The caravan trudged forward as dawn broke, painting the world in a soft, golden glow. The snow, once a pale, lifeless white under the moon, now shimmered with hues of orange as the sun's light touched its surface. Shadows stretched long and sharp beneath the towering pines of the forest they traversed, their snow-laden branches casting intricate patterns on the ground. A faint mist clung to the air, swirling lazily around the wheels and hooves of the caravan, its chill a stark reminder of the night they'd survived.
Birdsong slowly emerged from the treetops, tentative and scattered, as if even the creatures of the forest hesitated to break the fragile stillness of the morning. Yet amidst this beauty, the mood was heavy. The people in the caravan avoided looking at one another, their faces tense and their movements mechanical. The memory of the battle lingered like a dark cloud, its shadow stretching into the new day.
To break the uneasy silence, a young adventurer riding near the front of the caravan spoke up, his voice laced with frustration. "Why do bandits even exist? Monsters are one thing—they're mindless and brutal—but humans? We're supposed to be better than that." He gestured vaguely toward the snow-laden trail ahead. "We've got enough to deal with already."
Dain, riding beside him, chuckled and turned toward Alaric riding just behind. "Well, Alaric, you elves are the only species here who's seen centuries. Got any wisdom to share with our young friend about the ways of the world?"
Alaric, his face calm but his green eyes glimmering with memory, gave a faint smile. "Ah, youth. Always seeking answers to questions that have haunted generations. Before the Trikala Sangharsh, there were no bandits, no monsters... and no adventurers like us."
The young man frowned, tilting his head. "Trikala Sangharsh? You mean the story where gods and demons colluded to attack us, and the so-called heroes saved the world? Isn't that just a legend made up by the royal families to glorify their bloodlines? Take Aquindor's Aqualis Bastion, for instance—the place they claim the hero Ilyana held back celestial and demonic forces. I wouldn't be surprised if they sank some old fort under layers of ice just to keep the story alive."
Alaric's gaze shifted to the snow, his expression darkening slightly. "Legends often grow exaggerated, yes, especially by those who wish to bask in their glow. But the events themselves were real. We elves have long memories and longer records. The Trikala Sangharsh was not a fabrication."
Dain smirked. "Yeah, but isn't that just because you lot like writing everything down? Probably got records on the proper way to stir soup too."
Alaric ignored the jibe, continuing as though uninterrupted. "Long before the Trikala Sangharsh, the world was graced by the presence of gods. They were revered as protectors of Ilyrion, their temples rising high into the heavens. Their sanctuaries, from sprawling marble shrines in cities to humble stone altars in the wilderness, were centers of power and devotion. Mortals prayed for guidance, strength, and protection, and the gods answered. Their blessings shaped the prosperity of the land."
The young adventurer leaned forward. "Wait, the gods walked among mortals? Did that really happen?"
Alaric nodded. "Real enough to be remembered. Farmers prayed for bountiful harvests, sailors for safe voyages, and warriors for victory. The gods were not distant—they were present, guardians against the darkness beyond the Veil. It was their protection that kept the demons at bay."
Dain scoffed, gesturing to the forest. "If they were so powerful, where are they now? Seems to me they either failed or left us to clean up their mess."
Alaric's voice turned grave. "They betrayed us. It began subtly—omens ignored, unease spreading in their once-sacred sanctuaries. When the Trikala Sangharsh erupted, the truth was laid bare: the gods had allied with the demons, seeking to reshape the world. Their power, drawn from mortal worship, turned against us. The golden age ended in betrayal. And that's when the heroes rose to defend our world. Though they won the war the records stated only one emerged as the sole survivor: He bore witness to the betrayal, the sacrifices, and the cost of the war"
A silence fell over the group, broken only by the crunch of snow beneath hooves. The young adventurer finally muttered, "Why would they do that? What could make them side with demons?"
"There are theories," Alaric replied. "Some say they hungered for greater power, that mortal worship was no longer enough. Others believe they feared the growing strength and independence of Ilyrion's inhabitants. Whatever their reasons, their collusion with the demons brought devastation. When the war ended, a monumental decision was made. Knowing the gods drew their strength from worship, He banned all forms of devotion. Temples were torn down, altars desecrated, and sacred texts burned. Worship was outlawed, not only to strip the gods of their power but also to sever their ability to interfere in the world. In some regions their worship became punishable by death. He decreed that no mortal should ever again give their faith to beings capable of such treachery. The decree was a desperate measure to ensure that such a betrayal could never happen again. However, the scars of their earlier incursions lingered in the form of corrupted energy and unstable magic. Mortals were left to fend for themselves in a world forever altered. Monsters were born from this corruption—beasts reshaped into horrors. The scars of that war remain, visible and unseen."
Dain whistled low. "So we're cleaning up after divine backstabbers and a demon war. Lovely."
Lyra turned her gaze toward Alaric, her curiosity evident. "And this lone hero who banned worship—what happened to him? You mentioned he survived, didn't you?"
Alaric nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "No one truly knows. The records are fragmented, elusive. Some believe he still roams the world, a silent guardian guiding mortals from the shadows. Others say he perished with his comrades, his task complete. And there are whispers that he will return only if the gods or demons rise again. The truth, like so much of history, is cloaked in uncertainty."
Lyra leaned forward slightly, her voice tinged with intrigue. "What was his name?"
A bittersweet smile flickered across Alaric's face. "His name wasn't recorded—at least, not in the records I've read. Perhaps there are histories hidden from us, buried in places long forgotten. It's a sad irony, isn't it? Someone who sacrificed so much for the world, yet even his name has been erased by time."
The young adventurer, his voice tinged with doubt, asked, "But the scars of their betrayal—monsters, corrupted energy—will they ever fade?"
Alaric's gaze returned to the forest, his tone somber. "Perhaps not in our lifetime. We are left to fend for ourselves in a world forever altered. That is why adventurers like us exist—to face what remains."
Dain, nodding, added, "And where there's chaos, there's opportunity. That's how bandits came to be. They weren't always villains. Some were just people trying to survive. Over time, desperation turned to habit, and habit turned to greed."
The group lapsed into silence once more, the weight of history settling over them like the snow-laden branches above. The caravan continued onward, the sun's light filtering through the trees, casting shadows that seemed to stretch back into the past.
….
By the sixth day, the caravan reached a fork in the road. Garrick pulled the reins, slowing the carts. "This is your stop," he said, gesturing to the path that branched right. "Aurestedge is just ahead. Sylrin's further southeast."
He stepped down, his boots crunching softly against the frosted ground. The village lights glimmered faintly in the distance, a quiet promise of rest.
"Thank you," he said simply.
Garrick nodded. "Safe travels. And if you ever need a ride, just look for Garrick's caravan near the city gates."
As the caravan disappeared down the southern road, he turned toward Aurestedge. The village awaited—a quiet border settlement at the edge of the wilderness.