The single tallow candle on the heavy oak desk flickered, casting long, distorted shadows against the walls of Elder Alden’s private study. The scent of melted wax mingled heavily with the lingering stench of ozone and dried blood that clung to Elian’s leather armor.
Outside, the Forgotten Valley was dead quiet. The villagers were exhausted, sleeping behind newly reinforced gates that had narrowly survived the evening's assault.
Elian stood by the small window, looking out at the pitch-black woods, before turning back to the desk. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a heavy, jagged piece of metal, dropping it onto the wooden surface with a dull, final thud.
"Look at it, Alden," Elian commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Tell me I am seeing things."
The Elder leaned forwar
