Chapter 12: The Forge of Preparation
Eirlys stood upon the northern parapet of Veridrion Keep, her gaze sweeping over the darkening horizon. The whispers of her vision still haunted her thoughts—the image of Queen Ysolde, broken and pleading, the cursed crown in Morven’s grasp, and the shadow that threatened to swallow their land whole. Yet, now was not the time for fear to root in her heart.
The council’s meeting had come to an end, and decisions were made. Scouts would be dispatched to Drak’lor, the last known resting place of the crown. They must be headed there as soon as possible. She knew the dangers that awaited them were unlike any they had faced before. Wraiths, shadowspawn, and Morven’s own dark acolytes would undoubtedly be lying in wait. Every step toward the crown would be a perilous one.
Eirlys descended the tower stairs, her boots clattering against the cold stone, she considered their immediate needs. They required not just strength of will but also the finest weapons, provisions, and mounts that could carry them swiftly across the treacherous terrain of the western wilds. Drak’lor was no mere ruin—it was an ancient fortress surrounded by cursed lands, and the way would be fraught with danger.
Her first stop was the armory, where she knew Cedric would be waiting. The man was a knight through and through, always ensuring his blade was sharpened and his armor ready before any journey. As she entered the massive stone chamber, the familiar scent of oiled leather and tempered steel filled the air.
The armory was vast, its walls lined with weapons of every kind—swords, spears, shields, and maces—many of which bore the marks of countless battles. Eirlys ran her fingers along the hilt of an ornate longsword, its surface etched with runes of protection.
Cedric stood near the hearth, a whetstone in hand, sharpening his greatsword. The blade gleamed in the firelight, reflecting the determination in his eyes. He glanced up as she approached.
"Eirlys," he greeted her, pausing his task. "The hour is upon us, then."
She nodded. "We leave as soon as we’re prepared. Drak’lor awaits, and Morven’s shadow lengthens by the day. We must move quickly, yet wisely."
Cedric stood, testing the balance of his sword in his hand. "Aye. The journey will be harsh. I’ve heard tales of Drak’lor—its lands are cursed, steeped in ancient magic long forgotten by most. We’ll need more than just strength. We’ll need wisdom to navigate that place."
Eirlys eyed the weapons around her, then turned to Cedric. "I came to seek the blade," she said softly, her voice laden with meaning. "The blade that was forged for me."
Cedric’s expression grew serious. "Ah, the sword of the Frostblood."
Eirlys nodded. The sword of her bloodline, passed down through the generations, lay hidden deep within the vaults of the keep, waiting for the time it would be wielded again. Her mother had entrusted it to her before the fall of Vireldaen, before Morven’s curse began to spread like wildfire through the land.
Cedric led her to the far end of the armory, where an iron door stood guarded by two soldiers. With a nod, Cedric motioned for them to open it. Beyond the door lay a chamber of secrets, the vault where only the most powerful artifacts and weapons were kept, including those belonging to the royal bloodlines.
Eirlys approached the center of the room, where a stone pedestal held a sword sheathed in a scabbard of blue leather, its hilt inlaid with silver and sapphire. The Frostblade, forged by the ancient smiths of her homeland, radiated a cold light, as if it held the very essence of winter within it.
Her hand hovered above the hilt, and for a moment, she hesitated. This was no ordinary weapon—it was a sword of destiny, one that would bind her to the fate of her people and the outcome of the battles to come. When her fingers finally closed around the hilt, a chill ran through her body, but it was not a chill of fear—it was the icy determination of her ancestors, their strength flowing into her veins.
Cedric watched in silence as she unsheathed the blade. Its edge gleamed with frost, and the air around it seemed to grow colder. Eirlys felt its power resonate with her own. She was ready.
"We’ll need more than just blades and armor," Cedric said as they returned to the main hall. "The journey to Drak’lor will take days, and the cursed lands are known for draining the spirit of those who travel through them."
"Aye," Eirlys agreed. "We must gather provisions, supplies that will sustain us not just physically, but spiritually as well. We’ll need enchanted talismans to ward off the dark magic that clings to those lands."
"I’ve already spoken to Lady Morgana," Cedric replied. "She’s preparing the necessary charms. She may be cold in demeanor, but her magic is potent. With her spells of protection, we’ll stand a chance against the sorcery that guards Drak’lor."
Satisfied with the progress in the armory, Eirlys turned her thoughts to another critical aspect of their preparation: the horses. Veridrion’s stables housed some of the finest warhorses in the realm, but the journey to Drak’lor required more than strength and endurance. The steeds would need to be swift, cunning, and above all, brave enough to face the terrors of the cursed lands.
Leaving the armory behind, she made her way to the stables where the master of horses, an elderly man named Garroth, awaited her. Garroth had served her family for decades, and though his hair had long turned white, his eyes still sparkled with the sharpness of his youth.
"Eirlys," he greeted her with a bow. "I hear you’re heading to Drak’lor. I’ve already begun preparing the mounts."
She smiled at the man’s efficiency. "You’ve always been one step ahead, Garroth."
He chuckled, leading her into the stables where a row of mighty steeds awaited. The horses pawed at the ground, their breaths visible in the cool morning air. At the far end, a dark stallion stood, its coat shining like obsidian in the dim light. It was Eirlys’s own horse, Stormfell, a beast bred from the noble lines of Vireldaen’s royal cavalry.
Stormfell nickered softly as Eirlys approached, and she ran a hand along his powerful neck. "We’ll face many dangers on this journey, old friend," she whispered to the horse, "but I trust you will carry me through them."
Garroth nodded approvingly. "Stormfell’s a good choice. Strong, fast, and loyal. But I’ve also prepared mounts for Cedric and Eñric. They’ll need horses just as reliable."
Eirlys glanced at the other horses Garroth had selected. One was a tall, grey warhorse with the build of a charger, perfect for Cedric’s style of fighting. The other, a nimble, chestnut mare, was quick and agile—a perfect match for Eñric, whose role as a scout would require speed and maneuverability.
"These will do well," Eirlys said. "But remember, the journey will not just test the strength of their legs. The cursed lands will sap their energy just as it will ours. Make sure they’re well-fed and well-rested before we depart."
Garroth nodded. "Aye, m’lady. I’ll see to it."
As the preparations continued throughout the day, the weight of the coming journey settled heavily upon Eirlys. She knew this mission would be the most perilous she had ever undertaken, but she also understood that it was necessary. Morven could not be allowed to seize the crown’s full power. If he did, all of Veridrion—and perhaps the entire realm—would be lost to darkness.
Late in the afternoon, as the final preparations were being made, Eirlys found herself once again standing upon the northern parapet, looking out toward the distant hills where Drak’lor awaited. The wind tugged at her cloak, carrying with it the faint scent of rain.
She was joined by Elric, his usual lively demeanor tempered by the gravity of their task ahead. "The scouts are ready," he said, his voice quiet. "We leave at dawn."
Eirlys nodded but said nothing, her eyes still fixed on the horizon.
Elric placed a hand on her shoulder. "We’ll succeed, Eirlys. We’ve faced darkness before, and we’ve survived. We’ll survive this too."
She turned to face him, her expression resolute. "We will. But we must be ready for whatever lies ahead. Morven is not just a foe of flesh and blood. He wields powers beyond our understanding. The closer we get to Drak’lor, the stronger his influence will become."
Eñric smiled faintly. "Then it’s a good thing we’ve got you leading us. You’ve never been one to let darkness win."