Children of the Dawn

Dawn broke with golden rays filtering through the forest canopy, waking the camp with gentle warmth. Eirik was second to rise after Darius, who was already up and quietly conversing with Azaël at the edge of the clearing. As Eirik stretched, testing the ache in his chest, much diminished thanks to Lyra's healing and Azaël's herbal poultice, he caught snippets of their conversation.

"…tracks leading north, likely a bear scavenging the carcass," Azaël was saying, pointing off through the trees with the quiet confidence of a master hunter. "It shouldn't bother us. I also scouted a bit further down the road, no sign of trouble this morning."

Darius nodded appreciatively, his respect for the elf's professionalism clear. The grim tension that had held him since finding the first bodies of Alain's men had eased, replaced by the weary satisfaction of a soldier who has seen justice done. "I'm impressed. You've been busy while we slept." He turned as Eirik approached, offering a faint smile that didn't quite reach his weary eyes. "Morning. How do you feel?"

"Sore, but alive," Eirik replied honestly. He inhaled deeply of the crisp morning air. After yesterday's battle, simply waking up intact felt like a blessing. "How's everyone? Finn?"

As if on cue, Finn's groggy voice sounded from his bedroll on the ground, where Lyra was gently checking the poultice Azaël had applied to his temples. "Is it breakfast time yet? Please tell me that whole giant death-chicken thing was a bad dream and we're actually at an inn with hot cakes." He sat up, wincing a little as he stretched his bruised shoulder, his movements slow and pained.

Lyra, kneeling by the fire pit where embers still glowed, gave a soft laugh. "Afraid not, Finn. But I can promise some warm oatmeal." She had already combined water and oats in the cookpot and was coaxing the fire back to life with dried twigs. Despite the darkening circles under her eyes from a night spent in a restless, magic-drained trance, she looked determined to start the day on a positive note, a quiet pillar of normalcy amidst the chaos.

Finn sighed dramatically. "I suppose that'll do." He gave Azaël a friendly wave. "Good morning to our heroic savior. I hope our snoring didn't offend your elven sensibilities in the night."

Azaël's serious demeanor cracked just enough for a small chuckle. "I've spent nights in far less pleasant company, trust me. Your snoring was the song of angels compared to a drunken dwarf regiment I camped near once."

This earned a hearty laugh from Finn and Eirik. The morning lightened with that touch of humor. Even Darius's face eased into a brief grin as he settled by the fire for breakfast.

Over the simple meal, they discussed their plan for the day. The large town of Oakridge lay along the King's Road ahead, likely less than a day's journey now. There they could resupply properly, rest in real beds, and perhaps send word back to Blackstone about Blackstone soldiers' fate. Also, Oakridge would likely have a garrison or at least a courier who could convey news of the razorclaw's death and any other dangers to the region.

Azaël listened as the group chatted about Oakridge's famed apple orchards and the comfortable inn that Darius had visited years ago. She seemed slightly distant, as if turning something over in her mind. Finally, during a lull, she spoke up. "I should tell you more about why I'm truly out here. You deserve to know what you've welcomed into your ranks."

The others grew quiet, all eyes on Azaël. She tilted her face toward the morning sun, gathering her thoughts. "I mentioned prophecy last night… but there's more." She removed one glove, revealing a delicate pattern of indigo lines tattooed on the inside of her forearm. The design was of an eye interwoven with an arrow and branches, elegant and mysterious. "This is a mark of the Ellowyn seers. I was not born with the gift of true Sight, but I've been… touched by it, one might say. Ever since I was a child, I had flashes of insight or intuition. My mother was a seeress; she said I was 'Moonkissed', blessed by our lunar deity with glimpses of possible futures."

Lyra leaned forward, fascinated. "Do you see visions?"

Azaël shook her head lightly. "Not visions, exactly. Impressions. Feelings that guide my decisions. When the high seeress pronounced her prophecy of the Dungeon Lord's stirring, I felt something resonate in me. I saw, " she paused, eyes unfocusing as she recalled it. "I saw in my mind's eye a spire of black stone and silver light, the Tower, I believe, and at its base, a great shadow spreading like ink in water. And then… figures standing against it. Silhouettes, but one seemed… familiar somehow. I didn't understand it then."

Eirik felt a shiver. Prophecy and visions were things of legend, yet here they were potentially woven around them. "And now?" he prompted gently.

Azaël turned her clear green gaze on him. "Now, after meeting you all, I think I begin to." She managed a small smile. "I suspect one of those silhouettes was you, Eirik."

He blinked, a genuine surprise cutting through his weariness. "Me? Why me?" He wasn't feigning modesty. The necromancer's dying curse had branded him an "anomaly," something wrong with the place's weave. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that he wasn't just another adventurer. But to be a figure in an ancient elven prophecy? That suggested a purpose beyond just being a glitch. It suggested a role to play, a destiny he couldn't yet fathom. He was an unknown variable, and it seemed the ancient powers of the realm were finally beginning to take notice.

Azaël pursed her lips, searching for the right words. "There is an air about you… a feeling, as though your thread in fate's tapestry is unusually taut. I sensed it from the moment I saw you fighting that beast with abandon." She glanced at the others. "All of you have it to a degree, a mark of those chosen by the times. But Eirik's…" she tilted her head, studying him almost scientifically, "yours is somehow unique. I can't explain it better than that."

Eirik felt the weight of their stares and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to laugh it off. "I'm not sure what to say. I'm just trying to do my part. Darius is our leader, not me." He cast an apologetic look at Darius, who regarded him thoughtfully.

"Perhaps," Azaël allowed gently. "But one day, perhaps sooner than you think, you may find leadership thrust upon you. Prophecies have a way of turning the humble into heroes, whether they ask for it or not."

It grew quiet at that, the crackle of the fire loud in the silence. Eirik felt a mixture of emotions, doubt, humility, and a strange flicker of determination. He had been given a second life; maybe it was for a purpose. Still, he shrugged lightly. "If that happens, I'll trust my friends to keep me straight. I definitely don't have all the answers."

Finn piped up, breaking the tension. "I mean, if Eirik gets any more heroic we'll have to start writing epic ballads about him. I dibs the right to embellish the extremely true tale of Eirik wrestling a razorclaw with his bare hands." He winked. "That will put drinks on our table in every tavern."

Lyra giggled softly. "Don't exaggerate too much, Finn. It was frightening enough in reality."

Azaël's eyes glinted with amusement. "If I hadn't seen it, I might not believe it myself. You all fought bravely." She then grew earnest. "For what it's worth, prophecy or no, you have my bow and my loyalty. I've walked a long road following only whispers. To now have companions whose aims align with mine… it is a gift I won't take lightly."

Darius stood and placed a hand over his heart in a knightly gesture. "And you have our respect and friendship. Whatever lies ahead, we face it together." It was essentially a verbal contract among them, a reaffirmation of their alliance. Heads nodded all around.

With camp broken and spirits bolstered, the party set out once more along the King's Road. The day's trek was blessedly calm compared to the previous. Azaël walked a little ahead, scouting with keen senses attuned to the wild, her movements a silent, fluid grace that made Finn's own stealthy steps look clumsy by comparison. Darius kept a map in hand but mostly deferred to Azaël's guidance on terrain, the two seasoned veterans quickly falling into a comfortable rhythm of hand signals and shared, wary glances at the surrounding wilderness.

The presence of a skilled elven ranger among them did wonders for morale, especially for Finn, who seemed to have appointed himself Azaël's personal squire of curiosity. He'd pepper her with questions whenever he got the chance: did she really shoot that heavy arrow from her bow? ("Yes, but only with special preparation and an enchantment on the bowstring for extra force.") How many monsters had she taken down? ("I've lost count, plenty of beasts, though yesterday's might have been the largest.") Could she teach him Elven phrases? ("You should probably focus on one language at a time, given your Common still slurs after a few ales.")

Azaël handled his inquisitiveness with a patience that bordered on saintly, occasionally punctuated by a playful, sarcastic barb that left Finn grinning. At one point, when Finn marveled at her archery, she offered to show him a trick, provided he swore never to attempt it without proper training. She demonstrated how she could fire two arrows almost simultaneously, drawing and releasing in one fluid motion that sent shafts thudding into a distant log, one after the other in the span of a heartbeat. The feat left Finn slack-jawed and applauding, and even Darius murmured appreciatively.

Not all their talk was light. As midday approached and they paused in the shade of a stone bridge to rest, Azaël inquired more about the Tower of Eternum, since she'd never been to Silverkeep before. Darius and Lyra filled her in: the Tower stood at the heart of the capital, a colossal structure from ancient times, full of deadly floors that opened only occasionally for challengers. No one knew who built it; legends ranged from a mad archmage to the gods themselves. Every few years, the monarchy and guild sanctioned an official Challenge where adventurers could attempt to ascend its floors for glory, wealth, and purportedly secrets hidden at the summit. But the risks were extreme; many never returned from the depths of the Tower.

Eirik listened intently, as this was relatively new for him too. "So it's basically an enormous dungeon sitting in the middle of the city?" he clarified.

Lyra nodded. "Yes and no. Most dungeons are connected to the land; they exist in the same realm as the kingdoms. But the Tower… the Tower is different. Legends say it's a universe unto itself, and that each floor has its own rules, its own people, even its own sky. For such a well-known phenomenon, frustratingly little is truly understood about it. The Guild and the Crown only sanction entry during the Challenge, and even then, only to approved teams with enough rank or renown. They want to avoid sending fodder to pointless deaths in a place they can't control or predict."

Finn kicked a pebble into the stream below the bridge. "Sounds like some died anyway last time. Half the contestants, Marienne said."

Azaël furrowed her brow. "We have old elven songs about a 'Sky Piercer' tower from the age of legends. I wonder if it's the same. In those tales, the tower was built to test heroes… or to imprison a great evil, the translations vary. But if a Dungeon Lord truly is rising, and the prophecy points to the Tower, I fear it may be more than a testing ground. It could become a battleground."

Her words weighed heavily on the group. The idea that the Tower's Challenge might coincide with a resurgence of darkness was troubling. Darius finally spoke, his voice low and steady, "If that is our path, we'll meet it when it comes. For now, we deliver the evidence and gather strength. If Silverkeep calls for heroes to climb that Tower against a Dungeon Lord, well…" He glanced at each of them, a fire kindling in his eyes. "They could do far worse than the Iron Wolves."

Eirik heard the quiet confidence in Darius's voice, and while a part of him wanted to believe it, the cold, brutal memory of the previous day's battle was too fresh, too raw. He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the shade of the bridge. We are too weak, he thought, the words a shard of ice in his gut. Darius is a hero, but even he was almost broken. Lyra and Finn were struck down. If not for a stranger on a ridge… we would all be dead. He looked at his own hands, remembering the jarring impact of his axe against the razorclaw's hide, the sheer, overwhelming power of the beast. The idea of facing a "Dungeon Lord" felt less like a heroic challenge and more like a death sentence. He was a fumbling outsider in this land, and for all his newfound strength, he knew, with a certainty that was as humbling as it was terrifying, that he was still not strong enough. He met Azaël's gaze, and she seemed to read the doubt in his eyes, giving him a slow, knowing nod that offered no easy comfort, only a shared, sober understanding of the path ahead.

They pressed on, their hearts heavier now, their purpose sharpened by a new, grim reality. By late afternoon, the road widened, and they began to see signs of civilization: fenced pastures, a distant plume of smoke from a chimney, the road itself better maintained.

It was Azaël who spotted it first. She held up a hand, her body going still, her head cocked as if listening to something only she could hear. "Trouble," she whispered.

They advanced cautiously. Around the next bend, they found the makeshift camp of Alain's survivors. Or what was left of it.

The scene was one of chilling, unnatural quiet. A half-dozen small tents were overturned, their canvas flaps fluttering in the breeze. A campfire was a circle of cold, dead ash. There were signs of a brief, furious struggle, a snapped spear haft, a discarded steel gauntlet, the churned mud of a dozen booted feet.

But what was truly horrifying was what wasn't there.

There were no bodies. There were no footprints other than those of the guardsmen themselves.

"This ain't right," Finn muttered, his face pale, his usual bravado completely gone. He walked through the silent camp, his eyes wide with a dawning, sickening comprehension. "A fight happened here, that's for sure. But… where is everyone? There's no blood. No tracks. It's like they just… vanished."

He knelt, pointing to the ground. "Look. Drag marks. Dozens of them. All leading away from the camp, into the woods." He looked up at the others, his voice dropping to a horrified whisper. "Whatever took them, it wasn't the Razorclaw. That thing was a messy killer. This… this was quiet. Efficient."

The pieces clicked into place with a horrifying certainty. The Razorclaw's unnatural, obsessive piling of the dead. And now this. A silent, disciplined force arriving to finish the job.

"The beast was the hammer," Eirik said, his voice a low, grim rumble as he stared at the empty, silent camp. "It broke them. Something else… was the cleanup crew."

"A harvest," Lyra breathed, her hand clutching her holy symbol so tightly her knuckles were white. The word, once a vague term from a necromancer's journal, now had a tangible, soul-chilling meaning. "They are harvesting the dead."

Darius stood over the cold campfire, his face a mask of cold, controlled fury. The thought of his men, survivors of a monster's attack, only to be captured and dragged off like cattle by some silent, unknown enemy, was a poison in his soul. "We should have been with them," he said, his voice a low, dangerous sound.

"We couldn't have known," Eirik countered, though the same guilt gnawed at his own gut. He looked at the drag marks leading into the dark woods. "We honor them by finishing their mission," Azaël said quietly, her voice a sliver of cold steel. "We deliver our warning. We make sure their sacrifice was not in vain."

They continued on, the mood now somber and heavy. The laughter and the stories were gone, replaced by a grim, determined silence. The weight of their task, and the reality of the forces they faced, a multi-faceted enemy that commanded both savage beasts and disciplined armies for a single, profane purpose, had settled upon them completely. The road to Oakridge was no longer a simple journey; it was a path paved with the memory of fallen comrades, a path that led inexorably toward a confrontation they now knew they could not avoid.