"Faster!" Markus shouted while he remained crouched down, one hand pressing against a log to keep his balance, "We need a burst of speed!" As he spoke, a loud plunk sounded to their left, emphasizing his words. The centurion didn't see what splashed into the water, but he sure felt the slight rocking of the logs under him a moment later as the wave hit the raft.

Movement catching his eye to the right on the bank, his head whipped in that direction, searching the shore for danger, but that was only until he saw the new rock sailing through the air. Readying his mental energy, he tracked the projectile until he felt a spray of water strike his face as the attack fell feet short of the nailed-together logs.

Before his body could relax and he could think they were safe, Markus shouted in shock, "Shit!" while stretching out his arm and constructing a psy shield before his hand. It took a fraction of a second for the casting to solidify, and yet it was nearly too late.

The head-sized orb of deep amber fire burning through the air broke against his shield. Markus grunted at the mental pang of having a tiny portion of his psy ripped away at the impact, even as he reinforced his shield with more of his psy.

The three-foot diameter of his shield proved to be insufficient. While the cohesion of the fireball might have been broken, the flames continued forward on momentum, rolling along the shield's invisible width until it reached the edges. Once the fire did, fingers of flame licked over the shield's sides, reaching toward Markus and the others like a many-fingered hand. The strands of fire were only over the shield's edge for a moment before Markus extended the casting, but in that time, he could feel his soaked clothes heating up and see what had to be a flicker of steam rise from his damp clothes.

The intensity of the flames was unlike anything Markus had ever experienced. The legionary wouldn't be surprised that if the ball had hit him in the chest, it would have burned through his flesh and popped out the other side without even being phased… A shiver ran down Markus's spine at the thought. Pushing past the instinct to look away from the intense heat and light, Markus kept his face forward, eyes unblinking, despite the uncomfortable reminder of placing his head next to his father's forge as a child to see what was inside.

When the bloom of fire dissipated, it formed a gray smoke that he saw dots in for a few seconds. His body tensed as he strained his eyes harder than in an attempt to look past it, keeping the shield in place. Markus glared into the smoke, willing it to disperse faster, his resolve unwavering. Eyes widening in alarm, Markus moved the shield to his right, blocking a boulder.

Before the stone could rebound off his shield more than an inch, a frantic message pinged his mind from the union. I'm gonna make it, Markus thought, unwilling to accept the tiniest sliver of doubt to enter his mind as he forced his shield to the opposite side of the raft, angling the top away from him as he lifted it at the end of a tendril beyond the edge of the raft.

While he was still moving the shield into place, a chest-sized rock clipped the bottom left corner of the shield. But with the shield angled, the projectile plowed into the water and under the logs, slightly lifting them as it threw up a wave of water onto the raft's occupants and resoaking his partially dried leathers.

Others on the raft were knocked to their hands and knees as it felt like the world rocked, but Markus rode through it in his three-point stance. If Markus could get away with guarding the raft sitting on his ass, he would. But you didn't get the best view of the shoreline — and, more importantly, the beastkin working their spells — while sitting on and occasionally just under the icy river's surface. And this way, he was marginally warmer than those poor soaked saps shivering while clinging to the wet logs.

With such a lively start to their journey, the legionaries spared no effort in working their way to the middle of the river under the constant bombardment. As far as Markus was concerned, the rafts were working out great. They were mostly floating and had yet to suffer a serious impact from a boulder. Over the hours and hundreds of thrown stones, only two had connected in a serious way, not a feat that should be easily ignored.

Luckily, the first only had a couple of logs broken off from the impact while some of the occupants were thrown into the Rush's cold embrace. The other raft hit resulted in half a dozen people being injured, one maimed, and a few more falling into the river. Most of the legionaries were quickly picked up, but a couple were thrown so far into the air that they found themselves with the choice of swimming into the clawed grasp of the beastkin or succumbing to the waters.

They all chose to attempt to drown themselves, but Markus wasn't sure how well they succeeded. He could only hope they did, as it was a better fate than having one's soul ripped out.

Despite how they had made it farther than anyone expected, things weren't all looking up. The latest rock-made wave was a little too close for comfort, and the raft gave off some concerning creeks and groans in complaint, but it should be fine… It will be fine. We are going to make it.

With the rafts each effectively on their own and at the whims of the current, Markus quickly broke up their mental network into groups containing their individual rafts. It was only logical. Over the last couple of hours, the distance between the rafts stretched out over half a mile from their tight formation. Stringing more than the tiniest of psy strands between all of them was nearly impossible and took far too much energy to justify the small potential benefit.

Well, if I was the type of leader to suck all of my troops dry to save my own skin… Markus thought, his face twisting into a sour expression. Making such choices was the easy, selfish way out. Though Markus hated to admit it, he knew plenty of tribunes in the 15th Legion that would do such a thing. The only reason they still had those thoughts was because the legion wasn't on the front lines, so the ideals hadn't been beaten out of them before their troops had the opportunity to position them to have an unfortunate accident.

It was hard to make legionnaires fight when they knew their leader would sacrifice them for their own sake at a moment's notice. And yet, there were always stories of leaders sacrificing their legionaries floating around. It was something that Markus wouldn't ever do. Never.

So Markus gave everyone the information they had to relay to command, then wished them all luck before cutting the connections. Now, it was up to the individuals who happened to be on each raft to determine if they would survive. However, there was a distinct lack of choices to be made.

Markus felt another jab of pain lodge in his heart as he looked upstream. It wasn't fair, but life never was. So often, fate and luck determine one's life and death.

Because Markus himself was on this raft, along with Celeste, Sathera, and Gruth, they would probably make it. Celeste and Gruth were some of the strongest scouts, and Sathera wasn't far behind, even if she wasn't as well-trained as the others. The result was that if any of the rafts had the reserves of psy to push forward and make it back to the Triad, it was theirs.

As the most senior and those with the most experience and greatest levels of control, Gruth, Markus, and Celeste controlled all of the raft's psy. Gruth was placed at what amounted to the prow, positioned to pull the logs forward while Markus and Celeste shielded the raft's flanks.

Unwilling to do less than his absolute best, Markus stayed in his crouch even while the raft was undisturbed, his head never wavering or dipping. His eyes constantly slid along the shoreline, looking for any flashes of lights or spots of motion.

Being the first raft, by a large margin, one would think that they would be left alone. After all, the beastkins had to run along the shoreline to keep up. The water might not appear to be moving all that fast, but being in the center of the river and Gruth giving them a constant tug forward with a psy strand, they were moving along at a fast jog. And that wasn't even counting the occasional burst of speed from Gruth when they needed to dodge a particularly large boulder.

It wasn't anything amazing, but it was pretty good, considering what they were riding. Faster than Markus could manage running through an old-growth forest, at least.

"Boulder!" shouted a woman sending a mental picture through the link. Starting to move, Markus suddenly froze mid-motion and moved the shield back.

The rock was a worry, but the "Fireball!" warning a male shouted a moment after the woman commanded his focus. The decision was made with little more than his gut feeling, but at a time when split seconds decided life and death, that was all one had.

Far from being his first time at this point, Markus caught the fireball on his shield, causing it to break over his defense. The wave of heat evoked an agonizing pleasure to prickle over his skin as the bone-deep ice that had seeped into his marrow resisted being melted.

As he was turned away, a resounding plunk sounded as the boulder fell into the river short of the raft. He could hear the sprinkling of water as droplets fell onto his shoulders and head, but he didn't turn to look at the ripples. While not all of the beastkin could cast their… spells, all of them could pick up large rocks and chuck them a startling distance. An astonishing distance, really.

Currently, the riverbanks were a few hundred yards away, placing them in a particularly narrow section of the river. Because of that, the splash of rocks hitting the water could be heard all around them and was nearly constant. There were, after all, hundreds of the normal wolfkin lining the sides of the river and a half dozen of the robed kind that could cast spells.

Which was unfortunate as those beastkins were more accurate.

Funnily enough, Markus was less concerned about the robed beastkin. They might be more accurate, sure, but if the other beastkins threw enough boulders, and they seemed dead set on doing just that, they would eventually hit something or someone important. It was just a matter of attrition and who was lucky.

Throwing all the rocks this far was impressive, to say the least. And it was astonishing the beastkin were attacking them so much and not the easier targets behind them, but at least Markus was helping the others in some small way…

"Stone sp—" Shouted someone in fear behind Markus before his voice shifted into a scream, "Ahhh! My fucking leg." The man screamed out a moment later.

"Kawrashit! Crows take these animal fucking bastards!" Celeste shouted in frustration and growing fatigue. Her words were followed by a thump of an impact. Markus could feel it in her words and mind, the exhaustion-fueled hatred radiating off her and into the union. She was tired. They all were.

"Suck it up," Markus ordered, "they can't be much better off than us! The pricks have to run after us while throwing attacks. All we have to do is sit on our asses and watch the forest go by, so stop complaining!"

"Sorry to ruin the pleasant trip with my screams and bad attitude," hissed Tirre through his tight throat as he stared at the foot-long, inches-thick stone spike in his leg. "Pretty inconsiderate of me, I must say."

Markus exaggerated a nod of understanding while sending out the feeling of fake agreement as he blocked another rock with his shield, "I'd tell you to walk off such an injury, but I just don't feel like going to shore to drop you off at the moment. I'm in a rush and don't wanna waste any time."

"That's what happens to everyone that becomes a centurion. Part of the initiation is getting a stick shoved up your ass and never again wanting to spend the time to slow down and smell the flowers while resting under a tree…" The man muttered to 'himself,' but loud enough for everyone to hear.

Snickers sounded at his words, and Markus took a moment to look over his shoulder, giving Tirre a flat stare, "What did you say, scout?"

"Nothing, Centurion! I was just talking to the nail in my leg."

"Spike." A woman corrected, "Already lost too much blood from that small booboo and can't think?"

"If I can't lift my leg because it is nailed to the log, I feel confident calling it a fucking nail." The man replied. "Not that you would know much about something nailing you."

"Ahh, fuck you!" Snapped back the woman.

"You wish."

Everyone — even the woman Tirre was talking to — chuckled at his words. Even Markus had to repress a smile. It wasn't that funny, but it was better to laugh at Tirre's joke than watch him slowly bleed to death.

He might live. Someone was carefully trying to free his leg and ripping off a piece of clothing for a tourniquet. But an open wound and water weren't a good combination. It was… not something he should concern himself with right now.

Settling his mind, Markus focused on his job, falling steadily into a haze. All that mattered was blocking the next projectile and searching the shoreline. His screaming body and increasingly fuzzy mind were mere distractions. Inconsequential ones he ignored.

Hours passed, and the sun fell lower, getting closer and closer to the horizon. And with the passing of time, the utter exhaustion of combat began to take its toll. Try as they might, more attacks slipped through. Markus and Celeste's defense just could not stop them all, and Gruth couldn't keep the boat moving at the same speed.

As the weight of the attacks piled onto each other, the injuries mounted… and the inevitable deaths began. While none of those who died were the strongest psy users, three out of sixteen people was a significant enough blow when every orb of psy mattered. Not to mention, thirteen is an unlucky number.

More than anything else, every injury and death increased the strain on the rest of them. But Markus would not give in. His will was unshakable, as he knew his goal. An achievable goal. A goal he would make it to.

He stayed in his crouch, ignoring his screaming and shaking legs, bloodshot eyes on the shoreline, looking. Always looking. His shield shrunk, becoming little more than a foot in diameter, but still, he blocked attack after attack.

It might have been gradual, but the frequency of the attacks slowed as the beastkin were actually showing signs of tiring. They never stopped, however, but it gave Markus some much-needed room to breathe. That, and the river widening, making the distance to the shorelines around half a mile. Even the beastkin had problems with that distance.

Finally, after the longest afternoon in his life, the sun sunk below the horizon, and Markus dropped onto the raft with the settling darkness, unable to stand a moment longer. "Stay low," Markus whispered, "They won't spot us at this distance. Not without us making it… obvious~." Giving his last order, Markus fell into an exhausted sleep.

Interlude 3

Excerpt from The Mad Scholar's Wall—

When we eventually staggered our way out of the broken outer gates of the Gauntlet, we were confronted by ash. Unending clouds of swirling black filth, or so it seemed to me. Positioned around the fort's walls at equal intervals were mounts of soot nearly as tall as the walls of the fort and hundreds of feet long. Uncertain as such a situation was, it was better than staying within the fort.

And yet we could only move a few dozen yards outside the outer gates, our swords and shields hanging limply at our sides. We could not drop them, but at the same time, we were unable to lift them as we took in the spectacle before us. There was nothing we wanted more than to move further away from the walls and escape their clawing shadows — to distance ourselves from the nightmare — but none of us could take another step.

No matter how much we hated the Gauntlet by that point or how many hours and days we dreamt of escaping its chilling touch, we could not leave when given the chance. So long as we were close to its walls, we were sheltered. We could survive anything.

As we watched, tall figures appeared from around the piles of ash, spreading it over the ground before churning the soil to mix the two. Eventually, Areekail, High King of the Great Woods, rode up to us on his majestic white mount, his presence washing over us like a soothing balm, filling us with awe and peace.

Then he pointed. That was all.

He pointed to the side of the gate, where layer after layer of pearly white headstones were positioned around a small rise where an obsidian obelisk had appeared. Carved into the face of the pillar's surface were the words, 'Here lies the defenders of the Gauntlet and Olimpia. The ones who held back those lost to the world.'

Gathering around the pillar, we wept bitter tears. Tears that we were alive and others were dead. Tears for what was to come. When we were done, able to view the world in more than an indifferent haze, Areekail approached us. Asking us to follow. Picking up our swords and shields, we marched after him.

It was only long after the march that I finally realized how much repressed hatred I felt toward the elves during those days. I also understand them and can admit now that what they have done was necessary, but the hate still burns inside me. Now, it is all too obvious how wrong the situation was; after all, my memory never lies.

We, the remnants of the decimated 1st Legion, who were as mentally broken — if not more so — than the legion itself, marched off for another battle. We numbered little more than a full-strength cohort. The only thing we should have done was slump onto the ground at the base of the monument for our… "Great victory."

I didn't even fight in the first part of the Battle of the Gauntlet, and in the second part, I could barely say I did anything. But there were those among us who fought on the frontlines dozens of times during the conflict. I, who simply witnessed the fight, had enough combat for the rest of my life.

I would expect the ones who did the most to never want to pick up a sword again. And yet we all clutched our weapons and marched with the elves without question. That was all we did. We did not look for or grab supplies or pacts; there was no message to Olimpia to tell them we were alive and marching with the elves, and no one complained.

Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!

After one day of grief, we were ready to throw our lives into what should be a harsher battle after a long march. And now, as I look back, I know it was not our choice. And yet, my hate can never burst into righteous flames because I understand the elves and the circumstances that forced their hand. Worse, I pity them for what they did to themselves as penance. But that will come later.

For now, know we marched all day. We slept on the ground wrapped in our cloaks at night before getting up to restart the process again. For food, they gave us fruit, nuts, and jerky, and we ate the repast with gulps of water without question or wanting more.

Days passed, and we never once questioned why we followed or where we were going. As the distance increased, we found ourselves trekking through the Great Forest — a place humans had never been able to visit before. The stories of the wonders within the forest and the grandeur of the elven cities echoed across Olimpia's streets daily, spoken from the mouths of children as they dreamed of exploring it one day… And it was all a lie.

What we found was ruins. Hardly a mile would be passed without the signs of the forest being torn apart in a fierce battle. The villages whose homes were grown from the trees themselves, with a few stone walls and a few buildings on the ground, were all deserted and broken.

And then we passed the remnants of a city. A fact that we could only tell by the few vestiges of broken walls containing a void the forest had yet to reclaim. Day after day, we marched, and one scene of destruction after another passed by. And we felt nothing. We never questioned nor objected, and there was no horror or despair filling our hearts.

In a forest comprising tens of thousands of square miles, destruction was all we ever found, but we were not alone. Small groups of elves numbering between a dozen and a couple hundred started walking from the devastation and joining our group.

Our numbers swelled as we walked through the forest of death. And though I did not notice it then, I remember now that all the elves had looks of despair and exhaustion. At least those who didn't have blank masks as faces with empty, dull eyes. If I could think back then, it would have only taken me a moment to realize the elves were a ravaged, dying people.

I do not know precisely how long we marched with the elves, seeing the remnants of their once-great nation. Everything was a blur, as even my mind was in a delirious fog at times. However, that might have been self-inflicted, as after the first month, I didn't want to remember and stopped fighting off the mental manipulation. The reality of seeing a ruined city after an unending sea of graveyards was unnerving.

I can only guess how long we marched by the trip back and how long we were told we had been gone. Not that I tried hard to piece together the events, but I know we marched through the Great Forest for around a year. A year stolen from our lives.

A time that ended as abruptly as it started. We simply walked out from under the forest boughs, and our minds snapped into focus. Most could not remember exactly how we got there, but we all knew the time we were forced to march was significant. However, those thoughts were quickly driven out of our minds.

We were standing at the apex of a large curve in the forest's border. On the left side, the forest disappeared as it stretched toward distant mountains peaking over the horizon. While the right curved into a sea of grass and vanished from my sight.

The surroundings only held my attention for a moment as my eyes were drawn to what lay directly before us… Even now, I struggle to describe the full scope of the structures. Calling it a fortress doesn't do it justice. It is to a fortress what a village is to a city. The central Citadel was miles wide with walls that seemed capable of holding up the sky ringing it. Towers looked down hundreds of yards upon the walls that could put mountains to shame. And all around it were living and dead beastmen.

Areekail, High King of the Great Woodlands, waved his hand, and fire no bigger than a candle's flame unfurled from the tip of his pointer finger. Like it had been shot from a bow, the fire flew toward the fort. What drew and kept everyone's attention was that as the blaze traveled, it grew in size and changed color.

At first, it was the cherry red of a campfire's coals. Within a dozen feet, the candle flame that leaped from the High King's finger had grown to the size of a large bonfire and started to change color to the light blue of the sky in the center. The growth rate only increased, and along with the size, the blue color spread to the rest of the flames as the core shifted to a dark azure hew before it became the purest of whites. By the time the once tiny flame had reached the base of the massive walls and the gathered beastmen outside them, the scene had become an ocean smashing against a cliff.

Stretching out before the High King in the shape of a cone, the earth was scorched black, as any grass below the flame was burned to less than ash. The now barren ground looked like it had been baked in a kiln and had cracked open in places, with the air above shimmering with heat it retained from the flames passing.

Nothing could stop the torrent as the flames born from the underworld reached the tens of thousands of beastmen, both dead and alive. Before the flame could reach the poor creatures, their fur burst into flames. The blood-curdling death screams of thousands rang out into the world, then stopped as the white core touched them.

Without a hint of resistance, the flame swept forward, curving around the fortification like a river with a bolder in the middle of a stream. When the fire disappeared around the bend of the fortifications, nothing was left in its wake. Not even the ash or bones of the dead.

"Follow." Said High King Areekail, his words filled with stubborn resolve. A request made by a being who once again looked like a god made flesh was not a request at all. And this time, we followed without any compulsion. We finally understood. There was something the High King needed us to bear witness to, as there was no fight that we could ever help him overcome.

So we followed Areekail onto the cracked ground, and it was as if we had entered another world. A dead world composed of oppressive heat and choking dust. Within a dozen feet of walking in this new reality, smoke rose from the soles of our shoes, and every breath burned in our chests.

Before the heat could be more than uncomfortable, the High King waved his hand, and the heat vanished as if it was never there. As if his actions drew his attention to what was around them, the king looked at what he had wrought, his face one of grief. His eyes were filled with a sorrow so deep that it seemed to hang over his shoulders like a physical mantle, visibly aging his face.

It was my first time seeing the High King looking so… mortal. As we walked across the scorched plains, heading towards the scarred outer walls — a structure so large that standing at its base would blot out half of the sky — his appearance continued to shift before my eyes as if untold years of aging were settling into his flesh.

Looking back on my memory, I know that nothing really changed during that walk. Reality remained the same. Areekail was as youthful as any man in the prime of life and more beautiful than any human or half-human that had ever appeared before me.

And still, I can't help but remember his appearance at that moment as an old man. Decades of a harsh, uncompromising life slammed down on the elf, and a decrepit, hunched figure was now riding the majestic horse in his place. And it wasn't just me, as the other humans murmured in surprise at the shift, though the elves in our procession only looked upon their High King with guilt and shame burning in their eyes.

But before anyone could think of voicing the question of what was happening, a weight started pressing down onto our minds, a pressure that only grew as we approached the gates of the Citadel. It was not someone's mental powers but the simple expectation of thousands. The atmosphere was turning increasingly solemn the closer to the entrance we came. When we arrived, we came to a stop, looking up at the mural carved onto the doors.

Three groups of figures were carved into the bottom sections of the gates. One was tall and thin, the second thick and muscular, and the third was the smallest and looked slender in comparison to the others. Respectively, the three groups came from a forest, from the mountains, and from an unending city, and in the center of it all, representatives of the three nations stood together.

Above all the figures in the background stretched a tree covering most of the fifty-yard gate, its branches reaching onto the walls beyond the doors. We stopped before the gates, and a wave of regret exploded from High King Areekail. Even though the sun was high in the sky, the world turned dark, and breathing almost didn't seem worth the effort, as if it was better to lie down and die than continue.

After the eternal moment, High King Areekail spoke, and light slipped into the world again, his words resounding in the air with power. "We built these citadels, this city, to be the greatest architectural achievement of our race. And yet, all it is now is a testament to our eternal sin. An act that will forever stain our souls, even as it was an act of redemption."

The High King said no more, only staring forlornly at the walls, none of the other elves bothering to answer the burning questions in our eyes. But finally, with a wave of his hand, the doors of the fortress broke open, and the spell of silence cast over our crowd was broken. Not that anyone spoke to us even then, as the elves were too busy murmuring to their Ancestor, begging for forgiveness as we entered the gates like a funeral procession.

At our head was Areekail, looking more like a living being than a corpse with every step. When we finally walked past the gates, his figure sitting on the horse had reached the point that it was only ever so slightly hunched. However, noticing that was only an afterthought as I took in my surroundings.

We marched through the dark hundred-foot-wide passage, but the gloom did little to comfort me, as I could faintly make out small holes far above and to the sides. After a couple hundred feet of moving through the death trap, we came to a T-junction, which required our group to break up and move through the smaller — but still objectively large — passages to the right and left as a wall was blocking the road. We walked around the blockage in the path before reconnecting on the other side, where we could see daylight at the end of a short tunnel.

Coming out of the fortification, we entered a bowl of dust. Twiggs and sticks that were once desiccated trees and bushes stuck out of piles of loose dirt. For miles within the tall surrounding walls, all one could see were the remnants of what must have once been a beautiful forest.

The Citadel was in the center of it all, at the top of a slight incline. While its central dome and five surrounding towers were still standing, its walls were marked with a brutal and devastating conflict. Hardly a stone of the inner wall separating the Citadel from the rest of the dust bowl was left whole, a trend that continued for everything in sight.

As we traveled to the center of the courtyard around the Citadel, more signs of battle could be spotted all around us. If you searched the landscape closely, you could make out half-standing walls and trenches that used to be rivers that divided the garden.

Every second, one thing was hammered home abundantly clear to us, a massive battle had raged within these walls. The outside face of the wall, while marked and scarred to a degree, was brand new compared to the battle damage marking the inside of the walls.

Again, a silence settled onto us, and we took everything in. But then the world around us shimmered, and instead of broken stumps and a few finger-sized twigs left over from a long dead bush, there was a lush garden.

Everywhere we looked were grass fields and flower-lined paths leading over brooks. The trees bore fruit, ripe and ready to be plucked, and were being picked by children. Elven children ran across the grass, laughing and playing with each other, or sat on blankets with their parents, eating and relaxing in the afternoon. It was paradise.

Then the world flashed before us, and the trees were charred to stumps, the grass burned to the ground, and the bushes were stripped of their leaves. In the place of the joyful children were countless elves, females and males alike, fighting brutally to the death, the rain of their blood doing nothing to bring back life to the dying garden.

The elves did not all look the same. One side of the conflict was composed entirely of the tall and refined pale-skinned elves we had known for so long. Elegance was their birthright, and even in combat and death, it remained by their sides.

The other side was mainly composed of Elves made of bulging muscles. They were slightly shorter than the elves of the Great Woodland and had tanned skin from long hours in the sun, but they more than made up for the difference in height with the width of their shoulders. Intermingled with the bulky elves were smaller ones whose skin was colored light violet. They were a head and shorter than all the other elves but significantly faster and nimbler.

The High Elves' — those of High King Areekails race — had faces twisted with sorrow, while the purple dark-skinned elves had looks of scorn and fury. Finding themselves in the middle of the two races of elves fighting viciously with each other were the muscular elves fighting with blank indifference. Their swings contained herculean force, shattering the ground with stomps and swings of the arm, but despite their evident strength, there was little conviction, acting more as obstacles for the other two forces than a force of their own.

As suddenly as it appeared, the vision vanished, and we were left blinking at the once more empty and blighted land. Our only option was to follow the High King with an uneasy contemplation. Approaching the walls of the fort, we noticed the elves we traveled with were spreading out into the wasteland, gathering below the figures who stood on the battlements, leaving the remnants of the 1st Legion alone in our journey into the building.

Following the High King through the dusty and scarred passages, we climbed to the roof of the central dome of the Citadel. Once at the top, we walked to the railing and looked northward.

All the way to the horizon, spreading out between the walls anchored by this massive fortress, was a broken city. Shattered stone towers and buildings were everywhere. Countless figures were moving over all of the ruins, looking like nothing more than ants swarming out from their hill. But I knew what they were. It was millions upon millions of beastmen. Enough that it looked like they could cover the world.

Then the High King spoke, his words heavy with regret.

…

As Areekail finished speaking, his words settled into our minds. And with the words came the full scope of the elves' actions, the cost which we — and our descendants — would have to pay. As that realization congealed within me, a flicker of wrath was embedded in my chest. But then I looked over the walls into the unending city stretching to the horizon, and over every surface, the wretched forms of beastmen crawled.

Life is never fair, and my hatred for the elves was smothered with reality as I looked over the walls. The elves were, are, and will remain, suffering the cost for their actions for… who can say how long. They tried their best to atone. To set us, the Olimpians, up for success. But they could no longer hold up the burden that was crushing them. As their last act, they would give us the greatest gift: Time. Time to grow and, perhaps, become capable of withstanding the burden that will fall onto our shoulders.

High King Areekail stood at the railing of the broken Citadel at the corner of the razed Alabaster City. His dual forms — that of a decrepit old man and one in the prime of life — flickered before settling into the one of youth for an instant. Then, the mask of youth solidified as the air around him shuddered with waves of power.

Stretching out his hand, he flicked his wrist, and a line of dirt hundreds of yards tall shot through the city as it cracked in half. At first, we saw nothing. Then, second by second, a crevice running through the city started to grow. In the blink of an eye, the canyon was swallowing buildings, and the speed of its expansion increased.

The cracks and booms of splitting stone filled our ears as if the world itself was breaking apart. As we witnessed the sight, our faces turned bloodless. The High King turned and gave us a smile filled with remorse and relief as he whispered a word that carried over the destruction of the last remnant of the elven empire, "Run."

We had no choice. Areekail's words filled us with an unending need to escape, and if we did not move as fast as we could, our hearts would explode in our chests from fear. My vision tunneled, and all I could see was where I would take my next step as I fled. Every breath burned in my throat, and I could hear its ragged hitching despite the pounding rush of blood in my ears.

I do not remember running through the Citadel. Only a few flashes of crumbling stone remained in my mind, one of the few points in my life I have no memory of. However, it was only a temporary loss, as the farther I ran from the once stunning stronghold, the more conscious thoughts returned to my mind.

My reason might have returned, but I still held no sway over my legs, though I could, and did, look around. Standing on the walls, covered in damaged and dented armor, were elves standing in ranks, looking towards the fortress's center. Their weapons were clutched in their right hands as they lifted them silently into the air. Still positioned at the base of the walls were the elves we had marched with, doing the same.

When we finally neared their ranks, after traveling the miles of the inner grounds, I could make out their solemn faces. Then, a cracking boom sounded, and the earth lurched. Falling to my knees, I looked up at the faces of the elves, who suddenly had eyes filled with relief. Their gaze was focused behind me to what even I, a pure human, could feel was a gathering of power.

Scrambling to my feet, I staggered forward with the legionaries, passing the elves standing silently at the open gates. Some shot glances at us, their eyes filled with guilt rather than fear of what was occurring, but they did nothing to help nor hinder our escape as they stood in place at the exit. And once we ran past them, they simply returned to watching their approaching doom in stubborn silence.

Hundreds of feet from the massive walls, we could finally come to a stop. I was filled with disbelief when I turned around to face the cracking and shaking reverberations echoing our frantic flight. As far as we could see, a canyon dropping hundreds to thousands of feet deep stretched out before us, and no matter where I looked, there was no sign of the last elven army or their crumbling city.

Gradually, we mustered the courage to stand at the edge of the new… trench, though that word didn't do reality justice, and we stared into it. You can not call a massive canyon — that was in the rough shape of a cone and miles wide at the point that didn't seem to have an end — a mere trench. But how can you call something made by a mortal a canyon? More than a canyon, really, because as we stayed at its edge for days, it began filling with water.

Days passed into weeks as we remained at the future Great Lake and processed what had happened. Eventually, we concluded that we had to walk back home alone as no one was coming to guide us. But we didn't know where to go.

After some discussion, we decided to skirt the river leading into the great forest. Clouded as our minds were of our time in the woods, we remembered the ruins of towns and cities on the river, and it was the best choice we had. Weeks and then months passed as we traveled. We foraged and hunted for food, and when what amounted to winter arrived, we camped on the river's banks to wait for the rain to pass.

And when it departed, we walked some more. Over time, we came across villages within the endless ruins, growing more ragged and beaten down with every subsequent day and mile. What brought a spark back into our lives was when we found elves.

It was just a few at first, a half dozen elves living in small huts with small farms next to them. They fed us what they could and then followed us as we left, guiding and providing us what food they could. And when we needed more, the elves took us to other small villages, which also packed up and followed us after the same process.

Soon enough, the ever-growing number of elves following and caring for all of our needs as we traveled eclipsed our own numbers. Tens of thousands of elves trailed in our wake by the time we saw Olimpia on the horizon.

As we approached the city and its surrounding fields — our elven followers trailing behind us for miles — the gates were flung open, and the cheering people poured out. Like a school of fish swarming a scrap of venison thrown into a river, they enveloped us.

The young women rushed up to us, holding our heads between their hands, and kissed us. The older men dashed up to us weary legionaries and clasped our arms or encircled us in tight hugs. Back slaps were everywhere, and after years of travel and fighting, of seeing the destruction of a proud people, my face had broken out into a grin so wide I couldn't contain it.

It was like the mood of the sudden festivities and emotions were infectious. That is my only excuse as to why it took so long for me to notice the jeers and calls of derision behind me.

The mob of Olimpians had moved past celebration. Or, they had taken the next step in cheering for the 1st Legion's glorious victory and conquest by focusing their ire on the convenient elves ready to be beaten.

They called the elves betrayers. Oathbreakers.

They cursed the elves for killing their families, their siblings, friends, spouses, and parents. Through it all, the elves did not fight back, as if all fight was beaten out of them long ago. Like they deserved it. Within moments, the celebration of our triumphant return had shifted to the collective defilement of the elves.

Even I was suddenly filled with an all-consuming rage and found myself standing above a half-dead elf, crimson-stained fist raised to strike her again. To my shame, I spat on her in disgust as I left her to her fate before turning to join the party.

After all, we had a lot to celebrate. As everyone knew, the 1st Legion had marched into the elven Great Forest and raised all their cities to the ground. This was all as a retaliation, of course. Because the elves had attacked our great city of Olimpia out of greed for what we had accomplished despite their continued oppression. An oppression that was born out of their inferiority.

Their feeble armies marched and then broke against the Gauntlet and her sister forts, and we counter-attacked, shattering their meager defenses. Or so I, and everyone else, suddenly believed.

The Great Betrayal as it became known, and how we rose up to defeat the tyrants. A belief that would not leave me for years…

When my scattered memories finally reformed, I tried to tell people the truth. To show them the great mental casting that affected our people, including the elves. But even those who marched with me could not remember the truth for long. Their eyes flashed with recognition and horror at my words, and they opened their mouths to speak, only for their faces to fall flat and their eyes to glaze over again the next moment as they forgot.

Ineffective as my efforts were, as their memories were continually suppressed, their unwarranted persecution against the elves nearly stopped. So, I confronted everyone I could with my mad story and embraced my title as the Mad Scholar.

I told them how the elves offered this world to us on a silver platter and what that gift would cost us. Of what our duty was, a duty we could not fail in. But no matter how much I said or wrote, my words were forgotten, and my writings were lost.

Stone lasts for untold ages, though. So I etched my — our — story into this wall. Generations will come and read what I have engraved. Even if they don't remember or think they don't believe what I have to say, they will be compelled to act, of that, I am sure.

And hopefully, given enough time, we will pardon the elves of the sins their ancestors didn't commit and, perhaps, remember the ones they did. Because while we can't remember past events, it doesn't mean no one does or that the echoes won't come to haunt us.

When that time comes, and it will, I weep for the generation that must bear the burden we have shirked.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.