The northern lights danced across the darkness of the night, joyously meeting with the billions of starlight. Once every one hundred years, they make their merriment in order to signal the alignment of the two moons, Luna and Celaestis. It will last for ten days until finally, the new guardians of Enchantria will soon be chosen.

Deep within the mountains stood the kingdom known to many, Everdaile. Located at the Northern Lands, the elven realm joined the celestial grandeur as the crystal buildings of different spectroscopy shine their lights towards the lands.

Every detail shone with wealth and splendor. Its' corners conveyed the magnificence and glory beyond imagination.

The night echoed with the merry songs of the choir, gathered for their yearly ritual. 'Twas a precious moment, for a new Avallon was chosen.

Every elf of any race offered their presence at the crystal-filled capital. Each held their pride as their new protector marched in front of the crowd to receive one of the most powerful weapons in all of Enchantria — the Cloak of Zephyr.

However, little did they know that witnessing the scene had torn one of their kin's heart.

Being raced by their own master, one of the four wizards of the world, Varelor was confident that he would be his successor. All he had done in his lifetime was training and making his so-called father proud.

"The alignment of the two moons will soon end and I am pleased to inform you all, my dear students, that I have chosen the rightful one." His so-called father's voice echoed through the vast clearing as he stood there helplessly.

"Who will it be, Vio?" one of his classmates, his best friend, asked.

"I know that you will never bring me down," said their master who turned his hazelnut eyes from him towards his friend, "Livian!"

If only it was a dream, just a mere nightmare, he would have enjoyed the ceremony. But it was not.

He tried to wake himself up from the memories that kept on haunting his mind recently, and, with all his might, he furiously pushed himself down his post at an old tree with a clenched fist swooping towards his father who was standing beside the old and new Avallons.

"You told me that I was your son and you are sure that I am truly capable for the position. Why did you choose Livian over me?! Why?!" he shouted before being blocked by the wizard's magical force field which made him flew backgrounds and hitting the ground.

"Varelor, what are you doing? I already told you many times that I am sure that you are capable but not for being the chosen one," his father replied, eyes widening on what he witnessed.

"I did everything just to make you proud!" he exclaimed with his voice echoing the area like a rumbling thunder.

"Varelor, I'm so sorry," the master spoke with the seriousness that he gave for masking out the sadness he had within faded away. "We all know that the elders have the power to do so. Forgive me, my son, I—"

"Don't call me that!" he interjected, standing in front of him with his hands still clenched with his surging emotions.

"Varelor, I thought we already talked about this," Livian spoke in his calm voice.

"You should've told those elders that I, a student you raised to be your ideal warrior, am capable of being the new bearer!" he exclaimed.

"Guards!" the king watching behind them spoke as he pushed himself out of his crystal throne.

"The elders, you say?" he asked as the elven guards dashed to grab him away. "Livian is your favorite student. You chose him because you think of him like your real son than me. You let them choose him because he is the king's son!"

A surge of emotions rose up towards his veins, his body twirling away from the two guards as he waved his blade towards them.

"Varelor, as your father, I command you to stop this madness at once!" his master shouted with his hardened voice.

As the guards who drew blood from the attack marched back to stop him, Varelor then raised his hand, and all of a sudden, their bodies stopped in midair, stiff and were paralyzed.

Without the completion of the ritual, Livian drew his own blade from his scabbard and went on to face his so-called brother and best friend. However, before their gazes could meet, the strange power that rose from Varelor had wore him out and made him collapse towards the ground, unconscious.

Finally realizing the harm his raised child could have done, Alvierus agreed with the king's command as well as the suggestions of the elders he ignored several times out of the love he saw to him.

Varelor was exiled from the land by royal decree. For days, he wandered the kingdom aimlessly, seeking a place to rest. He struggled against the harsh winter snows and the ever-present threat of nasty goblins and trolls lurking in the region.

His anger grew with every step he took. He accepted the quest eagerly, hoping that death would soon come to end his misery.

One day, the prophecy reached him. As he pressed on, he stumbled into a forest unlike any he had seen. The trees stood like silent sentinels, their twisted branches shrouded in an eerie, creeping fog. Distant, mournful wails echoed through the gloom, the sound of long-forgotten ghouls, while the fog curled around his feet, thick and chilling.

As he trudged forward, a blinding light suddenly pierced the gloom, drawing his gaze. When he finally emerged from the forest's shadows, the temperature dropped sharply. Before him lay a desolate scene: the remnants of shattered, frost-covered crystals strewn across his path, their icy splinters glistening in the cold light.

Varelor was overcome by a strange sensation. Memories surged before him like a tempestuous, chaotic sea—images clashing and tumbling in disarray. The blizzard intensified, nearly freezing him in its icy grip. Just as he was about to succumb, his hand touched a glowing object. Instantly, the storm abated, vanishing along with the blinding light.

"A ring?" he muttered, pulling the silver object with a light blue gem atop from the pillar in the centre of the ruins.

From a distance, he glimpsed the ice castle, its once majestic structure now shattered and scarred, ravaged by some unseen force—or perhaps a deliberate hand.

Without warning, arrows whistled through the air, sharp and deadly. He darted sideways, narrowly avoiding their deadly tips. As the scene before him defied belief, he flung his hand out, eyes wide with hope. Instantly, a fierce blizzard erupted around him, its icy winds swirling and hurling the arrows off course into the tempest.

As the blizzard subsided, Varelor's gaze fell upon the ring, its surface catching the light and casting faint glimmers. He recognized the symbols etched into the gold, recalling the ancient lore he had studied with the wizard who raised him. The ring was unmistakably one of the magical relics from their great creator—an artifact steeped in legend.

He thought back to years spent poring over ancient texts and maps, discovering hints of a fifth relic lost in the chaos of the Great Battle of Enchantria centuries past.

"Who are you? Show yourselves, or I'll unleash my magic!" he shouted, his voice a mix of bravado and underlying fear.

A group of barbarians approached, their bows lowered in a show of cautious peace. Varelor quelled the blizzard as he recognized their faces from somewhere in his foggy memories. A fleeting recollection stirred within him, but it remained frustratingly out of reach.

"He has the late Elven King's ring! He's harnessed its magic," one of them exclaimed.

"He is the rightful ruler of the entire Everdailean Realm!" another declared. "He must have the blood of the former king, who perished after the battle, betrayed by those elves seeking to rule for themselves."

"King? Me?" Varelor asked, puzzled. "And are you... are you the elves who oppose the new ruler?"

"Yes, we are the last of our kind," a woman replied as she stepped forward. "And it seems you are the last true king of the elves."

"After the war, we fled from the harsh rule of the other elves. We established our secret sanctuary deep beneath the Mhydrille mountains," an old man explained as they neared the entrance to their hidden village. "We survived while they continued to dominate the lands, causing the tribes to fall apart one by one."

The cave enveloped them in darkness, its chill biting deeper than Varelor had ever felt. In the centre, ice crystals lay scattered, their surfaces glimmering faintly when touched. As he rubbed one, it began to emit a soft light, gradually illuminating a hidden passage. The ground trembled, and with a low rumble, a gateway emerged, leading downward into the depths of the village.

After years of fragmented memories resurfacing, Varelor was crowned king of the mountains of Mhydrille. The moment for retribution arrived.

The Mhydrillians surged across the land, their faces set in grim determination. They advanced upon the creatures that had ravaged their territory. The battlefield was a scene of chaos: Everdaileans and creatures from other kingdoms fell in brutal conflict, their cries mingling with the clash of steel. The Mhydrillians, driven by vengeance, reclaimed their stolen lands piece by piece, leaving devastation in their wake.

After a fierce confrontation with the three Avallons, who had fled to the elven realm for Livian's battle plan, the long-anticipated moment arrived. The Mhydrillians marched resolutely towards Sepphora, their eyes fixed on the city's towering fortifications. The air crackled with tension as they neared the last guardian's stronghold.

Livian, now crowned as the new Emperor following his father's death, awaited Varelor's arrival with a steely resolve. He gathered the other keepers and the armies of the realm, preparing for the decisive confrontation.

As Varelor and his forces advanced, the Avallons intervened. The clash of wills and weapons was fierce, but ultimately, Varelor and his followers were forced into retreat. They were banished to the Island of Despair, their once-powerful abilities fading as they were cast into a world where their magic could no longer reach them.

As Varelor began to vanish, he saw Alfira cradling a child, Livian's arms around them. Rage consumed him.

"You betrayed me, Alfira!" he shouted, fury and jealousy in his voice. "How could you do this?! All of you betrayed me! You destroyed everything!"

"It's enough, my dear friend! You've caused enough harm!" Livian's voice cut through the chaos.

"I am not and will never be your friend!" Varelor snarled, his face contorted with rage. "I swear I'll return, with that child's help!"

"Please, Varelor, don't," Alfira's voice trembled, her eyes pleading.

Varelor gripped his magical ring tightly, his lips moving rapidly as he chanted the ancient Enchantrian words.

The Avallons surged forward, their faces grim as they tried to hasten the banishment. Despite their efforts, the air shimmered with the power of the completed spell.

As Varelor's form flickered and began to fade, the enchantment coalesced around the innocent princess, whose wide eyes reflected the weight of her new, ominous destiny—to one day bring about the destruction of Enchantria.

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•○GLOSSARY○•

⚔️Avallon

- an Enchantrian word that means guardians, warriors, and protectors

- bearers of the ancient rings of power

⚔️️ Vio

- an Enchantrian word

- in English, it can be translated as Father

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