Kaelen didn't answer with words. He raised his sword, the blue light flaring into a blinding white sun. He thought of the hearth fires in Edrath, the whispered songs of Goldwood, and the steady beat of dwarven hammers. He wasn't fighting for a throne or for glory. He was fighting so that the year 2022.09 wouldn't be the last entry in the history of the world.
Kaelen knew the truth that the councils ignored: Alaloth would not stay in the shadows forever. The shards of the god's power—the artifacts of the First Age—were being unearthed. Alaloth.Champions.of.The.Four.Kingdomsv.2022.09...
Why do you struggle, little spark? Alaloth hissed. The kingdoms are already ash. They just haven't stopped burning yet. Kaelen didn't answer with words
The Four Kingdoms were in chaos. To the north, the Dwarves of Karak-Hohn had shuttered their mountain gates, suspicious of the shadows lengthening in their deep tunnels. To the east, the Republic of Larastir struggled to keep its forest borders from being overrun by the twisted remains of those who had ventured too close to the rift. The humans of Edrath were fractious, their lords more concerned with ancient bloodlines than the impending god-fall. He wasn't fighting for a throne or for glory
The sky over Plamen did not bleed red; it bruised a deep, sickly purple. In the year 2022.09, the stars aligned in a jagged pattern that the High Elves of Goldwood had long feared. The seal on the Valley of Storms was cracking. Alaloth, the dark god cast down by his kin, was stirring in his prison, and his breath was a cold wind that withered crops and drove men to madness.