408 P.D.
Winter did not release its hold on Duskhollow Sanctuary without a fight. Snow still clung to the grounds where the shadows of its walls and towers blocked the sun. Worse, the mountain air would retain its bone-jarring chill for months into the spring.
Tucked away at high elevation in the eastern ridge of the Sunderpeak range, the sombre fortress was well protected. More importantly, it was well secluded despite its proximity to both the Caldera Valley and the trade roads between the mountains. There weren't many who would venture up into the foreboding peaks when perfectly comfortable roads ran through them.
Between the groups of sparring, young trainees and their black-clad, Madracaorai attendants, one figure ascended the stairs that cut through their terraced stone training pavilion. Back straight and chin held high, she walked with poise, purpose, and grace. Though her robes were the same blue, white, and lavender as any other cleric, her bearing somehow elevated them. The Matron of Duskhollow observed her domain as she climbed, though her head did not swivel about like some gawking tourist. No, she took in everything she needed to know through her peripheral vision, the subtle scanning of her eyes, and the occasional course-correction of her route. At the top, she turned and took in everything and everyone below her.
Vaelora had been a Gloamwarden for nearly all of her long life. A true believer, the half-elf had found solace in the Everlight during a childhood fraught with discrimination and buffeted by the fallout of the Divergence. When clerics had come to her village and told them that the Everlight was not dead and in fact wanted their help against the forces of the Nine Hells, the destitute girl became a zealot on day one and never looked back. She had been there as the church clawed its way out of the rubble of the gods' wars. She had fought alongside brothers and sisters for people she had never met and villages she had never visited. Most importantly, Vaelora had seen firsthand what the Duvcanái could do with her church's guidance and she had been there when that same church established its crown jewel high in the remote Thorain Tundra. Seeing Light's Reach in all of its steadfast, fortified glory had cemented young Vaelora's faith.
Today, that faith was...disappointed. There were only eight Duvcanái preparing to undergo their culminating trial. Eight more waited a year behind them but even fewer had been found to fill out the younger cohorts. Each terrace below her hosted a handful of trainees, split into age groups and overseen by a pair of dour Madracaorai trainers. Some were running quarterstaff drills, others were practicing offensive knife forms. The oldest groups were attempting to summon and direct bolts of black fire toward target dummies with intermittent success. The youngest group, many of whom had only recently reached their tenth birthdays, were following the rote steps of basic unarmed combat.
She tightly curled one fist in the other behind her back, allowing herself this one visible sign of her inner frustration. No one from Light's Reach had answered her queries, but she knew in her heart that fewer and fewer Shadow Singers were being found each year. A creeping desperation told her that her lifelong crusade, her sacred duty to stand between the darkness and the innocents, would surely fail without their unique abilities. She would not let that happen; either they would find more Duvcanái or she would hone those that remained into weapons that even the gods would fear. Her disgruntled musing was interrupted by the sound of a pair of armored boots approaching her from behind.
"Matron Silvershade." Vaelora recognized the deep, terse voice of Haldrek Halfkeel, Captain of the Sciatha assigned to Duskhollow. The dwarf remained silently behind her, one pace back and removed from her left side. Being sworn paladins of the Everlight, very few Sciatha could be trusted to tolerate the methods of the fortress's training. It was one of the few assignments within the breakaway sect that was completely voluntary for that reason, and required an oath of lifelong secrecy. Difficult as they were to stomach though, Duskhollow's close-held methods were the key to their church's strength and success. That strength, in turn, was the key to attracting followers while their few remaining orthodox brethren withered in despair over the death of Sarenrae.
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Haldrek's devotion to the Everlight was possibly overshadowed by only Vaelora's and he awaited her acknowledgement before speaking or moving further. Satisfied and deeply grateful for his discipline, the Matron gave only the subtlest nod of her head in acknowledgement. If the steel-grey hair she wore in an impossibly tight bun hadn't reflected the sun back at him, her gesture might have gone unseen.
"A contact within Light's Reach forwarded this report to me, believing you might be interested. It arrived there yesterday from Commander Vayen. He encountered something...remarkable during the Southern campaign." One of Vaelora's eyebrows perked up and she considered this news carefully. If Vayen thought it was worth writing home about... She turned to face Captain Halfkeel, a sign of respect that she reserved for only two Gloamwardens in Duskhollow: him and the First Shepherd of the Madracaorai. She extended one thin hand toward him, palm up.
The Sciath adjusted himself to face her and stood a little taller, his grey beard and hair were held up in warrior's braids and his armor was shined to eye-watering brightness in the mountain sun. He placed the paper in her waiting grasp and returned to a rigid parade rest, hands clasped at the small of his back.
Vaelora scanned the document silently. It was an excerpt from a much longer dispatch and the beginning read as such. Her eyes caught on the casualty report.
"He lost another team of Duvcanái." A hint of weariness crept into her voice. "Regrettable, but necessary. I do wish he would be more judicious about using that which we work so hard to provide but-" She stopped short and had to reread a passage. Her placid mask froze in place until the right corner of her lip quivered upward.
"One made it back?" The Matron kept reading, unconsciously bringing the document closer to her face. "No...one was sent back. Alive?" She looked up from the report into Haldrek's devout brown eyes, prompting the subordinate to respond.
"Barely." His terse response was entirely expected. Vaelora looked back at the document and possibilities began to sparkle behind her steely gaze.
"Barely...is enough. This war will be won in the margins. Barely enough food, barely enough soldiers, barely enough time, and barely enough strength to survive..." The other side of her lip began to quiver slowly upward as well. "We will barely win, Captain, but we will still win." The old dwarf's bearing almost slipped, he couldn't recall ever seeing Vaelora this animated.
"Matron...he mentions a curse as well." Vaelora did not look up, but she did toss one hand aside dismissively.
"Curses can be broken, and for something like this I am certain that Light's Reach will send our finest to do just that. In fact, I think th-" She quizzically tilted her head. "Firestorm? Ealdred, you old goat. When did you go soft on them?" She arrived at the end of the report, where the field commander mentioned Northvale Abbey, and a cold mountain breeze cut through her robes. Duskhollow loved to remind everyone in its walls that they were a part of the fortress. For the trainees below, it was a reminder of the expectations placed on them, even as they shivered and cried out. For her, it was a nudge to remember what she could have had.
Matron Vaelora Silvershade was a long-standing and influential figure within the Gloamwardens. She could have chosen to serve at Light's Reach, 'supporting' the war on the Nine Hells by fetching the High Cleric's coffee and planning his meetings.
Northvale Abbey could have been hers for the asking as well. It was temperate, bountiful, easy. Vaelora could have spent her days gardening, playing with orphans, and commiserating with Northvale's village council. It would have been a prestigious assignment, too. It was the unassuming, unofficial heart of their entire church; supplying food to nearly every temple or outpost that could not support itself. Even Light's Reach and Duskhollow were entirely dependent on the fields of Northvale Abbey.
Vaelora hardened herself against the wind and glared at the dark stone walls of her fortress as if scolding the very mountain from which they were hewn. She had chosen this life, she had chosen this mission.
You are an extension of my will. Even her inner monologue was flinty and harsh. I'm not a part of you, you are a part of me.
The wind died down.