ASH FELL LIKE MOURNING SHROUDS OVER THE RUINED CITY.

Käel pulled a breath through the scarf wrapped tight over her mouth and nose, ignoring the acrid tang of charred wood and scorched stone.

"We should head back, Princess," Moreto, her bodyguard, urged as the downpour of ember-like flakes intensified. "There's no sign of survivors."

"Four," Käel raised her gloved hand to show four fingers, "four were reported near Sylvara temple."

"Could be a bait. Vyrathaen's reapers are everywhere." Moreto snorted.

Käel slanted her gaze at her companion. "Maybe age has eroded your courage, Moreto," she said with a hint of sarcasm.

You obstinate, girl. Moreto suppressed his words. Two decades as her bodyguard since the day of her birth, and he knew better than to rile up her stubborn heart – she'll just push further to prove herself. Couldn't blame her – the firefall that had begun four months back had cast a fiery haze over what was once the capital city of Rivencrest. The ember-like flakes burnt everything they touched, from trees to pillars holding the stone facades. Everything was scorched to cinders, and the city was long evacuated by anyone who could find a way out. Some stayed because some hoped, including the King and the Queen. Hope, Moreto knew from his fifty years of experience, was a treacherous thing. The same hope got his King and Queen massacred.

A flicker of movement; Käel crouched, raised her right fist, and pointed toward the Sylvara Temple.

Moreto ducked behind a skeletal remnant of a tree across the narrow street and unsheathed his sword. Käel took cover behind a ravaged cart on the opposite side of the street, her masked face pressed against the charred wood.

Silence. Sweat trickled on Käel's neck and snaked to her back. She steadied her breath, squinted, and scanned the temple, which was now a gutted husk with no sign of God. Another movement, a whisper. Käel clutched her dragonsteel sword tight in her gloved hand, pressed her back against the charred wall, and side-stepped towards the sound with her eyes and ears alert. In her peripheral vision, she sensed the frantic wave from Moreto.

"No," he hissed. "We don't know what that is."

Käel ignored it and took a step toward the sound. Her boots slipped, crushing the ash and silence. Steady, she told herself, more to fend off the rising panic than to balance her body. There was definite movement. She unsheathed the dragonsteel, pulled a long breath, and whipped around the corner with the sword raised high.

Her body skidded to a halt. A group of survivors, a woman holding a baby, and two girls, were huddled beneath the remains of a collapsed archway. Käel's eyes feel on the soot-stained rag of a doll in the youngest girl's hand. Their faces were gaunt and smeared with soot, clothes tattered and stained. "Please," the woman said shifting the baby from one soot-covered arm to another. "Help us."

Käel's throat tightened. She sheathed the dragonsteel, unstrapped her water bottle, and stepped closer. 'Here.'

The woman grabbed the bottle, tipped it over her baby's mouth first, then offered it to the elder girl. She held the bottle up for her younger sister, the girl with the doll, then offered water to her mother before having it herself.

'Thank you,' she said, handing the empty bottle to Käel, glancing at the sword and lifting her gaze to a curl of hair protruding out of Kael's scarf. "Is it true what they say about you?"

Käel knew what the girl hinted, and pursed her lips behind the scarf.

The girl's eyebrows shot up. "So, it's true?"

"Regge!" Her mother called out.

The girl turned to her mother and stomped her feet. "You told us they made a lowborn as princess because the King wanted a daughter. Why can't I be a princess, too?"

Her mother eyed her, turned to Kael with an apologetic look. "Forgive the child, Princess."

Käel capped the bottle. "You need to follow me out of here."

"Where?"

"Feywood in the old city," Käel said, wiping the wet ash under her eyes. "You are not safe here."

The woman's face fell. "We can't leave our house. Their father has gone to get the cart."

"When did he go?" Käel asked.

"Three... three days," the woman mumbled.

"Maa, father will be back soon, won't he?" the younger girl tugged her mother's arm.

The woman looked at Käel, and they both knew the answer. "Let's go," Käel said, holding her hand toward the youngest girl. The girl looked at her mother and back at Käel. "There's food," Käel lied, feeling a pang of guilt for her powerlessness. A sudden gust of wind sent a fresh wave of burning ash swirling around them. "We better hurry."

It was then that she saw it—a cloak fluttering behind the thick smoke, moving towards them. Käel could've sworn it was a tree that moved—tall and gaunt, with a rigid frame, its dark green shroud flowing even in the dead wind. She shielded the woman and children behind her and drew out the dragonsteel.

"Stop right there," Moreto warned with his sword drawn out and held in a two-hand grip beside Käel. "Get behind me, Princess," he whispered.

But Käel didn't move. She shrugged off her long cloak, draped it back over her shoulders to free her arms, and gripped the dragonsteel firmly with both hands. The figure drew nearer with silent feet, even over the dry twigs and ash.

"I am warning you." She clenched her gloved fingers over her sword hilt and narrowed her eyes.

The figure stopped. Käel lifted her gaze at the man standing an arm's length over her.

"Käel Ravensong," the man's voice rumbled, deep and resonant.

Käel's heart hammered. "Identify yourself."

The figure slowly waved his right arm in a half-circle, and the smoke between them cleared. The haze dissipated, and a tall figure shrouded in layers of ash-streaked cloth emerged from the swirling dust. Wearing a cone-shaped headgear perched upon his head that cast a shadow over a weathered face, the man stepped closer with his staff, revealing a face white as moon, puffed green eyes, thick brows, and an ash-grey beard that resembled spiderwebs. "I am Gréydenmir."

Where have I heard the name?

"I knew King Thalion Ravensong, your father."

It stuck to her. Yes, Father had spoken of Gréydenmir in hushed stories, a myth from tales of old, a sorcerer whose powers transcended the realms of the known world. The stories had always seemed distant and improbable.

"Stay back, Princess. This could be a trap." Moreto warned, pointing his sword toward the old man.

"You fool." The tall figure gripped Moreto's blade in his bare hand and pushed it until it was a mere finger on Moreto's face.

"Stop!" Käel warned. Could he be the Gréydenmir she'd only heard about in songs and stories? "How do I know it's you?" Käel asked, wiping the sweat off her palm on her robe and gripping back the sword.

"There is no time for this," the figure said, letting go of Moreto's sword, his tone heavy with urgency. "Rivencrest's fall is a mere precursor to a greater threat. You must leave the city now."

"I won't leave my kingdom." Käel pointed the sword to the man's face.

The man stepped closer, right until the tip of dragonsteel was a fraction from his eyes. "The race of men is in great peril. You are man's last hope."

"Man's last hope? I am a princess, yes, but of a small kingdom untouched by the great glory to our west and never I have traveled beyond our lands. I fear you mistake me for another."

"I know to whom I speak," said Gréydenmir, "but you do not yet know your role in the history of this age. Leave now, and let your destiny guide you."

"I care nothing for history while my people die. I shall stay and fight." Käel raised her blade again.

"And fight you will. But now is not the time. Darkness converges upon us."

A war horn moaned in the near distance. "Quick, get behind that," the figure pointed his staff towards a wall. The woman grabbed her kids, rushed behind the half-burnt structure, and crouched. The man who called himself Gréydenmir stepped toward the sound, and Käel and Moreto followed. They kneeled behind the temple and Gréydenmir raised a finger to his lips, then pointed toward his right. Käel peeked, and the sight stung her. A cold shudder ran through her, and an ill fear, unlike what she had ever confronted, gripped her. Two blocks across, columns of black-clad soldiers, their faces hidden behind silver masks, rounded the cobblestone street with silver spikes with black flags rising over their enormous gait. Their movements were precise, almost mechanical, and they marched in unison, their armour clanging in rhythm, stomping ash dust in perfect sync, reverberating the ground beneath her feet. "What are those things?"

"Deathwraiths," Gréydenmir said. "The army of the dead. They hunt the things that breathe."

"Vyrathaen can resurrect the dead now?"

"Yes. But he's growing weaker. The wraiths cannot survive the sun. Hence this firefall and ash."

Käel followed the menacing foot-stomps nearing them. "They move without silence and secrecy."

"For your city has been lost, Princess, and all other Kingdoms and Queensdom to the west. The enemy moves unopposed and fast."

The column stopped, and the air was suddenly quiet. A guttural groan from the tallest wraith, the one with a golden mask, possibly the leader, and the wraiths spun toward them in one swift turn.

"Go now, princess," Gréydenmir said.

"I won't leave my city. It's time the wraiths paid for their foul deeds." Käel said with a fierce determination and stepped toward the Wraiths, with Moreto following her.

"You stubborn fools!" Gréydenmir blocked their path with his staff, pressed his index finger on his forehead and muttered, "Athlir verak talian."

Käel, stunned, went flying back and collapsed onto the ground, legs splayed out and feet digging into the ash. A cloud of grey erupted around her, each particle suspended, almost to a stand-still, before falling back, some into her eyes. She shook her head, wiped her eyes from the stinging burn, and sat up with her legs outstretched and her dragonsteel by her side. She gripped the sword with tense, trembling fingers as her vision cleared.

The woman lay beside her with her face covered in ash and blood, her eyes open and stiff, her baby still clutched in her arm. "No," Käel panicked, straddled to her feet. The elder girl was lying lifeless, her twisted body a canvas of ash and red. Next to her was a ragged doll with a small hand clasping it – only the hand. There was no body.

"Moreto," Käel gasped, the voice came out in spittled threads. The clang of steel, a roar growing in her ear, she turned toward the sound. Moreto was on his knees, a snapped sword in his hand, facing a gold mask. The wraith closed onto him, dragging a heavy speared mace through the ash. Käel raised her arm, but no words came through. The black wraith lifted the mace high and swung it on Moreto's head with a vicious rage. "NO!" Käel shut her eyes to the splatter.

"Prin...cess." A voice reached her from a distance.

"Princess." Closer.

"Käel." Something nudged her.

Her eyes snapped open. She was on her back, staring at the slow descent of ash on her face. Moreto's lips were moving, but the words were garbled, too rounded.

"Prin... cess!"

It was Moreto, yes, next to her, rocking her shoulders. Beside him, she saw the woman, her child, the two girls, and the boy, all staring.

"You are alive," she mumbled. "You are alive."

"Not for long." A stern voice commanded her attention. Käel turned to Gréydenmir.

Käel staggered to her feet, angry and confused. "What did you do to me?"

"Just showed you where your rage may lead you. You cannot avenge your parents here."

"But... I must"

"There are things far bigger than you and me. You must leave now."

A muffled cry came and Kael turned to the sound. The woman had pressed her palm over the baby's mouth and was trying to edge away with her girls.

Kael crept behind the wall and reached the woman. "Don't leave. I'll protect you."

"You can't." The woman said clutching her child. "I saw what that old man did to you with a touch. We are cursed."

Kael felt numb inside, like the child who's cry were stifled by her mother's palm over her tiny lips. "Let me," she said, and ungloving her hand, she placed her palm on the baby's soft skull, and reached out with her thoughts, Calm down, little one. The baby's cries faded, and he clasped Kael's finger with a soft, tiny grip.

The woman looked at Kael in surprise.

"You have my word, lady," Kael said, and quickly returned to Greydenmir. "You used some sorcery on me. You can stop them, too, can't you?"

The giant figure exhaled, and for the first time, his shoulders sagged. "I can't."

"Tell me, Gréydenmir. There must be a way."

"There is one." Gréydenmir's gaze was both sympathetic and resolute. "But it's beyond me, and even for the high elves who once dwelled in Eryndor." His eyes glinted like a star. "You hold it in your hand."

"This?" Käel raised the dragonsteel. "It's just a sword."

"I fear your father has not told you enough. His sword that you now bear is no ordinary steel. It's the key to the end of all evil, but only a key. You must seek the Eclipse Stone."

"The Eclipse Stone? That's just a tale of seers and lorekeepers," Käel said.

"Six hundred lives of men I have lived, and what you call a lore is the truth. I walked on the young Earth when Vyrathaen came upon this stone." Gréydenmir's face turned grave. "You must have faith in my words..." he hesitated, "for I stood witness when the stone was unleashed and the third age of men came to an end."

Käel stood motionless, a frown creased her brow. "Why me?"

"Remember the prophecy?"

"It's a myth. No messiah is coming to wage our war for us."

"It may be a myth, but even myths have roots in truth. And messiah are not born, they rise. Now it's your turn to rise, or give in and fall. But remember, even the smallest amongst us can alter the fate of the world."

Käel's face turned grim. "Look around, Gréydenmir. I could not even save my people. I am no hero. If I abandon them today in search of a myth, the last of my father's name shall be shamed. If this sword bears such power, take it and seek the stone." She kissed her sword and offered it to Gréydenmir.

Gréydenmir recoiled, and for a instant, Käel saw a dark shadow on his bony white face, his eyes red and glinting with treacherous malice. Käel yanked back her weapon. Gréydenmir's face softened. "Don't tempt me, Princess. I once held that sword and swore to never wield it again."

Käel sheathed the sword, turned to the woman and her children. "Look at them. My people need me."

"Your presence here will only lead to further tragedy. The Deathwraiths sense you."

"Sense me?"

A distinct thump and clank of metal turned closer. "Time is not upon our side," Gréydenmir said as a shadow passed over his face. "Grievous times are upon us, and each day evil grows stronger. Come the day of the solar eclipse, and if the enemy gets hold of the weapon, the age shall end. You must hasten."

"If what you say is true, how am I to find this weapon, this relic lost to time?"

"Lost it is, yes, and I have searched in many a dark places but in vain. May it be that the stone wants to be found only when the times grow dark, and dark they are now. Please leave now, Princess. Travel west across the Aetherian river."

"The Aetherian? You know what lies across, don't you?"

"Sands of Echoes is where you must begin, for that is the heart of ruin where the stone was unleashed, turning the once lush Mystwood into an endless desert."

"It's prohibited to trespass the desert, Gréydenmir. The sands do not discriminate between the living and the dead."

"Yes. That's why that is where you must begin."

"And what about them?" she pointed toward the survivors. "I must take them to the Feywood in the old city. The surviving rebels await me there. I cannot abandon my soldiers."

"You must go now or risk being consumed by the very darkness you seek to fight."

"Princess," Moreto, having listened to the conversation intently, interrupted, "I will take this woman and her children to Feywood. You must lead the reapers away."

Käel locked her eyes on the woman and her children, their faces etched with despair. She crept to the woman, lowered her scarf, and smiled at the baby. Turning to the elder girl, she removed her signet ring and slipped it onto the girl's soot-stained finger. "Now you are a princess, too. Take care of your mother and this little one. She waved at the youngest girl with one last lingering glance, and turned to Moreto, "Protect them. Tell the others I have not abandoned them. I will be back." she said, turned west, and dashed through the rubble.

Behind her, the stomping began again, and its cadence grew faster and closer. There was no time to look back. Käel lowered her scarf, sucked in deep breaths, and ran till her lungs burnt. She kept running until the stomping was far and almost mute before stopping and turning. Her beautiful city was now a smoldering ruin. She knelt, grabbed a fistful of ash, and closed her eyes. "I will return," she vowed, pocketing the ash in her robe.

The setting sun was a faint glow behind the shroud of ash and black clouds. She pulled her mask up and stepped toward the Aetherian. No one who crossed the Aetherian into the sands had ever returned. The prophecy was a myth, a fable mothers of Rivencrest sang to their children. Queen Mother had sung it, too.

In the hour of the waning light,

When twilight's grasp deepens the night,

And the world trembles 'neath a fiery veil,

A chosen, marked by fate's own trail,

Will seek the gem that rules the spark,

And hold it against the eclipse light

To end the infinite night

And trade a life to preserve all life.

Prophecy — just a dream for those who despair, a warning for the realists to overcome the illusion that someone else will fight their war. Her feet stuttered. Was she chasing a fable? She was no savior, and only a fool ever thought of entering the Desert of Echoes. No one ever returned from there. Maybe she wasn't meant to; that's what the last line said: And trade a life to preserve all life.