Saga of Sundered Souls

 The Haze of Battle

“There are no clear paths in a storm. Only choices made in the half-light, and the debts they demand.”
— Chronicles of Anduin: Songs of the Last Rides

Tarnadil lifted another child and hoisted them gently into a saddle. The rider, tense and impatient, obeyed nonetheless—none would gainsay the Lord of El’lindor this night. For hours now, his men had labored to shepherd the young, the infirm, the elderly—those who could not flee on their own. For they could not fight the things in the storm, but they could still save lives.

Often, Tarnadil’s gaze rose toward the towers, to the high rooftops of El’lindor. He knew Allantear would have their daughters safe—if such a thing were possible. She would never falter, not when duty called her as wife, as mother, as regent. And yet, as the storm advanced—winds like knives, flashes of strange light staining the sky—he found himself wondering if any of them would escape this night alive.

Then he saw it.  A light. Pure, arcane, defiant.

It flared above the city—on the highest rooftop—and in its heart stood his wife. Allantear, radiant, resolute, commanding the elements, pressing the storm back with the channeling might of El’lindor. For a moment, the darkness recoiled. The winds stilled. A breath was held across the city.

Then—cheers rose. Hope, fragile and flickering, caught like fire.  “Well… look at that,” he murmured to the guard beside him. “Perhaps the weave of the elements can strike it.” But even as the words passed his lips, the storm twisted. It raged, turned—as if affronted, as if alive. A mind behind the cloud. A will behind the lightning.

Allantear’s elemental light flickered. It faltered.  Tarnadil flinched, eyes narrowing, face draining of color.

“Keep the people moving,” he ordered, his voice now iron. 

Then he stepped forward.

Toward the heart of his kingdom.

Toward his kin.

                                                                                                      *****

Tarnadil ran — casting off his cloak, letting it fall to the storm. He vaulted balustrades, leapt stairs two at a time.  El’lindor was his home — but he had not run through it like this since he was a boy. Now he ran as its sovereign. Gone was the portrayal of power. Gone was the pressure of presence. Only the man remained.

Lightning split the sky. The Arcane Storm pressed close — suffocating. The world was rain, wind, and ruin. Then — screams.

Tarnadil turned a corner. A creature of shadow was there. It struck down his kinsman with incorporeal claws — fingers like mist, wounds without blood. He had heard the screams for hours. Now he saw the death behind them.

His hand found his sword. But — how do you slash mist? How do you slay a shadow?

The creature turned, hollow eyes locking on him. It shrieked — raw, rageful — and launched. 

Tarnadil steadied his footing, drew his blade — defiant in the face of death.  If death came, he would not meet it cowering. That was not his way. Nor the way of his kin. Nor any of Anduin.

Just as it neared him — a blast of arcane fire smashed into the shadow. 

The creature reeled and dissipated, fading into the storm.