked the beginning of their duel. Utilizing the speed he had acquired through the death of an ally, Einarr moved through the area with a fluidity that belied the urgency of his mission. Each strike was a blend of precision and power, aimed not just at defeating Solamon but at dismantling the ideology he represented.

Solamon, seasoned and skilled, parried with the grace of one who had spent a lifetime mastering the blade. "You cannot erase what we have built, Einarr. The Order is more than its leaders; it is an ideal." His voice commanded attention as he thrust forward, the blade slicing through the air with lethal intent, a glint of steel flashing in the dim light.

Einarr, undeterred, spoke out, "An ideal built on lies and manipulation!" With a flick of his wrist, he imbued Nexus with fire, the flames licking the blade and casting a lurid glow. But these weren't ordinary flames; they were darker, almost purple in hue, hinting at a power beyond mere Light magic. The battle intensified, and the exchange of blows was a testament to their skill and desperation.

As they fought, Einarr sought to use the environment to his advantage, darting between bookshelves, sending scrolls and tomes flying with each near miss. The commotion caused the orbs of sunlight to flicker erratically, casting shifting patterns of light that gave their duel an otherworldly quality. Shadows seemed to follow Einarr's movements, deepening in his wake and retreating from Solamon's light.

Solamon showed his combat mastery in this moment, wielding his blade with a precision that seemed almost supernatural. His deft hands guided the weapon as it danced through the air, alive with ribbons of white smoke. These tendrils, slicing with the elegance of controlled Mana, caught Einarr unexpectedly, marking his flesh with stinging cuts.

Using this as an opportunity to shift the tide, Solamon called upon a flash of moonlight that filled the room, obscuring vision and dampening the fiery glow of Einarr's blade.

As his eyes tried to adjust to this change in luminance, Einarr faced a critical choice. His body endured the skillful strikes. The pain urged him towards self-preservation, to use a rune to heal and regain his strength. Yet pride and determination clouded his judgment.

Driven by his own hubris, he instead invoked a rune that would pierce the veil of light, allowing him to see Solamon's movements and expect his attacks. This decision, while bold, left his wounds unattended, a gamble that placed victory above his own well-being. As the rune activated, Einarr's eyes shifted, the pupils narrowing to slits, a hint of his true nature breaking through.

The light was radiant and persevering, his body was burning through pain and desire. Einarr spoke out. "Fight me, coward!" His words echo through the air.

Yet Solamon remained elusive, a shadow within the light; his presence felt but was unseen. The tension mounted as Einarr navigated the sunlight, Nexus poised and ready, its flames extinguished but its threat undiminished.

Then, in a breath, the silence shattered. Solamon emerged from behind Einarr, Freedom raised for a decisive blow. The air tensed, time seeming to slow as Solamon hesitated, his blade hovering inches from Einarr's back. A lifetime passed in that pause, reflecting the choices made and paths walked. The boy he raised now stands as his nemesis. He snapped back, standing strong as he drew in the energy around him ready to deal the final blow. Awaiting the moonlight to power his blade he focused, but silence. His light was spent, the moon had not yet risen on the outside. He had now power here.

Einarr sensed the shift—the brief lapse in Solamon's resolve and power. He spun with the grace of a dancer, his own blade meeting Freedom's descent in a clash that resonated through the room. "I see through your lies. Your hesitation is your weakness!" His voice was a blend of triumph and sorrow.

Solamon, taken aback by his own momentary falter, stumbled, the weight of his hesitation causing a chasm to open between them. Einarr pounced on the chance, his actions driven by a mix of desperation and tenacity. With a surge of power, his blade became a whip of darkness, a manifestation of his will. The ethereal tendrils, a twisted mirror of Solamon's blade, crackling with energy as they lashed out, ensnaring Solamon and pulling him off balance.

The room, once a sanctum of knowledge and order, now bore witness to the irrevocable act of their tragic dance. Bookshelves toppled, scrolls and artifacts scattered as the two combatants struggled, the outcome hanging in the balance.

"Don't do this, it won't change things. We can still get past what you've done. I can help you" Solomon said as he laid at the mercy of Einarr. Nexus gleaming with a menacing light, poised for the final strike. The air between them crackled with the remnants of their spent powers, the mist beginning to dissipate, revealing the stark reality of the moment.

"Because of you I grew up without them." Einarr said, his voice resonating with the conviction of his beliefs. "In a place where all of you saw me as nothing more than a monster. So, a monster I have become."

With those last words, Einarr delivered the killing blow, with Nexus slicing through the air with a finality that echoed through the chamber. Solamon, the Head Lord, fell, his blade shattering and the mist retreating in mourning.

The moment the final light dimmed in Solamon's eyes, an ethereal glow briefly illuminated Einarr's Blade, as his mentor's rune etched itself next to the others. He gripped Nexus as the light flowed through him. Now thrumming with the power of the fallen Lord, Einarr turned away from the man he once knew, the heavy burden of his actions settling upon his shoulders.

As Solamon's life force faded, the shadows in the room seemed to surge, growing deeper and more profound. For a moment, Einarr's silhouette seemed to blur, as if he were one with the darkness itself.

The wounds he had ignored now asserted themselves with vengeance, each cut and bruise a stark testament to the ferocity of their clash. His body, pushed to the limits of human endurance, voiced its protest against the exertion it had undergone. Blood, his own, marked the path of his victory, a crimson trail that spoke volumes in the silence of the aftermath.

The sharp echo of approaching footsteps abruptly pierced the air. Two guards, drawn by the cacophony of their battle, paused at the threshold, their expressions shifting from determination to horror as they took in the sight of their fallen leader. "Stop!" their voices laced with shock and authority. But Einarr, fueled by a mix of adrenaline and resolve, did not heed their calls.

He felt the newfound energy of Solamon's rune surging through him. His light was rejuvenated, and he began his advance. With every step towards them, the marble floor cracked under the intense pressure and speed of his advance, a physical manifestation of the charged atmosphere. As they braced for conflict, Einarr made a split-second decision, his eyes catching the central empty column that ran alongside the Tower's spiral staircase.

In a display of sheer will and the potent magic at his command, Einarr leapt, diving into the column's void. Mid-descent, he activated one of his most powerful runes, taken from the finest of Stormchaser, his body began transforming into a being of pure lightning. It was a spectacle and a statement, a convergence of his power and the need to escape. The air crackled and hissed around him as he descended, a streak of energy cutting through the Tower's heart. But this lightning was different, it was almost tinged with darkness.

The Tower's alarms, already a discord of sound and light, reached a fever pitch. Below, an entire battalion of the Tower's guards had assembled, their faces set in grim determination, weapons drawn and ready. As Einarr emerged from his electrified descent, landing with the force of a tempest, the guards encircled him, their resolve palpable in each drip of sweat from their brows.

"These Lords are no more. If you stand in my way, I will not hesitate." his voice booming above the alarms.

Despite the weight of his words, the battalion held firm, their commitment to their duty unwavering.

With a nod of respect for their bravery, Einarr steeled himself for the inevitable clash. "So be it," he said, more to himself than to his adversaries. As he surged forward, the guards charged as well, a collective roar of defiance meeting his advance.

A cataclysmic clash of magic and might shook the Tower's foundations. Roaring thunder, profound sound, soul of the world. And then, silence.

Standing amidst the rubble, Einarr remained, a lone figure surrounded by the evidence of his passage. The guards, those who had stood against him, lay scattered, their armor and bodies smoldering. A testament to his determination and the lethal efficiency of his escape. He grasped his blade, pulling it out of the ground and venturing out of the chaotic Tower. He was now stepping into the uncertain night and the city that awaited him.

As Einarr moved through the exit of the Tower, his gaze briefly caught the form of the Dragon. Its eyes made deep contact with Einarr, as a deep, resonant growl rumbed from its throat. It knew what had happened, the death of its rider.

The dragon roared in fury, a sound that echoed through the night, causing the very ground to tremble. It rose to its full height, wings unfurling in a display of raw power and grief. The beast's eyes locked onto the sky, burning with a mixture of rage and sorrow. With a powerful beat of its wings, it snaked into the sky, its path tracing an arc as it prepared to return below for the one responsible for its rider's death.

Einarr, used the wave of dust to his advantage and blended into the shadows. He watched as the dragon soared above the city, its roars piercing the night sky. He knew it would be relentless in its hunt, driven by a bond deeper than mere loyalty. He moved swiftly, navigating the labyrinthine streets with the precision of a shadow, every step taken with the knowledge that he was being pursued.

The night air of the capital greeted Einarr with a chill that contrasted with the heat of battle still raging within him. The city, usually a labyrinth of light and shadow, became his arena of escape, the cobblestone streets whispering tales of freedom and pursuit.

As Einarr emerged from the Tower's shadow, the city unfolded before him in chaos. Alarms had spread like wildfire, the Tower's emergency casting an ominous glow that painted the streets in hues of danger. Guards, their armor clinking in the quiet night, formed barricades, their eyes scanning the crowds for the fugitive among them. The populace, caught between curiosity and fear, moved like a fractured tide, whispering a cacophony of speculation and rumor.

With every intention of blending into the shadows, Einarr reached for another rune, seeking the veil of darkness to cloak his escape. But as he summoned the power, a chilling void greeted his call, a stark reminder of his depleted reserves in the moment of need. His Light, depleted from the intense confrontation and his subsequent escape, refused to answer. A momentary panic seized him—the realization that he must now rely solely on his wits and intimate knowledge of Witheters to evade capture.

The streets where he once walked freely have now morphed into a maze of peril. Each shadow whispered of hidden danger, and every alleyway loomed as a potential trap, increasing the tension of the situation. Einarr became a ghost, his movements calculated, every step taken with precision born of desperation.

He darted down narrow alleyways, his footsteps a silent echo on the stone. The market square, a bustling hub by day, offered a momentary respite as its maze of stalls and deserted carts provided cover. But the respite was brief; shouts of his discovery spurred him on, pushing his limits as he sought the ever-elusive shadow of anonymity.

As he navigated the chaotic tapestry of Witheters, Einarr employed every trick and route known only to those who had called these streets home. Rooftops became pathways; the gaps between buildings leaps of faith. He was a specter flitting through the night, always one step ahead of the relentless pursuit that dogged his heels, his form blending seamlessly with the shadows, sometimes seeming to disappear entirely only to reappear moments later.

The chase was a testament to Einarr's resilience, a harrowing journey that tested not just his physical endurance but the very essence of his resolve. With each close call and each narrow escape, the weight of his choices and the gravity of his path bore down on him. Yet, through it all, he persevered, driven by a singular purpose that transcended the immediate threat of capture.

Amidst the moon's first light, Einarr stood on the city's edge. The pursuit had thinned, and the guards' determination waned with the night's exhaustive chase. Breathing heavily, his body a tapestry of exhaustion and resolve, the gates to freedom, an archway to an uncertain future, beckoned with the promise of a life beyond the reach of his pursuers. As the threads of destiny would have it, his path veered once more towards the bonds of loyalty and the weight of unspoken promises.

Guards had now trapped Perri, the helpful merchant, in the city's roiling chaos.

"We saw you with him. Who do you work for? Don't lie to us old man."

The sight of Perri, beaten and bound, a victim of accusations of treason for his association with Einarr, struck a chord deep within him. A frozen moment, a choice unveiled in shadows—between survival and sacrifice for another.

He stood with the clarity of a man who had faced his demons. Einarr decided. The freedom that lay just beyond the city gates dimmed compared to the immediate need to uphold the values he had fought so fiercely to reclaim. With a determined pivot, every deliberate step Einarr took back towards Perri symbolized a shift from self-preservation to a higher purpose.

The guards hesitated when they saw the fugitive they had been tasked to capture charging towards them, momentarily taking them aback. This hesitation proved to be their undoing. Einarr, his skills honed in the crucible of countless battles, made quick work of them, His movements were a blur of efficiency and grace, his blade cutting through them like butter. Every fallen guard marked Einarr's unwavering commitment to kind souls in an unkind world.

As the last of the captors lay defeated, Einarr kneeled before the merchant, his expression softening. "What happened?" Perri asked, his voice weak and his eyes clouded with confusion and pain.

"This is not the time," Einarr said, his voice carrying the weight of hard-earned wisdom and the sorrow of sacrifices made. "We need to leave."

With careful hands, Einarr helped Perri to his feet, each action taken with care. Perri stumbled but held himself against Einarr. "Thank you, you're a good man" Perri said. Einarr's eyes glanced over at the old man, words were said that he knew he did not deserve.

As they left the city behind, Einarr glanced back one last time. In the distance, the Moonseer Dragon hovered above the Tower, its roars of anguish echoing across the night sky. The dragon's mournful cries resonated with a pain that transcended the physical, a bond broken with the loss of its rider. With a final, heart-wrenching roar, the dragon shot into the sky, its form a streak of blue against the canvas of the night.

Einarr watched it disappear into the heavens, a somber expression on his face. "Another has been freed," he murmured to himself, turning his back on the city and stepping into the uncertain future that awaited him.

Together, they stepped through the city gates, leaving behind the stone and strife of Witheters. A fresh dusk greeting them—a tapestry untouched by yesterday's conflicts, brimming with the promise of new beginnings.

As they walked, Einarr felt the weight of Nexus at his side, the blade humming with the power of the fallen Light Lords. He knew that his journey was far from over. The shadows around him seemed to deepen, a reminder of his true nature and the path that lay ahead.