Far from the inferno of burning cities and the cries of knights who fell beneath the hooves of the "Army of Ash," in the deepest point of the "Forbidden Woods," where even the sun's rays dare not penetrate the interwoven branches that resemble the fingers of the dead, Eleonor sat upon a moss-covered rock before an ancient blue spring. A spring of which legends told that its waters do not reflect faces, but rather paint the features of the lost truth for those who have lost the compass of their souls. She was not crying; tears had long dried in her eyes and solidified like cooled lava. But her face bore a shroud-like pallor, akin to the light of the moon on a stormy night when all safety has vanished.
Between her trembling hands, she held a small wooden box, from which the scent of aged sandalwood emanated, containing a torn blue scarf. That same scarf that Alaric had tied around her wrist on a distant dawn, when he was still a knight dreaming of justice, when he swore to her beneath the ancient oak tree that he would build for her a kingdom of purity and tranquility, into which no sorrow or betrayal would ever enter. She touched the worn fabric with her fingertips and whispered in a faint voice heard only by the rustling of the eerie trees:
"You have built your longed-for kingdom, Alaric... but it is a kingdom too cramped for its living inhabitants, and the dead do not dare leave its walls. You have replaced our dream with a nightmare from which no one awakens."
Suddenly, the thick branches behind her moved with a solemnity that carried within it the awe of bygone centuries. Eleonor did not turn in panic; instead, she placed her hand with deadly calm on the blade of a small dagger she concealed in the folds of her torn cloak. A deep voice spoke, a voice carrying the hoarseness of time and the solemnity of the towering mountains:
"Do not be afraid, daughter of the remaining light. The Forbidden Woods do not harbor murderers, nor do they open their embrace to the wicked. And you carry within the core of your heart the remnants of a warm sun that the 'King of Ash' mistakenly believes he has extinguished forever with the tears of the victims."
Eleonor slowly turned to find before her an elderly man, advanced in years, wearing a strange cloak woven from dry leaves that never wilted. His eyes were the color of grass after a heavy rain, clear to the point of pain. This was Celyos, the forgotten guardian of the woods, the man of whom tales said he had witnessed the birth of the first kingdoms and the fall of the titans before greed corrupted the hearts of men.
Eleonor replied with a bitter tone: "What sun do you speak of, sir? The world behind these trees is burning with black fires that water cannot extinguish, and the man who once carried the torch of light has become the darkness itself. I stood before him, and I saw his eyes... there was no trace of Alaric the human left in them, only a volcano of violet rancor consuming everything it touches."
Celyos stepped towards the edge of the spring and pointed with his frail hand to the waters, which suddenly began to stir and emit cold vapors:
"The tattoo covering Alaric's body is not merely simple black magic, my daughter. It is the 'Curse of the Broken Oath.' Merlock, that fox, did not grant Alaric power as a gift; rather, he granted him the ability to consume the essence of his own soul in exchange for every military victory. Every city he burns, every king he beheads, brings him one step closer to complete spiritual annihilation. When the tattoo is completed and covers his second eye, there will be no more Alaric the knight, nor Alaric the king. Only the 'Ash Entity' will remain; a black hole that will consume the entire continent, then fade into nothingness, leaving behind an eternal silence unbroken by any sound."
Eleonor stood up with a start, sparks flashing from her eyes as they regained their luster through anger:
"Our story cannot end in such misery! There must be a rugged path to reclaim him, or at least a way to stop this cyclone before it erases life from the face of the earth. Evil cannot be the conclusion."
Celyos shook his head with profound sorrow and looked towards the horizon, where the sky was being painted with an ominous violet hue:
"The path is as bitter as aloe, and requires a heart stronger than steel. For the tattoo to be broken, Alaric must face the 'truth' he flees from under the guise of sacred wrath. He must see his ugly face in the mirror of his soul before it is completely charred and petrified. And there is a greater dilemma... the sword he wields, 'Soulgloom,' feeds on his hatred and pumps false strength into him. As long as that cursed blade remains in his hand, Merlock will remain the hidden and sole master of his fate."
A heavy silence prevailed throughout the woods, as if all creatures had hidden to hear the decisive decision, before Eleonor spoke with a tone that bore steely resolve:
"If Merlock is the shadow guiding his hand to kill, then I will be the blade that severs that shadow. I will leave these Forbidden Woods and search in villages and valleys for the 'Remnants of the Loyal Knights'; those who fled the inferno of the Valley of Bones and did not succumb to the temptation of the tattoo or the trap of hatred. I will build an army of impossible hope, not to fight Alaric with swords, but to save him from the grave he is digging for himself with his own tattooed hand."
The forest laughed with a delicate sorrow, and yellow leaves scattered around Eleonor as if bidding farewell to a traveler who would not return. Celyos added, as he slowly faded into the shadows of the ancient trees:
"Go, Eleonor... but remember well, the 'King of Ash' no longer knows the meaning of mercy. If you stand in his path as an enemy or even as an obstacle, he will not hesitate to crush you just as he crushed the walls of 'Lyonesse.' Are you truly ready to die by the sword of the man to whom you once gave your life?"
Eleonor tightened the blue scarf around her neck firmly and looked towards the rugged, rocky path leading out of the woods, where the true wars began:
"The Alaric I loved died in the valley. What I will face now is an aberration whose nightmare must end. Even if the price is my life, I will not allow ash to be the final word in the record of this world."
At that very moment, hundreds of miles away, where the fires were still consuming the outskirts of "Lyonesse," Alaric felt a sudden, sharp stab deep in his chest, as if a dagger of blue ice had pierced his stone-like armor and reached what remained of his heart. He turned suddenly south, towards the direction of the Forbidden Woods, and his violet eyes narrowed with silent fury. He muttered in a low voice that had begun to sound like the hissing of flames on a cold night:
"You are still resisting, Eleonor... you still delude yourself that there is a pulse beneath this ash. I will be forced to shatter this illusion with my bare hands, even if it requires me to burn the woods and all within to uproot hope at its source."
Merlock, who had been watching him from the corner of the dark room with a twisted, venomous smile, spoke:
"The rebellious souls have begun to gather behind the curtains, my king. Eleonor is not alone; there is a whisper running through the shattered villages about the 'Lady of the Blue Scarf' gathering the scattered remnants. Shall we send legions of death and shadows to annihilate them before they grow strong?"
Alaric tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword until the skin broke under the pressure, and he walked out onto the balcony. The fierce wind played with his torn black cloak like the wings of a giant raven:
"No... let them gather and dream. I want them to see with their own eyes how their fragile hope crumbles under my heavy footsteps. Soon, we will march towards the 'Stronghold of the Free'... and there, I will put a final end to this chapter of rebellion, and I will bury the blue scarf under mountains of ash."
The words came from him like projectiles, while on the distant horizon, Eleonor took her first steps out of the woods, carrying within her heart a small flame amidst a world that had decided to drown in darkness. The storm was approaching, and it was not a storm of rain, but a storm that would determine who would remain: humanity or ash.
Alaric continued to watch the flames as they consumed what remained of the history of "Lyonesse," and Merlock laughed inwardly, knowing that the tattoo was nearing the second eye, and that the end he had planned for centuries was now within reach. The conflict was no longer over crowns of gold, but over what remained of the essence of humanity in a world refusing to surrender to annihilation. And with every passing minute, Alaric drifted further from his reality, sinking into bloody visions of victories that could never satisfy his hunger, while Eleonor gathered those who had lost everything and had nothing left but their pride to defend. The earth trembled under the weight of the two approaching armies; the endless army of the dead, and the army of the living who decided that dying standing was more honorable than living under the banner of ash.