«فریادهای خفه‌شده در اتاق می‌لرزید و هر شاهدی را تا مغز استخوان می‌لرزاند - چنان خشونت‌آمیز که حتی غرش طوفان را در ذهنشان خفه می‌کرد. ملکه آلدر، غرق در امواج جزر و مدی عذاب، مشت‌هایش را گره کرد تا اینکه کتان از خون خیس شد. درخت مقدس ساکت ایستاده بود، شاخه‌ها به احترام خم شده بودند، در حالی که آسمان - که تا دیروز آرام بود - اکنون به عنوان یک همراه سوگوار، عذاب او را به اشتراک می‌گذاشت.»

قابله‌ای که صورتش با خون ملکه سرخ شده بود، لرزید: «ملکه من، کمی دیگر صبر کن... فقط یک فشار دیگر...»

زمزمه‌ی آلدر مثل خرده‌های چوب به گوش می‌رسید: «می‌دانم... این بچه دیگر ناسپاس بودن دنیا را در چشمان من خوانده است. او در چنین دنیایی نفس نمی‌کشد.»

آخرین فریادش پیش از تولد خاموش شد. صورت برافروخته‌اش مانند موم مذاب رنگ‌پریده و رگ‌هایش ناپدید شدند. پسر در سکوتی سنگین‌تر از مرگ به دنیا آمد.

وقتی نوزاد را در کنار مادرش گذاشتند - که اکنون سکوت مطلق مرگ او را در خود فرو برده بود - ناگهان ناله‌ای سر داد، ناله‌ای شبیه به عود شکسته: نه برای زندگی، بلکه مرثیه‌ای برای گور.

شاه آتریوس، که با شنیدن اولین گریه نوزاد از آلاچیق سلطنتی بیرون دویده بود، در کنار تخت همسرش خشکش زد. لبخند پیروزمندانه‌اش پژمرده شد. چشمانش بر گنجینه بی‌قیمت قلبش - که حالا بی‌حرکت بود - قفل شده بود. ملکه، ماه قلمروشان، رفته بود.

او پیکر بی‌جان او را به زره سینه‌اش فشرد و زوزه کشید:

«آلدر! چشمانت را باز کن! پسرت را ببین! لطفا... آلدر!»

در برابر درخت مقدس، هر افسانه‌ای زانو زد - زانوهایی که طبق سنت بر زمین کوبیده می‌شدند. غرش جمعی آنها آسمان را لرزاند. درخت هر شکوفه‌ای را بر ملکه‌ی سقوط کرده‌اش بارید؛ آسمان غرید و اندوه خود را فرو ریخت و باران‌های سیل‌آسا بارید.

پس از ساعت‌ها سوگواری خاموش، آتریوس سرانجام از کنار بستر همسرش برخاست. او به ماما که پسرش را در آغوش گرفته بود نزدیک شد. پسر اکنون پاک شده بود، اما اشک از گونه‌های کوچکش جاری بود. پادشاه با صورتی خالی از هرگونه احساس، فرزندش را در آغوش گرفت و با لب‌های لرزان زمزمه کرد:

«پسر کوچولو... می‌دانم که تو آغوش این پادشاه و شوهر بی‌لیاقت را نمی‌خواهی، بلکه آغوش گرم مادرت را می‌خواهی.»

مرا ببخش.

من تو را آریایی می‌نامم - نامی که مادرت با عشق انتخاب کرد: آریایی، فرزند پاکی.»

سپس با صدای رعدآسا رو به جمعیت کرد و گفت:

«امروز، همه ما شاهد یک فاجعه بودیم. اما نمی‌توانیم تا ابد در سوگ غرق شویم. جنگی بزرگ به سمت ما در حرکت است. من یک همسر را از دست داده‌ام - شما یک ملکه را! با این حال، اکنون یک پسر باقی مانده است: آریان، که من او را نامگذاری کرده‌ام. او ولیعهد شماست. از او حمایت کنید... همانطور که زمانی از من حمایت کردید.»

مردم در سکوتی سنگین فرو رفتند؛ مشت‌هایشان گره شده بود، چشمانشان از غم متورم شده بود اما در عین حال از نفرتی خاموش می‌سوختند - گویی از آریان متنفر بودند. زیرا معتقد بودند که او ملکه‌شان را از زندگی ساقط کرده و نفرین دیرینه‌ی آنهاست.

سپس شاه آتریوس، در حالی که آریان را در آغوش داشت، به سمت دوردست‌ها حرکت کرد و در جنگل مرطوب و تاریک از دیدگان ناپدید شد. صورتش خیس بود - نمی‌توانست تشخیص دهد که از باران است یا از اشک‌های خودش. با این حال، در حالی که وارثش محکم به او چسبیده بود، به راه خود ادامه داد و به سمت کلبه‌ای ساده در اعماق جنگل پیش رفت. پسر بی‌وقفه در آغوشش گریه می‌کرد و باران، شنل سرخ او را خیس کرده بود - نه با خون دشمنان، بلکه با خون همسرش. صدای گریه بی‌وقفه آریان در جنگل طنین‌انداز شد، اما هیچ موجود زنده‌ای جرأت نمی‌کرد در حضور آتریوس تکان بخورد.

در کلبه به آرامی باز شد و زنی میانسال از آن بیرون آمد. پوست شفاف و چشمان کهربایی‌اش، خرد و تشخیص او را به وضوح منعکس می‌کرد. آتریوس به او نزدیک شد، سرش را کج کرد و با صدای آرامی گفت: «زینارفیل... من باید بروم. لطفا مراقب آریان باشید.»

زینارفیل در برابر آتریوس تعظیم کرد، اندوهش آشکارا نمایانگر سوگواری برای درگذشت ملکه بود. او آریان را در آغوش گرفت و خطاب به پادشاه گفت: «مطمئن باش، من پسرت را مثل پسر خودم بزرگ خواهم کرد. حالا برو.»

آتریوس با چشمانی بی حس و لبخندی بی روح پاسخ داد: «می‌دانم.»

سپس برگشت و رفت. شنل بلندش مثل بال شکسته‌ای تکان خورد.

زینارفیل به داخل کلبه برگشت و به دیوار تکیه داد. به آرین که حالا خواب بود خیره شد، در گوشش زمزمه کرد و گفت: «تو هم مثل پدرت، کوچولو، محکومی که از این جام بنوشی.»

زمزمه‌ای در اردوگاه نیروهای متفقین پیچید. سربازان بی‌وقفه پچ‌پچ می‌کردند تا اینکه یکی از فرماندهان فریاد زد: «این دیگه چیه؟! اینجا یه بازار لعنتیه؟ تله‌هاتون رو ببندید و به پست‌هاتون برگردید!»

یکی از سربازان گفت: «قربان، یکی از کبوترهای دیده‌بان همین الان از دشت بازرگان رسید. پیام می‌گوید ملکه آلدر مرده است... و آتریوس ناپدید شده است.»

فرمانده با لحنی خشمگین پاسخ داد: «می‌دانم! خب که چی، الان بروم به آن سگ کثیف لجندی تسلیت بگویم؟» سربازان از شرم و نفرت سرشان را پایین انداختند، سپس پراکنده شدند.

در چادر ابریشمی که با نشان هر پادشاهی گلدوزی شده بود، شورایی در حال برگزاری بود. نقشه جنگ روی میز چوبی آهنی پهن شده بود و همه چشم‌ها به شاه آندریاس که در رأس نشسته بود، دوخته شده بود. یکی از پادشاهان، بدون زره، با پوست رنگ‌پریده‌اش که از فلس می‌درخشید، خطاب به شاه آندریاس گفت: «اعلیحضرت! بهترین لحظه برای حمله همین الان است. غم از دست دادن ملکه، لگاندی‌ها را آسیب‌پذیر کرده است.»

شاه آندریاس پاسخ داد: «آسیب‌پذیر؟ فکر نمی‌کنم. اما بگذارید این را بگویم - شما که خودتان از نسل اژدها هستید، بهتر از هر کسی می‌فهمید: اژدهایی که برای جفتش سوگواری می‌کند، آتش داغ‌تری از خود بیرون می‌دهد!» سپس رو به دو پادشاه دیگر حاضر کرد و پرسید: «ضمناً... نظر شما چیست؟»

Raxilius and Aldinor fell into a momentary silence, contemplating the possible outcomes. Then they declared: "We concur with King Draxensius. In our judgment, it is wisest to set our army in motion. Moreover, our forces outnumber the entire Legendh race fourfold. It is unlikely we shall encounter any issues."

Andreas, after a moment of contemplation, declared: "Very well. We shall make ready for battle and wipe out this wrathful race for all time. Raxilius, as most of your Vampire kin are warriors and swordsmen, you shall join the human sword-bands in the vanguard and lead the assault.

Draxensius, command twenty of your kin to take dragon-shape and strike from the skies. Order the rest of your forces—skilled as they are in close combat—to form pairs and reinforce the front lines. Aldinor, have your Blood Elves mount the dragons and loose their arrows from above. Divide your wizards: one company to strike from the rear, the other to march alongside me and the infantry."

At last, the three kings nodded in assent to King Andreas' words. Each departed the tent to muster their assault forces.

Meanwhile, King Atrius had returned, and was confronted by the grief-stricken gazes of his people. In his absence, they had laid their Queen’s resting form within a casket woven from the sacred tree’s own branches. With heavy steps, Atrius approached his wife’s bier. He knelt before it, bidding her farewell one final time.

Then, with steadfast bearing, he commanded his people to gather round. After a brief pause, he began his address:

«O people! Today we have all borne witness to an ill-fated event – the death of my wife and Queen of these lands. Yet we cannot linger forever in sorrow. Within but a few hours, we shall witness one of history’s greatest wars.

I cannot promise victory, but I thank you all for standing by me in this dark hour. Now—not as your king, but as one of your own race—I beseech you: turn back. For if you remain, death is your certain fate. I know I ought not say this... but our war is against all the world, not a single kingdom!

Yet if you stay, know this: In this war, we shall not fight for vengeance nor for conquest—but for our honor and glory!"

Upon the conclusion of Atrius’ speech, the people cried out as one: "Long live the King! Joy be to the fallen Queen!"

Atrius offered a Mona Lisa smile—one that lingered only at the corner of his lips—then declared in a voice of iron: "Very well! Now, soldiers, follow me to prepare for the battle ahead."

Finally, he moved to the Sacred Tree, leaning his brow against its trunk.

"Today," he murmured, "both you and I meet our end. But fear not. For Arian shall return one day, and you will breathe again. But I shall not. So I entreat you: entrust my memories... and my sworn mission... to her when she comes."

The Sacred Tree seemed to sway gently in reply; as though it had grasped Atrius’ thoughts and feelings in its ancient consciousness.

Atreus gathered with the soldiers in the camp tent, laying out war plans to confront the enemy. In a firm voice, he addressed one of the commanders: 'Commander, the enemy force will be close to 10,000 strong, while our total population is only 2,500—and of those, merely 1,000 are warriors. Yet I believe in your strength—strength that rivals four of theirs. It would be my honor to fight alongside you in this battle... likely our last stand.'

Atreus turned back to where the moonlight illuminated the tent’s interior and continued: 'Since the sky is dark and the moon clearly lights the path, the blood-drinkers will be at their peak. Thus, I expect they’ll strike first as the vanguard. Send troops to the battlefield immediately to deploy slow-magic traps and cripple their speed.'"

The other major threat we face—requiring our utmost attention—is the dragons.’ He turned back to the commanders, his eyes burning like fire, and declared: ‘I estimate only twenty or thirty of them will shift into draconic forms to attack from the skies. No cause for concern; I’ll personally handle their aerial forces. But those assaulting on the ground? That is your duty to deal with.’

Then he signaled with his hand for them to mobilize immediately, and exited the tent."

The soldiers left their king alone—yet felt an inexpressible compassion for him. How could one man endure so much calamity and still stand fast against destiny? Not merely stand, but battle fate itself?"Hours passed like days; at last, the battle began. The battlefield overflowed with doubt, anxiety, and fear on both sides. Among the allied forces, Andreas, Draxenius, Raxelius, and Eldinor stood mounted atop their massive steeds behind the front lines. With hardened resolve, they gazed upon the field—soon to be watered with blood."

But on the opposing side, Atreus stood as their leader—on foot, shoulder to shoulder with his soldiers. With a steady gaze full of determination, he honored the hearts standing beside him. Complex emotions surged within him; he thought not only of his soldiers now entering battle, but also of his beloved Arian and the legacy he must leave behind. And he asked himself this question: 'Who will walk out of this place alive?

The battlefield was swept by a cool wind that seemed to fan the tension. Both sides advanced at a measured pace. In the deathly silence of the field, the warriors' heartbeats sounded the trumpet call of war. Atreus drew a deep breath, surveyed his soldiers, and shouted: 'Today, none of us will cry again! There will be no retreat—our only path lies forward, for our children stand at our backs!'

Atreus then turned to face his enemies and roared with a thunderous voice: "I am Atreus, twentieth king of the Randra dynasty, Keeper of the Balance, standing before you today. Know this - if you stand aside, you shall live; if not, you will die most gruesomely. And you four kings... you would do well to reconsider your folly, for this battle will shatter the world's equilibrium!"

Draxenius bellowed in fury: "The buffoon is you, Atreus! Look around! You stand alone with a thousand men against our ten thousand. Do you truly believe you'll prevail?! And you fancy yourself Keeper of the Balance?! What a splendid joke! Your Legend race is the true disruptor of equilibrium! I'll not suffer a single one of your cursed kind to live—to drag this world to ruin!"

He roared skyward, unleashing a plume of crimson breath, then commanded his soldiers: "Hear me, noble soldiers! Engage in slaughter! Grind their bones! Teach this fool the fate that awaits his ilk!"

The battlefield trembled with soldiers' roars and the flight of weapons. Twenty dragons swooped down from the skies as the glint of blades and enemies' teeth illuminated the field.

Atreus cast a fleeting glance at his soldiers—those Legend warriors with blue eyes ablaze with fury. He knew today would be etched in history's chronicles... but on a torn-out page.

He drew his longsword from its scabbard—a yellow halo engulfing the blade—and with a single rotation, Atreus cleaved the air around him. With slow, resolute steps, he advanced toward the enemy. Behind him, his soldiers readied their weapons to spill their foes' blood.

Atreus struck first: he swung his sword, and with but one motion sent countless heads rolling. Then he slammed his fist into the earth, shattering the ground beneath him to disrupt the enemy formations.

The cloying stink of blood and death thickened the air. Dragons and enemy elf-archers fixed wrathful gazes upon Atreus, converging on him with their full might.

Pre-set traps sprang to life across the battlefield's periphery, seizing any chance to halt the blood-drinkers' deadly strikes. Within this maelstrom, a cataclysmic war erupted. Earth writhed in agony from the battle's wounds; Sky itself recoiled from the cacophony of clashing magics and blades.

Atreus's magic blazed across the sky like lightning—for an instant, the world seemed to hold its breath.

 Arcane rifts tore through the air as his sword strikes, shifting the battle's tide like formidable earthquakes. Yet the enemy, Draxenius most of all, refused to yield. With a roar steeped in fury and resolve, he commanded his forces to charge.

The Legend forces, with faith in Atreus burning within them, advanced with full might. In this historic confrontation—amidst ruthless warfare—the fate of two worlds rested on warriors battling for faith and honor.

As Atreus fought at the battlefield's heart, Andreas stood at its edge wearing a cryptic smile. He murmured to himself: 'Just as I suspected... weakened. His power wanes—but why?' Then he signaled his remaining forces and bellowed: 'All forces, attack! Now is the moment to unleash our true strength!'

At Andreas's command, the war surged to its brutal peak. The battle raged for hours; unexpectedly, the Legends had gained the upper hand. The power of their faith and Atreus's courage drove them to fight to their last breath—yet it proved insufficient.

Time crawled as the field's vileness and violence persisted, the stench of decay choking the air. Atreus fought valiantly, but paid a grim price for his bravery: defending a comrade's flank, he sacrificed his left hand. Blood gushed in a maddening torrent. Alone, he had slain a thousand foes—but against destiny itself, no victory could be won.

Now, he stood utterly alone—body riddled with wounds, armor stripped of its silver sheen—encircled by some 8,000 enemies. All his comrades lay slain. Exhausted and bloodied, he faced this final trial alone.

Atreus looked back and saw the Sacred Tree on the horizon. A heavy silence engulfed him while inside, his soul screamed. He witnessed defenseless infants, women, and children butchered by vile sorcerers. Nothing remained within those fiends; not even mercy for the smallest victims—children torn limb from limb.

Andreas sneered at Atreus in that moment: 'Who's the fool now, hah, Atreus?! Look around you! Your people are dead—your wife, that little child of yours—and only you remain. If we can even call this wretched state "alive"!'

Then, with a savage motion, he sliced off Atreus's legs. Gritting through agony, Atreus collapsed defenseless to the ground. Andreas dragged him toward his queen's coffin—a casket woven from branches of the Sacred Tree, symbolizing Atreus's devotion to her.

Cradled against the queen's lifeless corpse lay an infant. A dead child. But Atreus jolted with realization: This was not Arian. This babe belonged to a Legend mother who'd staged this sacrificial ruse to shield the true prince.

Raxelius gazed toward the Sacred Tree and sneered at Atreus: 'I know you're aware why they call this the Sacred Tree, aren't you? Because the first Legend was born here. Your child would've been the last... but sadly, he's dead. Now I'll destroy this tree—so no Legend is ever born again.'

With those words, Raxelius unleashed corrosive magic upon the Sacred Tree. It began to wither and decay, its life-force draining with every throbbing pulse of the spell. That tree—symbol of life and hope for the Legend race—died by increments. As it perished, the earth trembled beneath Atreus. He felt his world collapsing... and not his alone—the entire planet was tearing itself apart.

But this was not the story's end. In its wake, Andreas—eyes blazing with infernal malice—severed Atreus's head. He believed he had eradicated the last Legend, that this was the extinction of a race. Yet the truth was far more intricate than he fathomed.

In a woodland cottage, the infant Arian, cradled in Zynarefil's arms, suddenly burst into tears. Zynarefil, whose hope had never wavered, clutched him tighter. Tears welling in her eyes, she whispered to the child: 'So you felt it too, my son?'

Zynarefil knew hope still lived in this darkened world. She held an unshakable belief that Arian, son of Atreus, was the emblem of the Legend race—and all the dreams this land thirsted for. In her heart, she felt that even in the bleakest hours and most desperate straits, a light would endure to guide their return.

History would forever preserve the tale of Atreus and the secrets buried within the Legends' bloodline.

Seven years had passed since that day... and now Arian...