The Ruins of Aeridor.
This place was once a great city for the high elves. The very first city they built in this world. A city of white marble and crystal, a place of breathtaking beauty and arcane wonder.
Now the only thing that remains is a few crumbled walls that were once the elven palace, overgrown with moss and ivy. The ghosts of its former glory whispered through the broken archways.
Aeridor was destroyed thousands of years ago in the great war between the elves and the humans, a war that ended with the elves' defeat and their retreat into the depths of their forest kingdom.
The city was never rebuilt, not because they lacked the power or because they didn't manage to reclaim the land, but because the elves simply couldn't set foot in this place again for three thousand years.
The land itself was cursed. Cursed with rot and decay.
The one who destroyed and cursed it was none other than the same undead dragon that burned the old world tree to ashes.
With time, the curse weakened, and only after the former elven queen used what remained of the old world tree's power to purify it did she manage to break it.
Now it's just a 'ruin,' a place of history, a place of memories, a place of regret.
The place was also why the humans chose to set the meeting there. Aside from being neutral ground, it was also a place of pain for the elves, a reminder of their past failure and a symbol of their weakness.
A subtle, cruel jab at their ancient rivals.
And now the Ruins of Aeridor. This cursed land will become a stage for a new play.
And a new player has entered the game.
...
"Your Highness, we are approaching the ruins," a knight in gleaming silver armor announced.
"Good." A young man, no older than thirty, with short, blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, looked out from the window of the luxurious carriage, his face a mask of grim determination.
He was the prince of Vandor. The only son and heir of King Aldric.
Prince Alaric.
He wasn't supposed to come here, but he insisted.
The King wanted to come himself, but the council and the church forbade it. It was too risky.
The kingdom had already lost an army. They couldn't afford to lose their king.
So they sent the prince instead, a show of goodwill, a sign of their willingness to negotiate.
But the prince, Prince Alaric, had other plans.
He was not here only to negotiate.
He was here to assess the enemy, to gather information, and if the opportunity presented itself, to strike.
However, Prince Alaric wasn't a foolish, hot-headed prince. He was a brilliant strategist, a master of both sword and magic, a man who had studied the art of war since he could walk. He was the pride of the kingdom, the future of the Vandor dynasty.
Over the past two years, he managed to win many battles against the elves and the beastmen, earning him the title 'The Lion of Vandor'.
His presence here was a statement.
A statement that the kingdom of Vandor would not be intimidated. That they would not back down.
"Your Highness, are you sure about this?" his assistant asked, his voice filled with concern.
"Yes," Alaric said, his eyes fixed on the ruins in the distance. "I am sure. This is my duty."
But deep down, a cold knot of dread tightened in his stomach.
He had seen the reports, read the testimonies of the few survivors—Morgana had let one go. He had heard the whispers, the rumors about the enemy, about the 'goddess' and her 'angelic' warriors.
He had also heard about the black warriors that looked similar to their holy paladins but were faster, stronger, and more brutal.
He also heard about the 'Messenger' of this new goddess.
The one who managed to end the holy crusade before it even truly began and capture the army commander, Gideon, a man who was said to be as strong as Uriel's angelic demigods.
How?
How could she do that?
Who is she?
What does she want?
These questions haunted him, fueling a cold, simmering anger in his chest.
The carriage began to descend from the high altitude, carried by two wyverns who flapped their great wings, creating gusts of wind that made the trees sway. The landing was smooth, the wyverns landing on their hind legs, their powerful claws digging into the soft earth.
Vandor had to use wyverns to reach the meeting location as they had no other way. They couldn't risk testing whether Morgana's threat about 'head one by one' was a bluff or not.
The carriage door opened, and Prince Alaric stepped out, followed by his royal guards. All of them were in the best armor the kingdom could forge, masterpieces of silver and gold, their swords and spears glowing with holy enchantments.
They were the best of the best, the cream of the crop, the kingdom's finest.
They were also the backup plan.
If negotiations failed, they would fight. They would die, but they would take as many of the enemy with them as they could.
Flap! Flap!
From the sky, another carriage descended. This one was slightly different, still carried by two wyverns, but its design was more luxurious in a holy sense. It was painted white and gold, the symbol of the angelic wings, Uriel's symbol, emblazoned on its sides.
It was the carriage of the church.
And inside was the Solar Pontiff Solarius, the leader of the Church of Uriel in the kingdom of Vandor.
He was a man in his late sixties, with a long, white beard and kind, gentle golden eyes.
While Liliana was the High Priestess, he was the one who held the real political power of the church. He was the one who managed the church's finances, its armies, and its political relationships with the kingdom and other nations.
The Solar Pontiff Solarius was more of a title than a name. When a man takes the mantle of the Solar Pontiff, he discards his old name and takes a different name based on the name of the goddess, Uriel, and the name of the sun.
Like Solarius, Helion, Aurelius... etc.
"Prince Alaric," a holy knight said to the prince. "The Solar Pontiff has arrived."
"Good." Alaric nodded. He could see the carriage landing, but again, 'protocols' and the 'holy status' of the Solar Pontiff meant that he had to wait for him to step out.
Prince Alaric had mixed opinions about the church. His mother, the queen, refused to give him to the church to 'raise' him as a 'holy child,' a tradition that the royal family of Vandor had been following for centuries, and instead she chose to raise him herself.
This act didn't sit well with the church, but they couldn't do anything about it since the queen was the one who held the real power in the kingdom, not the king.
As for Prince Alaric.
On one hand, he respected their faith, their dedication, and the holy power they wielded. He had seen them heal the sick, bless the crops, and fight against the darkness. He had seen the light of Uriel shine through them, a beacon of hope in a world filled with chaos and despair.
On the other hand, he resented their influence over the kingdom, their arrogance, and their interference in the kingdom's affairs. He had seen them use their power to manipulate the nobles, to control the king, and to push their own agenda, even if it meant sacrificing the kingdom's interests.
He especially disliked the 'hypocrisy' of some of the church's higher-ups, men like Solar Pontiff Solarius. Men who preached about humility, compassion, and self-sacrifice while living in luxury, hoarding wealth, and seeking power for themselves.
A simple example was their view on other races.
They said that all races besides humans were impure and must be cleansed. Burning at the stake was a common fate for a non-human in Vandor, unless they were captured and sold as slaves.
But they liked to 'enjoy' the 'pleasure' they brought. The elven girls were especially popular among the nobles and the church's higher-ups.
Prince Alaric knew that the church was a necessary evil, a powerful ally, and a dangerous enemy. And he knew that he had to play their game if he wanted to protect his kingdom and his people.
The pontiff didn't make him wait for long. He soon stepped out, his white and gold robes flowing around him, a tall, ornate staff of polished white wood topped with a glowing sun crystal in his hand.
He looked every bit the holy man, a living embodiment of the church's power and authority. But Prince Alaric could see the calculating glint in his golden eyes, the subtle, self-satisfied smile on his lips.
Fortunately, this time the situation forced them to be on the same side.
"Prince Alaric," Solarius said, his voice a smooth, melodic baritone, a practiced tone meant to inspire awe and trust. "It is a pleasure to see you again. I only wish it were under more... pleasant circumstances."
"Pontiff Solarius," Alaric replied, giving a slight, formal bow of his head. "The sentiment is mutual. But we are here for a grave purpose. Let us not waste time with pleasantries."
"Indeed," Solarius said, his smile never quite reaching his eyes. "The goddess weeps for her lost children. We must be strong. We must be wise. We must not fail them."
They walked towards the ruins, their guards forming a protective circle around them. The air was heavy with a tense silence, and for a few minutes, they just stood there, waiting, their eyes scanning the horizon, their hands resting on the hilts of their weapons.
Then they saw them.
At first, they were just specks in the distance, shimmering distortions in the hot air. But as they drew closer, their forms became clearer.
They were descending from the sky, not on beasts, but on their own power. Great, feathery wings, pure white and shimmering with an ethereal light, carried them through the air. Their armor was gleaming silver, their forms tall and powerful.
Angels.
"By the Light..." a knight whispered, his voice filled with awe and disbelief.
"A host of angels..." Solarius murmured, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and... something else. Greed? Hope? It was hard to tell.
"Aa... this..." Prince Alaric was speechless, his strategic mind racing to process this new, tricky development. "This complicates things."