Paragon of Destruction

With every step they took, the sounds in the distance seemed to grow louder — thunderclaps, blasts, and rumbles that shook the very earth itself.

These were not the sounds of battle, Arran thought. They were the sounds of disaster. What he heard were storms, earthquakes, and landslides, all come together in a deafening cataclysm under a sky that was lit with fire and lightning.

Although they were miles away from the battle, the shockwaves and blasts of heat coming from the south could be felt even here, and several times, house-sized chunks of rock flew from the direction of the battle, crushing hundreds of Iron Mountain recruits where they landed.

With the destruction extending this far, Arran could not begin to imagine what the actual battleground would be like, but he had little doubt that it would be a terrifying scene — one with little chance of survival for anyone caught nearby.

That the camp had fallen into chaos was only logical. Recruits and novices had no way to defend themselves against such powers, and the only way they might survive the night was to stay far away from the battling Elders.

Yet while the Iron Mountain mages were running around in a panic, Elder Naran’s group continued onward, exploiting the panic and confusion to pass through the camp unchecked. They had no need for stealth or caution — with thousands of mages around them desperately fleeing the battle, their small group was all but invisible.

After nearly an hour of wading through the frightened masses, they were well into the mountains’ foothills, and although the camp still stretched on, there were fewer tents and people here. It was as if the Iron Mountain leaders had intentionally spread out the camp to ensure that it stretched all the way to the mountains, leaving no space for enemies to pass unnoticed.

If that was indeed the Iron Mountain’s intent, the idea had failed miserably.

Had the hills been empty, the small group would have stood out like wolves in a tavern. But with people all around, barely anyone so much as gave them a second glance. Most of the mages in the area were fleeing the cataclysmic battle in the distance, and even those few who weren’t fleeing had their attention fully focused on the battle.

"There’s a path into the mountains nearby," Elder Naran said. "I doubt we’ll find it unguarded, so ready yourselves for battle."

They continued onward at a rapid pace, and before long, Arran could see that the Elder was right. There was a path leading up into the mountains, but before it stood a large group of mages — at least three dozen, if not more.

From their confident appearance despite the continuing sounds of cataclysm in the distance, Arran knew that these were no novices, or even adepts. They would be Masters, if not stronger. And at their head stood a man who emanated the same sense of absolute power Arran saw in Elder Naran. Another Elder.

The man was tall, with dark skin and long, flowing hair. He wore a simple black robe, and at his side, there was a slender sword, its blade lightly curved. His face was angular, dignified if not handsome, and right now, his dark eyes were fixed on Elder Naran.

"The Dragon approaches," the man said, seeing through the disguise in an instant. "Have you joined forces with the traitors? Or are you using their attack to seize the Valley for yourself?" Though his voice was calm, it held an undertone of violence, as if he could attack at any moment.

"Neither," Elder Naran said. "We have come to cure the Patriarch. Now stand aside, Rakhish — you cannot defeat us, and although I have no wish to kill you, I will do so if I must."

"You can cure the Patriarch?" The man ignored the threat, instead giving Elder Naran a questioning look. "Why would I..." His voice trailed off and his eyes narrowed. "What proof have you of this?"

Elder Naran wordlessly stepped aside, revealing Snowcloud. Despite her disguise, recognition dawned in Rakhish’s eyes. "Lady Snowcloud—"

Before he could finish the words, the scene erupted into chaos. In an instant, half a dozen of the mages launched attacks at Snowcloud, the air suddenly thick with Essence as a torrent of destruction surged toward her.

Yet although each of the attacks was far beyond anything Arran was capable of producing, they were all stopped with a single casual wave of Elder Naran’s hand.

And then, the attackers died. There was no battle — all at once, they died where they stood, their bodies burnt, torn, or rent to pieces. It was over before Arran could register what was happening. A dozen Masters died in the blink of an eye, and to his horror, Arran realized he hadn’t even Sensed the magic that had been used against them.

"Traitors!" Rakhish snarled the word, fury in his eyes as he looked at the dead mages around him. His sword was drawn and bloodied, though Arran had not seen him draw it, much less use it.

"Now you understand the situation," Elder Naran replied, a grave look on his face.

Arran realized that the Elder had used Snowcloud as bait, and although he knew she hadn’t been in any danger, the thought caused him some anger.

"How did you know to trust me?" The fury had faded from Rakhish’s expression as quickly as it had come, a pensive look replacing it.

"The traitors believe that both Lady Snowcloud and the cure are with the Waning Moon army," Elder Naran replied. "Doubtless they intend to resolve that problem away from prying eyes. Your presence here means they likely count you among those."

"That means Herran..." Rakhish’s eyes showed a hint of sorrow, but it lasted only a moment. Then, he shook his head. "You should leave. I will send word to the others and hold off the traitors when they come after you. The Waning Moon is on the verge of defeat, so there’s not much time."

Elder Naran gave him a nod. "Fight well."

Without wasting any further words, he set off along the mountain path, Arran and the others following close behind him. They moved at a quick pace, and before long, they had left the camp far behind.

As they advanced into the mountains, Arran recalled the brief battle — if it could even be called that. While the Elders’ power was every bit as terrifying as expected, what had shocked him was their speed. Against enemies like those, he would fall before he even had a chance to defend himself.

Roughly half an hour after their encounter with the Iron Mountain mages, Arran noticed that the thundering sounds of battle in the distance were lessening. Although the battle wasn’t over, he knew it wouldn’t be much longer.

"We need to go faster," Elder Naran said, apparently having had the same thought. The Elder glanced at Snowcloud, then unceremoniously picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. Then, he turned to Arran.

"I can run," Arran hurriedly said. He had no desire to be carried like a bag of potatoes — just having to rely on the others’ protection was bad enough.

At once, the group quickened its pace, and it wasn’t long before Arran found himself struggling to keep up with the others. Yet driven by his unwillingness to become a literal burden to the others, he did not allow himself to falter even if their speed pushed him to his limits.

The sounds in the distance gradually died down as they hurried up the mountains, until finally, they disappeared completely. None of them spoke, but all knew what it meant: the battle was over, and soon, the traitors would come after them.

Barely half an hour later, a cacophony of deafening thunder and rumbling sounded on the mountainside. At this, Elder Naran stopped running and turned around.

"Rakhish," he said. "He has others with him, but..." He let out a sorrowful sigh. "It isn’t enough."

They set off again immediately, the knowledge of what was happening behind them driving them to run even faster than before. When the sounds ended a while later, they did not pause. A sacrifice had been made to buy them time, and they would not waste it.

They continued like this throughout the night, running at full speed without pause or rest. Arran did not know how close their pursuers were behind them, but it didn’t matter — all he could do was hope that it would be enough.

To Arran, the night passed in a blur, the constant effort leaving him little time for thought. Yet as morning approached he could feel the air growing thinner, and he knew they were getting close to their destination.

The first light of day had already appeared when Arran saw it: a long, narrow gorge with a tall wall at the end of it — the entrance to the Sixth Valley. At the center of the wall stood a large gate, and the sight caused Arran to feel a sudden surge of despair.

The gate was closed.

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