The remains met expectations. We did not expect to defeat them so easily—not from the enemy's numbers perspective. But power—well, power changed everything. We were up against the cowardly Wolves—humans who, however, only followed their instincts. I was sure that those who survived were convinced they would return after licking their wounds. But... well, they lost more than half their forces; the rest were badly wounded. All who escaped had no way to start again. Yet they were the least of it. As soon as their leader moved away, the rest of us gathered against the true enemy—just as we were arriving, we could feel it. The runes—those that the Overlord had taught us to trace so many years ago—were changing. They were only runes that allowed us to store magic within our bodies, but those controls were fading before the immense wave of power—so strong that we fell to our knees.
The impact stunned me. I was strong—an elf from the original Keep house, servant of the great powers, but current leader of the Dark Elves. Bruma was my name for millennia. Most chose more exciting names, but I did not. While I lived, I wanted to be the link to our humble origin. Yet I heard—heard with a clarity I did not think possible—the one we were ordered to rescue was dying. I pushed my soldiers—the youngest, the fastest—they had to reach where the poor man was. Someone with the ability to face such an enemy was worthy of all our help. But no one could get close—the flames emanating from that spawn kept us away. From the other end, like something I did not expect to see, one of Oberon's sons was fighting the enemies. Without drama, without elegant actions, hand to hand, eliminating the currents of survivors who passed under their god's brutal attack.
I prayed to the gods, to the spirits. My bow was not of such quality, but I drew it. In my mind, an arrow materialized—a magical projectile, without traces, without enemies that could use it against me. It was directed at the beast destroying what remained of the mage's defenses. Judeus, they called him—a true rival. Even on the ground, his field still defended him, but he would not resist at this rate. I preferred to be pursued, to take detours, to draw his attention. Let someone heal that man—then we would attack.
"No, good elf. It will not work like that. You know... I must stay here to prevent a full-scale invasion. But shoot if that makes you happy; it will give me something to smile about."
I did not know if I heard his final wishes, but I would prevent it. I launched the arrow. In the air, another gust—I felt the fire slowly erase some of the containment runes, but I did not think they were disappearing—I thought my body was absorbing them. They gave me power—so much that my arrow split mid-flight and became a true storm attacking that enemy beating the mage... so close, and instead of hitting his luminous body, they opened and reached dozens of those entering.
"As you see, wise Bruma—I know your name, don't worry—this entity is far above their capabilities, but not by much. In a few minutes, my existence as leader of the Whitecaps will end. I regret many things, but I do not regret saving a city and its people from facing this beast."
I cannot accept it! But we could not go further. The blows I felt were not unique—the presumptuous elves had also fallen to their knees. As best I could, I began the slow crawl—even if only a tip, that beast would taste my sword!
"Thank you. In the end, everyone saw the threat represented by senseless faith. But it is enough. My last gift is about to be finished. The runes you had were great work. Perhaps I could have improved them, but as I was not supposed to for appearances, today I write within you—in your body, flesh, and blood—the new runes, the ones that will turn you into characters capable of using magic on your own. I will leave the runes of your character and the magics, but that is only because I know what you suffered. Go ahead, wise one—defend my city. It is one of the few things I will ask of you. I will eliminate this brute... trust me."
A weaker voice spoke. But indeed, I felt the power—growing, filling me, leaving behind the tame thing that controlled, drinking the black mushroom potion. It was liquid fire filling everything with sparks—from my sight to the horizon. That was where I saw what was really happening. Yes, Judeus was attacked, but from the avatar's fear and desperation, the mage was draining all the power of that god. The magic lines traveled to various parts of the city and its surroundings like a sky blanket—faint, sad, as simple and complex as eternity. They all reached our hands, my face. With my sword's edge, I examined myself—the elaborate marks that the Overlord himself had traced had disappeared. Only my name—those beautiful strokes that a human had made—remained. But now they were power—as much as we never had.
I ordered my troops. For the moment, I would let the mage do what he thought he knew. We attacked the enemy's flanks. But it was not a great battle for us—not since our swords flamed when wielded, our shields encompassed more than their mere surface. But we were not the only ones. From all sides, I felt power emerging from our forest friends. Our brothers had launched powerful enchantments we never dreamed of. They were not spells as such—they refused to use them or learn them because the price was to stop being creatures of the forest. Yet pure magic—forms of their minds in action—ghost animals, rays of light, fire, or ice—imprecise but destructive in ranks as tight as the invaders'. Finally, although I did not want to believe it, the haughty Blood Elves reached us in the offensive. We did not greet them and received nothing in return—no insults, threats, greed. There, in their eyes, there was only a deep hatred for those who invaded.
I kept opening ranks. I was sure I saved several backs—human, forest, and noble—but they did the same for me, so there was no excuse or need to seek the curse in our actions. Just then, I felt a halo of heat coming from ahead. It was a man—I remembered him from so many meetings with the Queen of the Dark Forest. When he stopped, thousands of cuts had stained his white tunic brown-mud color. He looked at me with eyes that did not recognize me. He shouted—a cry of desperation, of help, of death. Without saying anything, I turned my back to the battle. That mage was going against the avatar. He could not do it alone, but he would not be.
When I arrived, the scene was terrible. The invading beast no longer measured dozens of meters—it was a little larger than ten, had only four arms, its color also a little more opaque, but still much power was distinguishable within. The man known as Greybeard had just struck the silhouette with his staff. Even though I had little hope with such a crude weapon, I was surprised to see an explosion at its tip, the way that area exploded. He fell and went to defend his master. There, I saw him holding a blackened, flaccid body. But there was no time to be distracted—the beast, which supposedly suffered great damage, returned to eliminate the nuisance. I ran—as never before. My legs did not hold me after so many battles, but it was no time for doubt. I drew my swords, and they came out flaming, burning their scabbards in the process. I threw myself forward, trying to cut the beast, trying to deflect its blows. It ignored me. The fist fell terrible.
*Clank, clank, crunch! * Those were not the sounds of flesh splitting. I forced myself to open my eyes. Silver Leaf, son of the great elf king, was there—with a broken shield, his hand hanging inert, but with a cry in his lungs...
YOU SHALL NOT PASS!
That snapped me out of my daze. I joined the battle. We struck with everything, defended, killed, lived—for hours of horror where a mortal blow was stopped by my enslaver, by the Whitecaps still in the tower, by my body marked with thousands of minor wounds I did not feel. My hatred against someone who had destroyed the one who united us was greater.
Finally, the beast fell. I did not know who delivered the final blow, but I was on my knees, only able to see the puddle on the floor—it was blood—my blood. I still heard the fight, but it was distant. I had to get up—my troops needed me; my enemies had not yet learned the lesson.
"You did it... Bruma, heroic elf. I thank you... I am officially retired with this. I don't think I can do more for my people, but you can for yours. Go with them, but take care of my disciple—he is not ready. I will help him as long as I can."
How? I could not believe that no one survived. Were you immortal, human? How could someone not ready achieve anything?
"He is clever—very much so—but lacks control. Silver Leaf will take care of him. But when you see that he needs you, take him this."
Before my eyes, an unimportant sheet began to thicken—one by one, rune flakes, very tight, small, almost poetic, formed before me. Then a stone without more fell inside them, stacking like reunited lovers—to the point that when I took it, a torrent of images passed through my mind.
"That is a soul stone—with my knowledge, with the ideas of an idealistic idiot. It is nonsense that only you know exists—invisible to the weak and greedy. A stone from someone who wants his student to learn when the time comes... nonsense."
I kept it in a leather bag. It was incredible, but the fight continued, and I could not leave my men facing so many with or without an avatar.
A week had passed. Reconstructions advanced slowly. As expected, the lack of oligarchs and usurers meant money flowed more simply, reflected in the multiple constructions the new leader of Stormhammer had begun to create. Today, they would celebrate, and words would be said in the name of the best human mage who had ever existed. We were all gathered. The elves, deferential to being surrounded, hid in the trees' shadows or, in our case, in the sewers.
"Brothers, all knew pain. To a greater or lesser extent, living in these times brings us close to misery and pain—but also to hope and alliances. I am not worthy of a position like the one I hold. Yet the other high-level mages had very specific assignments of where they should protect, so I will be in charge of Stormhammer's care. As you know, my master had very clear ideas of what he sought for all of us. From now on, I tell you—I will not let you down! The elves helped us, so they have a place in the city and our hearts. Race ceases to matter, because the blood mixed that night is enough to unite thousands of differences in one purpose.
Today and forever, Judeus will be the only one to remind us what the word sacrifice means. We must all seek that it not be in vain. People of Stormhammer! Do not forget! That is what my master would have wanted."
I covered my face and went out into the streets. Everyone had very calculating looks—of risk, of the city's security, of their purposes. If they entered these, if they would have money soon—nothing that did not exist or would not exist in a race where life was so brief that it chose to waste it. Suddenly, among all eyes, one distracted me—a lost gaze, a trickle of saliva running down his face. He wore a torn, old tunic, stood in a shadow, a small sack at his feet. Thousands of wounds crossed his face. I felt a tear run down my face. I left a few copper coins in his sack, and a small, dull smile parted his toothless mouth. He murmured about stars and cheese. I left him and rejoined my troops. There were many graves to bury, but fewer than there would have been if Judeus had not given us a farewell gift. I did not know why he did what he did. I supposed it was necessary for a new vision.
As I left the city, I felt a little better. The stone rested in the tower's deepest cellars, protected with enchantments that would make no one seek it. Thus, the Stone of the Wise would be hidden... I thought that patch of grimy leather had been watching me the whole time... his retirement. What a brutal way to live it.