Return to Mount Wyrmtor
The journey back to Mount Wyrmtor had a distinct feeling this time around. The fatigue they had felt on the way out turned into a tired sense of unity, as they felt a burden lifted together. The tough mountain air also appeared to bring a hint of hope.
Upon reaching the bottom of the mountain, the troops coming back let out a gasp together. From the youngest kids to the wise elders, everyone in Mount Wyrmtor gathered at the base of the path, with torches casting light on their faces.
Cheers burst out, a happy melody resonating in the valley. Tears of relief and sorrow ran down faces for lost comrades. However, the predominant feeling was one of unmistakable victory.
They entered the crowd, a damaged yet unwavering presence. As Andre looked at the faces, his heart tightened with sorrow upon noticing the empty seats that represented lives lost in a tragic way. He felt a sharp sense of guilt, a guilt felt by those who survived.
A messenger moved to the front, his voice echoing confidently. "Out of the five hundred and forty-three courageous individuals who set out on this journey, three hundred and ninety-eight have come back! May their bravery serve as a guiding light for everyone in Decaoria!"
The crowd erupted in a loud cheer, a sound wave that seemed like it could move the entire mountain. Andre got off his horse, his legs trembling from exhaustion. Desperately searching for his own face, he scanned through the faces.
Anya stood there, close to the front. However, she had company. A man with gray hair stood next to her, his face showing signs of worry and a strong sense of hope. Andre immediately identified him – his father, Kael.
Beside him, a recognized silhouette leaned over a hot dish of food. His elder sibling, Cole. He appeared more mature, his previously dark hair now speckled with gray, his youthful exuberance replaced by a world-weary weariness. Yet, Andre could see a flicker of recognition in his eyes as he raised a piece of meat to his mouth.
Anya was the first one to see him. In the flickering torchlight, her face lit up with a radiant smile, emanating warmth. Hurrying towards him, she enveloped him in a comforting hug amid the turmoil.
"Andre!" she cried, her voice thick with emotion. "Thank the Divines you're safe!"
Andre embraced her. A lump formed in his throat, a combination of relief and a strong desire to be with his family. He moved away, his eyes shifting towards the man standing beside Anya.
"Dad?" His voice cracked, a hesitant question escaping his parched throat.
The man looked around, trying to find Andre's face with his eyes. Recognition started to appear, then a deep frown emerged.
"Excuse me, young man," Kael said, his voice gruff and unfamiliar. "Do I know you?"
Andre felt his heart drop. Was the experience so difficult that it had confused his father? Was this a heartless prank carried out by sorrow?
Anya, sensing his distress, stepped forward. "Kael," she said gently, placing a hand on his arm. "This is Andre, I mean Elian. Your son."
A tremor ran through Kael's body. He stared at Andre, his eyes widening in disbelief
Anya explained everything, from his pact with Azurael the Ensnarer to everything that had happened in the last 5 years.
It was as if he were seeing a ghost. Then, recognition flooded his face.
"Elian?" he croaked, his voice trembling. "But… but you were…"
He was unable to complete the sentence. His eyes filled with tears, streaming down his aged cheeks. Kael hugged Andre tightly before Andre could respond, his tears being muffled by Andre's chainmail chestplate.
Cole was shocked, dropping his meat on the ground across the fire, his eyes wide. He looked at Andre with his mouth wide open.
"Andre?" he gasped, dropping the plate with a clatter that went unnoticed in the cacophony of emotions.
Andre turned, his heart overflowing. He saw a mixture of disbelief and joy on Cole's face, a reflection of his own emotions. Anya, her eyes red-rimmed from tears, gave him a reassuring smile.
All of a sudden, silence swept through the crowd. Everyone looked at Corvus as his emerald Mana Arc glowed slightly in the dimming sunlight. He stood upright, his expression showing a strong determination.
"Warriors of Decaoria!" he boomed, his voice ringing out in the silence. "We stand here today, battered but unbowed. We have stared into the abyss of the Supreme Dungeon and emerged victorious! Let us raise our mugs in honor of those who fell, may their sacrifice guide us in the battles yet to come!"
The crowd was swept with a wave of consensus. Mugs were lifted high, with a sea of dancing firelight gleaming in the amber ale. A group of voices joined together in a serious salute, sincerely honoring their deceased friends.
After the final sounds of the toast disappeared, a soldier made his way through the crowd of partygoers towards Corvus. He was a youth, with his armor showing dents and scratches from the battles he had faced.
"Elder Corvus," he stammered, a hint of awe in his voice. "I… I noticed something during the fight. Those… those wolves in the cell block, they weren't natural."
The crowd let out a collective gasp that traveled through the group. The discussions faded away, giving way to an uneasy quiet.
"They were… undead," the soldier continued, his voice barely a whisper. "Grimlock Hounds, reanimated with dark magic."
Corvus wrinkled his forehead. The soldier's words carried a weighty implication in the air.
"Undead?" a wizened elder echoed, his voice trembling. "But necromancy is… it's forbidden! Decoria hasn't seen such a thing in centuries!"
Andre felt a chill of fear in his stomach. The soldier's insight overshadowed their triumph with a gloomy cloud. The Supreme Dungeon was not a typical jail; it was a place where something much more evil thrived.
Corvus' expression became stern, his emerald Mana Arc shining even brighter.
"The only necromancer Decaoria ever truly knew was Lord Vrn," he growled, his voice laced with grim certainty. "And he's been dead for over a thousand years."
The name "Lord Vrn" resonated in Andre's mind. He faintly remembered it from old bedtime stories, stories of a sorcerer hungry for power who wanted to dominate all of Decaoria with his evil magic. However, those were only tales, correct?
Corvus suddenly realized with wide eyes, letting out a gasp. The silence turned into a heavy, oppressive mass filled with unexpressed fear.
"The Oracle…" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "It spoke of a time when the Lord of Dark Arts would return… Malachar Nightweave…"