And so, one by one, they followed the Shepherd’s call into his shadow, and the flock rejoiced, for it loomed ever deeper.

A howling wind blew through the ruins of a long-forgotten place, trying to make sure none remembered what had transpired here. They were almost successful, as most didn’t. Only a handful of learned men still possessed knowledge of the things that had truly happened here, not the stories told to little children at night. One of these men was the Prince Ástilliar of Obscurir, who had taken interest in the fabled events of the past and consequently now stood in the remains of a stronghold, which was of great importance once long ago. Now, all it had been reduced to was merely the graveyard of all those who had decided to defend it to their last breath. He remembered all the stories he had once been told in his childhood, but this one was still among his all-time favourites. In his personal experience, almost all the great tales were based on at least a grain of truth, and so he was certain that they would soon enough find what they were looking for. His companion, however, was not.

“We have been looking for eternity, if not longer," a low voice pierced his thoughts. 
“How you do not tire of seeking something for that long, without finding it, is beyond me, my lord.”

A lopsided smirk found its way to his face. It amused him to no end that she could be this impatient at times – in truth it had only been a few hours.

“Patience is a virtue you never did possess," his chuckled reply came.

He was obviously enjoying her antics, which were such a refreshing pleasure compared to the tensions that had plagued his lord father’s court for years at this point. The woman at his side gave only a defeated-sounding huff in response. Of course, she knew he was right, as he always was. He had to be. Akiri had been a great many things in both her lifetimes, but being patient was most certainly not among them.

"If we truly have to go further, then at least have the mercy to tell me what precisely it is that we are searching for, my Shepherd.” 

His smirk slowly evolved into a genuine smile, as the prince chose to indulge his devout follower. 

“As you wish then. Say, my dear, do you remember the fairytale 'The Last Wall’?” 

Akiri, who kept the pace of his stride, seemed to ponder the question for a few moments. 

“Of all the fables and myths you have told me, I don’t think this was one of them, my prince.” 

He generally enjoyed telling stories, and she, like many of his flock, enjoyed the peace that came with listening to him do so. So it came that he had told her and her brethren many tales, and she would not dare to ever forget one. No, Akiri kept them close to her heart, even though it hadn’t beaten once for almost four centuries.

“You, my dear, stand in the ruins of Veythar, an old bastion that protected the old Vyrethian Empire from the bloody elven frontier faithfully for many years. It is said that here, amongst the remnants of its once so proud walls, something akin to a miracle unfolded, stopping the dreaded elves dead in their tracks.”

Akiri raked her mind, trying to remember if she had heard anything significant about this place back when she had still been alive, all those years ago. She failed to recover any memories that could have been of importance.

“Miracle, your Highness? I remember only that Veythar fell, just as the rest did.”

The prince turned sharply to Akiri, and she looked straight into the darkness; that was the monocle that he always wore above his left eye. It unsettled most, and rightfully so, though his shadows knew better. Ástilliar began to speak calmly, willing his mind to summon the knowledge that his mother had bestowed upon him in his childhood. 

“When the elves attacked Veythar,” he said, “the assault was relentless. It was like a ravenous tide, consuming everything in its path, unstoppable, akin to a force of nature. For each elf they shot from atop the walls, another simply took their place.”

The prince tapped the ground with the lower end of his staff and started moving forwards again, resuming, much to Akiri’s frustration, his seemingly endless search while telling his companion the tale. 

“Granted, they had planned their offensive meticulously and executed it very well,” he drawled, “but there was a problem. They had made but one miscalculation. The commander of the border guard here was a man who steadfastly adhered to his oath.

Ástilliar seemed far more at ease being this far away from his home and so close to the elvish borders than Akiri was. How he could be so calm while treading on no man’s land was a mystery to her. She, in comparison, was agitated to no end, because she still suspected an ambush or trap behind almost every rock, suspicious of the quiet of the ruins. Akiri was prepared to strike in an instant should she need to defend her prince.

“The commander had seen more winters, each more gruelling than the last, than most men in his profession usually do,” the prince told her.
“He was a man of simple faith, too. He believed that as long as men like him were still standing, Grand Vyrethia would not lose the war.”

But he fell. Just like Grand Vyrethia did.

Akiri chastised herself immediately for the ungrateful thoughts that crossed her mind. Of course she was thankful that Ástilliar had resurrected and taken her in under New Vyrethia’s banner. Yet, her gratitude belonged solely to him, not the crown of his father. No, in her opinion, however much the kingdom tried to adorn itself with the grandeur of the old empire, it was a far cry from it. The prince, probably unaware of what was going on in his follower's head, continued with his story.

“When the alarm bells rang that day, he neither cowered nor took cover. He ordered all civilians evacuated and sent only his most trusted soldiers to either warn the other forts or take as many supplies for civilians as they could carry. The rest he simply dismissed."

A confused frown decorated Akiri’s face. 

“Dismissed?”

“Yes. He had them guard the road toward the capital – to carry the wounded and sick away to safety while he delayed the enemy.”

“Alone?”

Ástilliar chuckled lowly again, the disbelief in her voice delighting him more than it ought to. 

“When the elves breached the first wall, he met them standing behind the gate with nothing but his armour and his trusty flamberge – a blade heavy enough that lesser men only swung it once before falling over and larger than most elves, it took the spines from.”

Ástilliar noticeably made outstanding efforts to keep her entertained while he tried to do the legend justice with his words. 

“He had killed the first thirty before they realised his bravery, confused by the sheer human will that refused to bow. For every two elves that came to end him, he obliterated three more. They say that he fought for a whole day and the whole night following after.“

“By dawn, he bled from every seam in his armour, and by noon the visor of his helmet had melted and fused to his skin from all the magic fire the elves threw at him. Still he stood, back to this very wall. And when the elven mages finally brought the fortress to heel, making it crumble behind him, he did not care for it and continued to end them, like pigs for slaughter. The walls broke before he did, Akiri.”

“And what happened to him?”

“When the commander’s body finally decided it had cleaved through enough of his enemies, he simply succumbed to all the wounds he had suffered in the hours he had fought for Grand Vyrethia’s honour. The elves, however, did not march any further than the courtyard,” Ástilliar said. 

What? Why would they stop?

It made no sense to Akiri why the elven army would stop advancing if they had triumphed. Her best guess was that they were too careful, perhaps in fear of traps any soldiers could have laid for them. The prince elaborated soon after she had come to her conclusion.

“They were too afraid to even go near his corpse, for the commander died standing upright, his sword sunk in the stone before him, with his eyes opened to defy death itself. The fire seemed determined to avoid him, and the ruins refused to bury him beneath them, collapsing around him.”

An unconvinced Akiri raised her right eyebrow at him, even though, with him a few steps ahead of her, he didn’t see it.

“My prince, what you’re describing is impossible. I have killed more times than I can count, and not once did they remain upright after.” 

Once more, the Shepherd turned toward her. Once more his one-eyed gaze found hers and the endless sea of devotion they held. Her eyes, with that beautiful dark teal colour, were fixed intently on him.

“Perhaps you are right. Perhaps all of this was for naught. But it’s the impossible things that tend to interest me most. We will find what truth remains of this legend, and when we do, you will understand why we have travelled this far.”

They started to walk again and resumed the prince’s search. Not even half an hour later, Ástilliar stopped so abruptly that Akiri walked straight by the prince without realising it at first. She turned to question him, confusion etched in her face.

“There,” he said quietly and pointed at something in the distance with his staff.

After following his gaze, she saw it, and her breath caught. 

“How in the thirteen hells?”

Amid the ruin, surrounded by the debris, one figure still stood. Armour blackened and cracked at many places, worn away over the centuries. A giant sword was buried deep in the rock before it. The wall directly behind had collapsed inward, the stones fractured by old elven magic, yet somehow the knight remained upright – unmoved, unbroken, his posture unmistakably proud. Akiri couldn’t believe her own eyes. At first glance she had thought the armour was a statue, an old relic of the fortress that had survived its collapse and stood the test of time by sheer luck. She was wrong. It wasn’t a statue. This thing had been human once, long ago. It had been alive, just as she had been. Now, with the two of them coming ever closer to the remains of the commander, she could see just how much truth the myth contained. The armour had indeed fused with the man. In some places the iron clung to his charred bones, blurring the lines of what had been cold metal and had once been part of a living thing. Elven fire magic had melted parts of it while he was still wearing it. She wasn’t sure she could even comprehend the pain he had to endure, much less if she truly wanted to.

“Do you see now why I had to see the legend for myself, Akiri?”

She did. She understood now why he had insisted on coming here and realised now what had got him interested in the fairytale enough that it warranted a journey halfway through the known world. The determination. This man had sworn an oath and had been stubborn enough to survive literal fire, just so he could keep it for a few hours longer. The commander had been an embodiment of perseverance – and Ástilliar was here to reward him for his tenacity and endurance. The prince took a few steps towards the figure, his voice dropping to a low murmur.

“You did very well here. The crowns of New Vyrethia thank you for your faithful service, Lord Commander."

He whispered an incantation of terrible and twisted dark magic. Akiri had seen dark sorcery often enough at this point as to not fear it, though the kind Ástilliar performed seemed to be unique. As he finished with his spell, inky black tendrils shot forth and engulfed the brittle corpse, restoring decayed flesh and charred bones, remaking the old armour. They sew neatly together the seams of life and death. Shortly before he started speaking again, he raised his staff towards the commander.

“I, Prince Ástilliar of Obscurir, Crown of Vision, have called you to rise from your slumber! You, who would not fall, will you answer?”

The light around the prince’s monocle seemed to distort, a slight purple gleam emitted from the midst of it. After a few seconds, the head behind the new visor seemed to give an almost imperceptible nod. 

“Behold, Akiri, for you meet what the fire left standing! Drekarion!”

The figure's eyes burst open upon hearing the name it once was given. The head lifted slowly so as not to strain its newly created tendons, only stopping when it looked Ástilliar straight in the eye. A monstrous sound bellowed out of the armour as Drekarion tried to speak for the first time in centuries.

“Are you the one who called?" he asked. 

The prince answered without missing a beat. 

“Indeed I am, honourable knight. I have chosen you to walk amongst the living once more.”

The newly risen soldier seemed to ponder this for a few moments and spoke after coming to a conclusion.

“I will never kneel again, your Highness. Not for you and not for anyone.”

Obscurir raised his hand to silence Akiri, who was angered by Drekarion’s refusal to obey.

“You did not kneel before death. I did not expect you to kneel before me.”

The prince made a gesture known to the centuries-old knight. The right hand laid over the right eye, the palm turned inwards – the salute of Grand Vyrethia. Drekarion remained still for a few moments before returning the greeting, the iron of his armour creaking as he did so. The grin on the prince's face stretched. 

And so Drekarion followed the shepherd's call, and the shadows celebrated, for they were stronger for it.