The air reeked of blood and smoke. What was once the sacred elven city of Edemor now lay silent under the shadow of orcish victory. Fires crackled among fallen banners, and Fargorn’s warriors sang their triumph into the night, their voices echoing through the ruins like the cries of wolves.

Yet the warlord did not join their revelry. His eyes were fixed on the ancient vault buried beneath the elven citadel — the resting place of the Sword of Larethiel, the legendary weapon said to bleed light itself and curse those unworthy to wield it.

With a growl, Fargorn lifted his axe and brought it down against the sealed door. Blow after blow, the metal screamed until it finally gave way, revealing a chamber drenched in cold, blue light. Dust swirled around his feet as he stepped inside.

There it was — or so he thought.

A figure sat within an iron cage, pale and still, hair like moonlight, skin marked with old scars. Shackles bound delicate wrists, and a faint shimmer of magic clung to them. Fargorn’s breath caught, his grip tightening on his axe.

“This… this can’t be the Sword,” he muttered, voice low and rough.

The figure stirred, lifting their head slowly — eyes glimmering with both fear and defiance.