Mordor

Yrill retreated to her rooms at dawn’s first light. It had been a merry few days, and an exceptional evening. She was content, more than content with the outcome. She was happy for her old mentor, Danel, and for Estarfin, whom she had come to know quite well by accompanying him and Captain Culufinnel in the search for Danel and Parnard, after they had been captured by Corsairs. 

Time for Action

Durthang burned quietly.

Not with open flame.
Not yet.

But beneath the fortress, hidden in forgotten maintenance shafts and abandoned furnace tunnels, death had already been planted by Deorla’s own hands.

The battle outside still raged.

Echoes in Udûn

Two months had passed, and Udûn had begun to whisper again.

Not with the crackle of forges or the grind of war machines—
but with the rumor of her.

Deorla the Herald.
Deorla the Returning Flame.

Some orcs swore they saw a pale silhouette stalking the borders.
Others claimed their patrols were cursed—missing men, silent blades in the dark, fires snuffed while their backs were turned.

Nothing decisive.
Nothing final.

Narali sat near the edge of the northern camp, where the watchfires burned low and steady rather than bright. Voices carried in quiet tones across the tents—healers finishing their work, guards changing posts, the soft murmur of those who had begun to remember what safety felt like. It was as safe a place as could be made in this land, and there were kind hands at work throughout it, shaping order out of ruin.

Firelight at Mirrormere

Ashes That Answered

Udûn had grown quieter.

Not weaker — never that — but quieter.

The forges of Anglach no longer roared without pause. Deorla had ordered the fires controlled, rationed, disciplined. She had no intention of burning through strength too early. Ugrukhôr’s supply lines had been bled carefully rather than shattered. She did not want chaos.

She wanted ownership.

But Anglach was not yet fully hers.

For weeks she had haunted it.