The Awakened of Iviria

Welcome to Iviria. A great war had ravaged the lands of the Bitterridge Empire. A great alliance brought all the people of Iviria together to fight Solomon and his fanatic disciples. Additionally, hordes of demons had been devastating the land freely until the last day of the war, when the Last Expedition took place. Now, two years after the Last Expedition, the war is over, Solomon defeated, and the demons are curiously gone. However, the war has left many problems around the world that need to be dealt with. The Empire seemed to have made too many rushed decisions, and many mysteries still covered Solomon’s figure.

1. The Awakened’s Memories

Darkness. A limbo of eternal judgement surrounded them. Their minds, bodies, beliefs, and dreams were no more. Past, present, and future were all the same barren, dark, and empty desolation.

In the cosmic oblivion that they were part of, unexpected, a vision like a dream flickered. A sudden image was in front of their eyes, as if they could still see.

A tree of golden leaves.

A tree in a cave in the deep. An entity beyond time, it was. All, it ruled in silence.

Silence pierced through their minds. Their dead hearts, once an undistinguished part of the immeasurable void, pulsed. Pulsed. Pulsed. Pulsed full of life: their hopes and pains, dreams and sorrows, loves and hatreds. They all came back with a tearing gasp.

Then a voice came, and clear in their heads spoke: “Feanor, Fainuriel, Emris, Jo-Hel, Zahira… do not panic. You have been dead, but no more. I summon forth your anguished spirits because in need our lands are.” The voice was broken but deep.

A sea of stars appeared before them. Clusters of lights flickered all around them, as if excited by their arrival. Then, hands, feet, and bodies—their bodies.

“The transaction to life might bring back some undesirable memories,” the voice echoed softly, now firmer, as if of a mentor, teaching a roomful of students. “You shalt recall some of your last memories. Do not be scared; what you are about to see has already happened and cannot harm you again.”

A fresh breeze blew around their bodies. For the first time in a long while, they were moving—stirred, alive. A fine tingling ran beneath their skin. But soon, the breeze turned into wind, and the wind into a storm. They were hurled into life.

“Try to keep these visions in thy mind.”

Their spirits were heaved into memories. A sudden shout awoke them. They were on the bridge where they had last seen the sun. Now, they could feel their bodies full of bruises and wounds. All around them, other imperial soldiers, who joined the Last Expedition, were fighting. One was shouting to Feanor, and that is when he realised what he was doing. His hands were burning with a fiery spell. His left eye shut; blood was pouring over his face. He did not care. With a roar, fire burst from his palms like a volcanic eruption and engulfed the flying demons that were gliding over them. Likewise, Jo-Hel stood beneath a towering abomination—a demon made of corpses. His sickle-shaped sword was in his right hand, his amber staff in his left. His aged body did not falter as the beast lunged. He now remembered again the feeling of a battle. He raised his staff, and a shielding charm crackled into existence, blocking the abysmal strike. His sword moved on its own accord and plunged straight into the creature’s core.

On the other side of the demon, Emris saw his opening; the old mage’s strike gave him just enough time. With a blow of his great-axe, he aimed at the corpse-demon. The minotaur’s blade penetrated the undead entity, chopping it in half. Then he grabbed the upper half of the demon and threw it at an incoming storm of flying monstrosities. He was alive—blood was coursing through and out of his veins. He cried, and a laugh came out too.

Zahira watched the raging minotaur in awe. She stepped back, gathered her divine powers, and healed Emris’s wounds. A black figure flashed by her side, slashing her shoulder with its sharp wing. Zahira’s reflexes were faster than that demon’s. She reached with her wounded arm and grasped the creature’s pitch-black tail. She let go of her berserker-like strength and smashed the demon on the bridge.

Fainuriel looked up; her brother, Feanor, was still shielding her. She had fallen on the ground with a gasp. ‘Get up.’ She told herself. She stood up and saw that the leader of the expedition, Glitrax Hammerskull, was hammering her way to the entrance of the dungeon. And then it all came back. They were on Skythrone, the mountain of the world and Solomon, the enemy of the Empire, waited at its peak. If she could reach him, she would carry the story of the last day of the war. Fainuriel drew out the parchment where she had written the deeds of the Last Expedition’s heroes. She ran after the Glitrax.

In the mind of these heroes came a sudden realisation. ‘This is not how I died.’ And they remembered. As if imposing a magical force on their memories, the vision shifted. Only the orc Glitrax was there. In front of them, an old statue of a meditating monk stood 5 meters tall. They were on the mountain’s peak, where an old temple hall overlooked the snowy Skythrone. Beside it, an old half-helf floated cross-legged, whispering words full of enchantment. Seven translucent barriers surrounded him.

Solomon, the enemy of the Empire, was finally in front of them.

The figure raised his hand. Snow and withered branches clustered together in the space between him and them. An exact duplicate of the old man took shape in front of them. Glitrax backed into the wall in fear. They all remembered now. That was the moment of their death.

Feanor’s mind reached for his sister, but that was not how it had gone before, so his body remained still. Emris wanted to cry in furious despair, but no sound came. Fainuriel realised that if the voice from before was right and she was truly returning to life, her parchment should be by her side soon. Zahira’s thoughts turned to her husband, Tvaroh. She tried to whisper an apology, but her lips did not open. Jo-Hel knew exactly what was about to happen: Solomon’s final mental blow.

He was about to die. Again.

Like a razor-sharp sickle, an invisible force was hurled from Solomon’s mind, reaching their bodies. They screamed, and the killing pain stopped their hearts. Again. They tried to rise, but death claimed them once more. With the last of his strength, Jo-Hel lifted his head. Through his blurred vision, he saw Solomon’s simulacrum approaching a screaming Glitrax.

And then there was darkness.

Breath came back to their bodies. Once again, they opened their eyes. Above them, a white ceiling adorned with frescos of a grand golden tree. The voice echoed again.

A tall elf wrapped in elegant red garments stood in the centre of the room.

“I welcome you back to Iviria, Heroes of the Last Expedition.”

2. Azerim, Son of the Rain

Emris woke with the battle rage still resonating through his muscles. His body reacted with a contraction. He could not move as he wanted. His legs and arms, slow and numb; his sight, blur. He lifted a sore hand to screw up his eyes and raised his single-horned head from the stone bed he on which had been lying.

When his sight was restored, he eyed a full, frescoed ceiling. Dark colours and flames delineated a fight scene. Central to it, a towering minotaur, two firelings, an old winged man, and a half-fey woman fought on a murky bridge. Above, the inside of a mountain and an open crater to the night sky. Demon hordes were surrounding them in the dark. Emris frowned: the minotaur was missing one horn.

He looked around; the windowless room comprised four other stone beds, where two firelings, an old man and a half-fey were regaining consciousness. A tall elf was the only figure standing in the centre. An empty look on his face. He smiled at Emris as the minotaur sat by the edge of the bed.

“I advise you against standing on your legs for now. Your bodies are weak; your strength, yet to be recovered.” The others were now awake—vigilant looks in their eyes, which were sizing up the chamber. Emris recognised many of the Coalition soldiers who had fought with him during the war. He should have known these people, but their names were escaping him.

“Azerim”, the old man murmured, “Son of the Rain.” He was sitting opposite of Emris, awestruck by the regal figure in the centre. In a flash, Emris remembered the elf. He raised his chin and opened his mouth in awe. The Azerim Son of the Rain? It can’t be true. He was one of the Four Chosen of the Coalition of Iviria. The one who…

“You fought Solomon in battle”, the old man concluded, Emris’s thoughts. By the looks of the others, they remembered too. They were looking up at Azerim with their mouths half-open as if glancing at a living legend—and he was.

“At your service, heroes of the Last Expedition.” The elf bowed.

“Emris Antos, Zahira Quildothar, Jo-hel Calarium, Fenor Kumorha, and Fainauriel Kumorha.” He looked at each of them, turning his body just enough to face the next person. Emris frowned and saw the others doing the same. What is happening?

“You had been dead for approximately two years.” Azerim broke the silence after a long while.

The moments Emris had just seen—the bridge; Solomon and Glitrax; the temple on Skythrone’s peak… That was not just a fantasy. The image of his death unfolded again in his mind. No—too vivid, too real to be a dream.

“Where are we?” Emris snapped, as if spitting a sip of poor-tasting ale.

“You are at Akarat; in the Crystal Palace. Behind this door,” Azerim responded, placid, pointing at a door with metal hinges, “is my study.”

“And I suppose we cannot cross that door.” It wasn’t the old man who spoke this time. The voice was coming from his side, from one of the firelings, the male one. If Emris remembered correctly, his name was Feanor—the Just some called him, or Flametongue, others called him. Feanor’s was not a question; he was having a go at the elf, certain that the windowless room was their prison; and his remark had the effect of a crackling fire in a cold winter forest.

“Contrary to your expectation, Feanor of the Deathless Flame, you can cross that door.” Azerim’s gentle booming voice filled the silence that was permeating the room after Feanor’s assertion. “I again advise you against moving, as for now. Rest.” And then, with a shift in his tone, a faint smile crossed his lips, “And to think.” As if he were implying more than he said. Typical elf behaviour, thought Emris with a huff.

“You said we’re in Akarat.” Said the half-fey woman named Zahira. Then, as if her thoughts had brought her somewhere else mid-sentence, changed the topic. “You brought us back to life… why? How?”

“The ‘how’ is easy to answer.” The old winged man spoke with a smirk on his wrinkly face. “He is Azerim, a tremendously powerful spellcaster. He must have come up with something.”

Emirs rolled his eyes—wizards. They were always talking nonsense.

“The Coalition is in need of soldiers. Charismatic ones. With the Empire gone, there are but a few of us still fighting the Disciples and the demons that still pollute and overrun our lands.” replied Azerim.

“The Empire’s gone?” The other fireling demanded, raising her fiery eyebrow. Just like Feanor, her hair was ablaze and crackling. Emris remembered her during the Last Expedition—always clinging to her piece of parchment, jotting down flavoured descriptions of battle around her with a feverish smile on her face. She never contributed to the battle; she was there to tell stories. This memory made Emris chuckle. She turned her fiery eyes to him, raising an eyebrow.

Azerim, like nothing had happened, replied: “The Empire has not been part of the Coalition since after the Last Expedition.” The elf eyed each of them with a firm look on his face. “Its borders are closed and its emperor, William, believes that the war is over.”

Emris frowned. Is the war really over? How can that be, only after two years of that ill-fated Last Expedition? They died, meaning that Solomon lived.

“Is the war over?” Emris asked after a long silence.

“No. Solomon’s disciples are still around, planning revenge for the death of their master.”

“What?!” the old man snapped. “Solomon is dead?”

The elf stood looking at them in silence. His expression unreadable to Emris, who gripped the edge of the bed with increasing strength. His body was still, and no air was coming in or out of his flat nose.

“The world thinks you, heroes, killed him.” Emris could finally breathe and loosened his grip. “You did not…?” No answer came from them. “And the disappearance of demons from Ivira?”

Emris exchanged some looks with the others, proving their obliviousness in the matter.

Azerim’s face relaxed. He took a deep breath, but his put-together figure did not falter. “This will be your goal, thus, in case you choose to linger with the Coalition. Find out what happened to Solomon and the disappearance of the demons.”

Emris eyed Feanor, who was smirking with his fiery lips. He was a soldier, just like Emris. That is why the minotaur assumed that they were sharing the same insight on the tall elf. We just came back to life, and we’re off again slaying demons. And then there was that in case you choose to linger with the Coalition. Did they have a choice?

Azerim tapped his fingers on his red garments and set off toward the door. The old man opened his feathery wings and flew in the same direction. He had more questions.

All this news sent a familiar shudder through Emris. He jumped off the bed, landing in the centre of the room. His muscles did not need any rest. He just needed one thing, and he requested it:

“Elf, where is my axe?”