A week had passed since the last attack, and the Hollowgrave slept undisturbed in the earth. Since then, Oldtown had returned to a rhythm of peace—tentative, but real.
The morning sun rose lazily, casting slow, languid rays across the waking world. Sunflowers lifted their heads as if realizing the light was worth chasing again. The forest stirred with birdsong; owls fell silent, replaced by the chirping chorus of daybreak. The city's sounds joined the symphony, louder and more erratic, but still laced with drowsiness.
Oldtown's heart beat strongest in its grand market. Even at dawn, the square pulsed with motion—bargaining cries echoed, fresh goods exchanged hands, wagon wheels clattered across stone, and people moved like ants in feverish industry. What had once been a frontier outpost built atop elven ruins had since grown into a formidable city. Its walls were thick and weather-worn, sea winds having etched their mark into the stone long ago. Still, they stood—warning all who approached: Oldtown is not a place easily conquered...
Zeke spent the week following the attack with Dina. As a monster hunter, he made frequent trips to the infirmary—coincidentally, where she worked. Rumors whispered he sometimes fumbled on hunts on purpose, just to earn a visit and her care. Perhaps they were right. After all, he always left with a smile—and especially when Dina tended to him.
This morning, the main street bustled as usual. People flowed in and out, goods arriving by caravan, wagons groaning after long journeys. Drivers slumped off reins and disappeared into taverns for rest. Zeke walked along the cobbled path, his light armor clinking with each of his step. At his side hung a sack damp with a greenish liquid, and his hand rested casually on his sword as he weaved through the crowd.
He stopped at a tavern marked by a sign: a drunken pig tipping back a frothy mug and a red crest with a silver-forged sword beneath. A guild hall. Adventurers' turf.
Inside, the tavern buzzed low with murmured talk and clinking spoons. People kept to themselves—sipping soup, chugging ale, losing time. Zeke approached the counter where a curvy, cheerful girl greeted him. She wore a clean brown blouse over a pale underdress, her figure pressing fabric to the limits.
Zeke glanced once, turned red, then quickly dropped the wet sack into the metal tray on the counter.
"Th-three kobolds today, Amber" he stammered.
"So early again, Zeke?" the scribe girl sighed. "Let me guess—already stopped by Dina's?"
"Easier to surprise them at dusk. I'm no Eberon," Zeke chuckled nervously.
The girl leaned on the counter, slightly forward. Her eyes flicked playfully downward—not enough to be crude, just enough to make sure he noticed. "Oh really?"
Zeke flushed deeper, tugging at the hem of his tunic between his legs to cover himself.
"Amber! For the gods' sake!" he snapped.
"You boys are so sensitive," she laughed, pulling back. "If this is how you react to jokes, how do you expect to handle Dina?"
"Dina's like a—" Zeke started, then paused with a sigh. "You won't bait me into this, Amber."
Her grin faded into a smirk of defeat. "Fine, spoil my fun. Three kobolds earns you one silver crown. Want it in coppers?"
"Please. I'd rather not jingle like a noble's purse," he smiled.
"For someone your size, carrying silver is just asking for trouble," Amber teased. "Though honestly, everyone knows you're Eberon's pet, so no one in town would mess with you."
"Pet?"
"Oh come on, Zeke. You think Eberon brought you into his team for your brains?" she said, resting her elbows on the counter, her chest spreading naturally on the wood. "No offense."
"I'm fast, at least. And the more we kill, the more we earn," Zeke replied, half-defensive.
"Exactly. A runner with magic? Eberon hit the jackpot."
"I'm not that special," Zeke muttered, eyes cast down.
"Maybe. But he sings your praises when drunk," Amber giggled.
Zeke groaned. "He's bragging again?"
"Like a waterfall. Only with words instead of water. You know how he gets when drunk with ale…"
Zeke took the coins from the tray and leaned on the counter. "What did he say this time?"
"The usual. How great the team is, and how you slip through monsters like smoke. But he… dramatizes a lot," she said with a hint of worry.
"He exaggerates. Just luck," Zeke muttered.
"Sure…" Amber sighed, then vanished briefly to stash the kobold bits in a designated crate. When she returned, her tone had shifted.
"So… how are you holding up? After… that?"
"After what?"
"That," she said more softly, eyes locked on his.
"What are you talking about?"
"One of the guards said… Elek attacked you. That he nearly stabbed your chest if not for Dina."
Zeke looked down, shoulders trembling. As if the weight of it had only now sunk in. He took a breath and forced a smile, though his eyes shimmered with restrained tears.
"Dina's my guardian angel," he said flatly.
Amber didn't push. She worked with people every day—she knew a lie wrapped in a smile when she saw one. She simply watched him, let the silence linger, respectful and undisturbed.
It was she who finally broke it.
"Go, Zeke. Don't wear yourself down."
He nodded, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and forced a grin—one Amber couldn't quite read. Then he turned and walked out. She watched him leave, but the next adventurer was already at the counter. Duty called again.
Across town, Eberon and the rest of the team were aiding the city guard—not that he seemed particularly thrilled about it. The old man leaned against a barrel in the chilly guard post, barely keeping his eyes open.
A sudden snore escaped him. He startled awake, glancing around. The others stifled laughs, flashing him mocking grins.
"For fuck's sake," Eberon muttered, stretching. "I'm going to check what the frog prince is up to. You lot—"
He paused, noticing the three men at the table playing cards. His face soured.
"Ugh. Whatever."
He slammed the door behind him.
"Told you it was a bad idea," muttered the hooded one.
"You came up with it!" snapped the ranger.
"Have I ever had a good idea?" said the hooded one smugly.
"Touche," groaned the paladin, half-draped over a bench.
Eberon, with hammer slung over his shoulder, strolled slowly toward the Hollowgrave's edge, where Eltherelaon and his elven cohort were at work. They were arranging stones and drawing intricate sigils in the dirt—ritual preparations.
At the pit's mouth, glowing crystals hovered mid-air, spinning in silence, casting violet and blueish light. The hum was low, melodic, eerie.
Eberon stopped, watching in awe as the elves moved like dancers—silent, precise, arcane.
In the center, beneath a silk-draped canopy, stood Eltherelaon. Deep in thought.
Eberon approached the tent, still staring at the floating pylons. Then he let his hammer fall to the earth with a thud.
"Eltherelaon. What the hell are these?"
The elf turned, rising from his scrolls like a statue coming to life. His gaze locked with Eberon's.
"How delightfully crude your people are with questions, Eberon, son of Eteron," Eltherelaon said. "But I lack the time—or patience—for idle prattle. Time flows fast, and our tasks are countless, like stars in the night sky."
Eberon stepped out and looked skyward with exaggerated meaning.
Eltherelaon's face settled into a cold mask of boredom.
"I don't see any stars," Eberon said plainly.
"A brilliant observation," the elf replied, voice soaked in sarcasm. "And since I know your curiosity won't rest until fed, I'll grant you this mercy…"
Eltherelaon leaned on the table, half-seated but still upright as a king among mortals.
"Ask, then, whatever gnaws at your mind. Though I already know your questions will be shallow. Your kind rarely sees beyond what eyes behold. Horizons fade in your minds like birds vanishing beyond the hills."
"Such wisdom," Eberon muttered, bowing like a nobleman. Eltherelaon smiled faintly, already accustomed to the man's wit.
"Narain,"
("Humans…")
Eltherelaon sighed, shaking his head.
"Ask, Eberon," he said wearily.
Eberon leaned against a tent post, eyes turned to the Hollowgrave. He was silent for a moment, as though counting his allowed questions.
At last, he looked back to the elf, something flickering in his gaze. Not fear, not confusion. Something raw. A bit of Anger, maybe.
"These floating rocks—what are they?"
"Mana Pylons," Eltherelaon replied, as though tasting the words. "From the heart of Acropolis, beyond the ocean, from the western continent. These four ancient columns, born of the Great Dragon Vylregos's solidified mana, have stood for over a thousand years. They were brought here at my request."
He raised his arms slowly, a faint smile touching his lips—pride, unmasked.
Eberon scoffed.
"Must've cost the city a fortune to haul these shiny rocks across the world."
"You misunderstand, Eberon," the elf snapped, his voice cold as frost. "The pylons were summoned by my will. They are not toys. They are instruments. Tools to unlock the secrets of the Hollowgrave."
"And why do you need such fancy tools to study a hole in the ground?" Eberon asked, squinting.
"You still don't understand," Eltherelaon said, tired now. He stepped away from the table, hands clasped behind his back, staring into the pit.
"You and I both know: the Hollowgrave is not of this world. Dig as you like, descend as far as you dare from the outside—it leads nowhere that belongs to Azaranth. It is a wound. A relic. An ancient blight carved into the flesh of our world by the Lord of Darkness himself. Why, none can say. Only the Titan knows, and he has long since vanished with your people's beloved Mother of Light. But the Hollowgrave remained. And it is our burden to ensure that what Morteus throws into his own domain... stays there."
His voice carried rare honesty— no riddles wrapped in riddles. Eberon felt the weight of it.
"And your plan? Gonna patch it up?" Eberon asked quietly, stepping closer.
"To a Titan, even we elves are but flickers," Eltherelaon replied. "We are like tadpoles in a dying salt lake. Mortal hands cannot mend Titan scars. We only corrupt, ruin, distort. The Hollowgrave is a wound. To heal it would be to create. And creation on this level… is beyond us."
Still, there was something in his voice. A tremor. Not fear—but curiosity.
Eberon didn't speak. He stepped to the table, examining the diagrams and lifting one up with his hand, a paper flickering with magic.
"So what's the plan?" he asked.
"Mere hypotheses. Faded myths. Scattered fragments from ages lost," Eltherelaon said, stepping beside him. He gently took the glowing scroll from Eberon's hands, not asking permission.
"A secret, is it?" Eberon grunted.
"Every riddle has an answer," the elf murmured. "Though some answers sleep beneath centuries of dust. My people—long-lived though we are—have forgotten how to seek them."
He paused, then looked at Eberon with something close to warmth.
"But I have not. I still feel that spark—the same one you mortals chase with every breath. You live your days like new beginnings. And I... I marvel at your joy in things so small, as if like seeing stars for the very first time."
There was reverence in his tone. And for the first time, Eberon felt not mocked—but honored.
He smiled. Not smugly, not sarcastically. Just smiled. He tapped the table twice, looked at the maps, nodded—and walked out of the tent with his hammer slung low.
Eltherelaon's face returned to stone. The warmth faded. Calculation returned. Whatever kindness had stirred in him—buried again.
He turned to his work.
A young elf approached from the pit, bowed deeply, and spoke.
"Kaelion naith."
("We are ready.")
"Sira valen. Nai tharen i rithil."
("Very well. Begin the ritual.")
Eltherelaon's voice was monotone, but commanding. The elf bowed again and turned toward the Hollowgrave, cloak fluttering behind.
When Eberon returned to the guardhouse, he found Zeke already seated at the table, chatting with the others. Dina sat nearby, drawn close on the adjacent bench. Her smile was wide and playful as she listened quietly to the banter of the adventurers—one of those rare moments when she looked more like a girl in spring than a healer hardened by war.
Eberon joined them. The air was light—almost otherworldly in its ease. Laughter danced between the walls, and for a moment, time itself seemed to slow.
Then came the light.
It burst through the window like a second sunrise—blinding, white-hot, and unmistakably unnatural. It came from the direction of the Hollowgrave, no more than a hundred meters away.
The room exploded into motion.
Everyone leapt from their chairs and rushed to the windows. But the radiance was overwhelming, washing the world in brilliance so intense it erased detail, shape—everything.
"What the hell are they doing?!" Eberon barked, shielding his eyes with one hand as he squinted into the blinding glow.
---
The elves stood in a wide circle at the edge of the Hollowgrave, arranged with sacred precision according to the cardinal points. The pylons—towering stone monoliths, each three men tall—hovered a meter off the ground. They hummed with deep, arcane resonance, their glow shifting between violet and blue as they slowly spun.
The earth beneath them, once cloaked in shadow and mud, was now dry, cracked, and scorched. Purple stones had been laid into it in vast symbolic patterns—shapes only truly visible from the sky.
Priestesses approached the pylons. They walked barefoot, yet the dust and grime did not cling to their skin. It was as though even the earth itself bowed in reverence. Their robes gleamed white as fresh snow, radiant with purity. They raised their hands skyward and began to chant, first in whispers, then louder, a rhythmic song in an ancient elven tongue never touched by human scholars and maybe even forgotten by younger elves.
Soon, others joined them. Elves took their places at the marked points. The chant unified, swelling in power. The pylons began to spin faster, glowing more intensely, until their lights blurred into streaks. The hum grew sharper, a shrill note echoing through the air.
Then Eltherelaon stepped into the center, where all the patterns met.
His stride was slow, dignified—like a maestro entering his final performance. His voice emerged low at first, counterpoint to the chant. But his words had weight. With each syllable, the very air seemed to bend.
The monoliths obeyed.
They rose—slowly, at first, then faster, confident in his command. Magic curled around his fingers like threads of living light. They snaked upward, tethering each pylon like marionettes. He lifted his arm and pointed. The threads twisted, braided, then soared into the sky, converging above the Hollowgrave's mouth.
Eltherelaon turned to the priestesses.
Their faces contorted with pain. Blood ran from noses and mouths. A few coughed crimson. Yet they chanted still, defiant in agony.
The elf extended his arms.
The woven threads expanded into a glowing sphere, pulsing with swirling radiance. Then—collapse onto the gaping mouth of the Hollowgrave. The priestesses dropped, twitching, drowning in their own blood. Still, they did not scream.
From the Hollowgrave's edge came a crack.
Black mist poured upward like smoke—like ash from a dying fire. The dark and the light clashed, biting at one another like rival beasts.
Eltherelaon laughed. It was not a sane sound. Not human. The ritual was working.
The Hollowgrave shrank.
Its core turned to obsidian earth, lifeless, dry. The spell tightened. The pylons screamed. The world quaked. The heavens turned gold.
Then, in a single heartbeat—silence.
And then—failure.
The light imploded into a single point. Eltherelaon looked up.
Too late.
The Hollowgrave had answered.
The point erupted into a roaring fireball. The shockwave hit like thunder, ripping across the land. Pylons were flung like twigs to the four winds. A wall of force surged outward, shattering earth and stone.
"Zeke! Dina!" Eberon shouted.
As if time had slowed down, Zeke spun, grabbed Dina, shielded her with his own body against the roaring wave.
Then Eberon leapt, arms wide, throwing them to the ground, protecting the two kid with his own body.
The blast hit.
Stones tore loose. Flames shot skyward. A section of the city wall crumbled. One of the pylons slammed into a guard tower, reducing it to rubble.
The guard post collapsed. Stone and wood fell like rain. When the smoke cleared, Eberon crawled from the debris. His back was scorched, muscles torn, ears ringing.
Around him—silence. Death.
His team lay crushed. The hooded one was pinned to a wall by a massive plank, eyes open but lifeless.
Beneath the wreckage, Dina trembled, blood running from her ears. Her face was frozen in horror and shock.
Eberon grabbed her shoulders and shook.
"Heal us, Now!"
She blinked, jolted by his command, and began the spell without hearing it.
Their hearing returned. Sizzling, Crumbling stone. Screams form behind the city wall
Eberon slapped Zeke awake.
The boy gasped, dazed. Dina turned to him, healing again.
"Zeke! Zeke!" Eberon shouted. "Get up!"
Zeke turned. He saw them.
Everyone he loved—crushed, burned, broken. Bodies twisted. Faces charred.
His eyes widened and mind torned by the instant shock as if he froze in time.
Eberon grabbed him.
"No time to grieve. MOVE!"
Then the Hollowgrave roared.
A sound deeper than any voice. Darker than death.
Eberon turned. Claws emerged, each the size of a tree trunk. Then horns. Then a head—scaled, half-rotted, flesh peeling from bone.
A dragon.
Not red. Not green.
Black. An ancient beast, long since claimed by death itself, now stirred once more—risen at the call of a fool—from the grave that had festered and half-devoured it. A herald of death—or perhaps death incarnate—it rose in wrath and fury from the bowels of the abyss, come to deliver doom upon this day.
So black it devoured the light.
It climbed free, stretching rotting wings laced with holes and unleashed a scream that shattered thought.
The survivors fell, clutching their heads, writhing.
And Zeke—
Could no longer grasp the world that, just a heartbeat ago, had enfolded him. His mind began to unravel beneath the weight of sudden loss, the pain slicing through him like a fillet knife drawn slow and merciless.