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.
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. 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. The sky over Plamen did not bleed red;