Author:

Chronicler Aeltharion Vaeloria, Scribe of the White Tower, Isle Serin

Chapter I: The Crossing of the Fvelone Sea

The journey across the Fvelone Sea was no gentle voyage. Storms born of lingering Darkness lashed our sails; leviathans of the deep, twisted by old curses, tested our hulls. Many ships were lost to the abyss, yet the will of our people—and the guiding light of Lysandris—carried the survivors to the sacred shores of Isle Serin.

At long last, the high elves are free from the yoke of the Darkness. The chains forged in shadow have shattered, and a fragile peace settles upon our groves like morning mist. Our ancient halls ring once more with song, though the echoes still carry sorrow.

Chapter III: The Debate in the High Council

Not all voices sing in harmony. Some among us counsel isolation—let the world beyond our isle heal its own wounds, for we have paid dearly enough. Others, gazing upon Lysandris with reverent eyes, see her as the fulfillment of ancient prophecies: the Starblade Returned, destined to lead us to greater ambitions.

They speak of conquering the fractured lands of Vagrax, of restoring the elven people to the glory we knew before the Darkness fell. With the Sword of Avris at her side—forged by the Gods themselves in the Seven Heavens—Lysandris wields power unmatched. Yet the blade demands tribute: each dawn, she must slay an evildoer to sate its unquenchable bloodlust. The sword was never meant for mortal grip alone; some whisper it was forged for divine hands, and its hunger grows bolder with every feeding.

In the past year, Lysandris's might has swelled like the tide. But in the shadowed corridors of the High Council, unsettling rumors spread. When she believes herself alone, she speaks to the god-forged sword... and bends to its whispered commands.

Chapter V: The Lich's Shadow

Our liberation would not have come without unlikely allies. Daerma, the necromancer who once served dark masters, stood with us against the Darkness. Upon our arrival in Isle Serin, he sealed his soul into a phylactery, seeking immortality to safeguard our new dawn.

Weeks passed in victory's glow, yet Daerma felt his mind slipping. Forgetfulness clawed at him like grave-vines. Echoing in his eternal thoughts are the cackles of his former master, Exethanter—whose path he now treads all too closely.

Day by day he fades. No flesh clings to his bones; dark energy gleams from empty sockets. His joints hold only by threads of shadow-magic. Ominous visions haunt him: piercing red eyes in pitch-black void, reflected in the hazy despair of the Shadowfell. He touched the Godstone of the Darkness in that fell realm, and its hopelessness seeps into him still.

Until the Darkness is defeated utterly, Daerma knows he will be hunted—enslaved to rule mortals beneath her banner, or destroyed outright. For a lich, despair has no bounds. He hungers now not for food or drink, but for souls... whispers... lies. Madness circles him like carrion birds.

Final Chapter: Whispers of Betrayal

The High Council grows uneasy. Lysandris's grand vision for our people wanes, jaded perhaps by the battle-forged bond she shares with Daerma. Now that his purpose seems served, darker voices rise: destroy the lich and his phylactery, or banish him forever to the Abyss.

Necromancy, they argue, breeds only further corruption. And after all—he is no true high elf.

The peace we won feels brittle as frost-kissed glass. The Sword hungers. The lich fades. And somewhere beyond the Fvelone Sea, the Darkness stirs once more.