Author's Note: Hi guys! This is the conlcusion to chapter three, which I did not include in The Immortals in the the advanced critics forum. I have also completed a map of the land... This does not follow on from #7 by the way. Also, so you think this is cliche at all? Do you see any LotR in here? I don't want to be another Paolini, plagiarism and that. That is, if I ever publish this lol.

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Aedomir lay under the misty skies, mumbling in solitude. Many waning stars gleamed back at him from the distant yonder, but far fewer there were than when last he gazed upon then their splendour. The fire crackled to his side, and the wind blew the smoke between the sky, and Aedomir weakly smiled as the lights wandered away. His hand stubbornly remained on the hilt of his blade, and he refused sleep when it arrived. His mind however was elsewhere, in a deep and troubling land of its own. Aedomir asked himself how he had managed to assimilate everything he had learned today so casually, with such little thought. Kuzarr, as Seridon had been swift to explain, was the new—for Aedomir at least—emperor of Serigiil. According to the assassin, Kuzarr broke into the country without warning, slaughtering those who could not defend; the act of a coward. Then he led an entire vanguard, hundreds of thousands of spawn, on Vexillum City. The men on the frontlines stood valiantly, but their heroism punctured a mere pinprick upon their hide skin. The walls were scaled and the weedy streets blazed roaring fumes high into the sky. With the capital down, nothing stood before the horde.

Kuzarr; the name should have wrought a memory, but it only intensified the pondering confusion. Supposedly, he had ascended to the mortal throne after the fall of Vexillum. It became apparent to Aedomir therefore, that Kuzarr was merely the right hand of a greater figure. When Aedomir asked for a name, Seridon denied knowledge, truthfully perhaps. Nonetheless, Aedomir reluctantly further deepened his thought in mystery.

Aedomir remained uncertain of Seridon. Honest as he may seem, the elf still bore the Cresta. Ethina’s bidding flowed through him like a gushing meander yet. But what would Aedomir do now? So many questions there were, but such little time also. The map of the lands still hindered in his mind like a lost soul. Already, he felt battle plans creeping from the corner of thought, but only too soon were the thoughts dismissed. He was a lost exile, crept from an ancient shadow, branded a murderer. He wondered how the thought of rekindling the world’s grace could have reached his imagination.

The outlaw cherished a short-lived moment, where he scoured his sentimental brain. He had no ambitions with the outside world via his brain, so he turned to his heart. Those dearest to it remained yet—if what Seridon had said was true that is. He would need to return to the falls from whence he fell. He knew not the name, only a vagueness of where it flowed.

To the stars, Aedomir looked. A tear welled in his eyes. “I’m coming,” he whispered, and dazed into a dream far from the lands of reality.