This chapter hasn't been rewritten yet. I decided to rewrite the first five chapters because I wasn't fully satisfied with them. If you're reading this, that means Chapters 1 through 3 have already been revised, but Chapters 4 and 5 have not. So if you notice any inconsistencies, formatting changes, or differences in style, that's why. I just haven't gotten to those two yet, but I'll be updating them soon. Until then, if you spot issues in Chapters 4 and 5, don't worry, that's expected.
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[Cuiviénen. Year 1135 of the Trees. Early spring]
[Selas POV]
Thirty years.
Three decades since the Sundering.
We'd started calling it Year One of the Avari Calendar. A new reckoning for a new people.
And in those thirty years, we'd built something impossible.
I stood atop the finished wall—twenty feet of packed earth capped with sharpened stakes, ramparts for archers, watchtowers set at regular intervals along the perimeter.

{Image: The Avari settlement}
The settlement had exploded in size. What had once been a cluster of forty households was now home to nearly two thousand souls—adults and children alike. Those forty became hundreds of hearths as children grew, paired off, and raised families of their own.
Two thousand. The number still caught me off guard sometimes. Birth rates had steadied higher than before the Sundering, helped by better shelter, better food, and the healers' steady work. And with elven lifespans, every birth wasn't just a joy—it was a permanent addition to our strength.
We were many now, but not all of us were fighters. Children, elders, crafters, and farmers kept us alive—and only a portion could take the walls at a moment's notice.
The open space inside the original palisade, once left for future growth, was now packed with homes built for young families. We'd expanded the perimeter twice already. Concentric rings of construction spread outward from the settlement's original core.
Wooden houses gave way to stone—real stone, mortared with the cement mixture our potters had somehow discovered. The stuff hardened like rock over time. Better than rock, even.
Roman concrete, my human memories whispered. Volcanic ash and lime. They've reinvented Roman concrete.
Not without my help, of course.
Inside the walls, tidy rows of buildings followed a grid. No more haphazard placement. Every structure had a purpose, a place in the larger plan.
Near the center stood the record-hall—scribes working daily to document everything: crop yields, forge methods, births and deaths, every piece of knowledge we'd clawed out of the world. They scratched records onto wooden tablets, preserved copies on treated leather, and even painted some onto cloth using pigments made from soot and plant dyes.
We had no ink yet. But we had writing. And with writing came memory that couldn't fade.
Even with perfect elven recall, written knowledge carried differently between generations. It could be studied, compared, argued over, improved. The scribes kept multiple copies of everything—if one house burned, the knowledge lived on elsewhere.
A race against time, I thought, a little wry. A lifetime of progress crammed into thirty years.
Impossible. It should have taken centuries.
But we weren't human. We didn't forget. And my shallow, half-remembered knowledge was enough to compress centuries of progress into years.
Beyond the walls—gardens. Real farms now, not just experimental plots. Four-field rotation to keep the soil healthy. We'd found seeds for what looked like wheat and other crops I recognized from Earth memory.
And nearby orchards—still young, but thriving. Apple trees, or something close enough. Pear. Cherry. Soon they would bear enough fruit to see us through any winter.
The lakeshore was unrecognizable. A dozen piers jutted into Cuiviénen's waters. Boats of increasing sophistication—from crude rafts to actual fishing vessels—crowded the docks. Nets hung drying. Baskets overflowed with catch.
In the forests, we'd set snares, traps, deadfalls. Hunting had become efficient, systematic.
Our diet had transformed. The meager fare from before the Exodus was now a distant memory. Farmed produce, fresh game, abundant fish—women experimented constantly with new dishes. Elves needed to eat far less often than other races, but taste still mattered. And with eternal life came refined palates and high standards.
The variety pushed our culinary arts forward at remarkable speed.
And with full bellies came leisure. In the evenings, the settlement came alive with entertainment. Bards performed with instruments they'd crafted themselves—flutes carved from hollow reeds, drums with hide stretched over wooden frames. Music drifted through the streets nightly.
Some Avari had taken to making games—board games adapted from half-remembered human concepts. Chess. Checkers. Others I couldn't quite name anymore. Children and adults gathered around these diversions, competing, laughing, arguing over rules like it mattered more than the world outside the walls.
We'd formalized marriages too—ceremonies where pairs pledged before witnesses, making families official. The foundation of society, I'd argued. The first division of labor. The first promise strong enough to outlast fear.
Not everyone was idle. We had no unemployed—every soul contributed something. But the line between work and rest had sharpened. Days for labor. Evenings for joy.
We'd gone from hunter-gatherers to an agricultural society in three decades.
And we were still accelerating.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Same day. The workshops. Morning]
The sound of hammering echoed from the smithy as I descended from the wall. Not the irregular clang of experiments, but the steady rhythm of production.
Inside, Eol directed two dozen apprentices. The forge had expanded—six separate hearths now, each tended by a journeyman smith with his own group of learners.
"Morning, Chief," Eol called without looking up from the blade he was tempering. Water hissed as he plunged red-hot metal into the quenching trough.
"Morning. How's production?"
"Good. We'll have another two hundred arrowheads by week's end." He studied the blade critically, then nodded and set it aside to cool. "But I'm more excited about this."
He gestured to a workbench where something gleamed beneath leather wrapping.
I unwrapped it carefully.
A sword. Iron—crude compared to legend, but real.
"You did it," I breathed.
"Thirty years," he said, and I could hear the pride he tried not to show. "And more failures than I can count." He tapped the blade with a knuckle, listening to the dull ring. "It's not the final answer. Not yet. But it's iron that holds an edge, and every blade like this teaches us what to change next."
I tested the edge with my thumb. Sharp enough. Balanced. Functional, if not pretty.
"How many can you make?"
His expression tightened. "That's the problem. Maybe twenty iron blades before the bog ore runs out completely. After that…" He shrugged. "We'd need new deposits. Or mines. And there's nothing like that near Cuiviénen."
Another reason to leave, I thought, but didn't say. Eol knew as well as I did that our location was becoming untenable.
"Make what you can," I said instead. "Prioritize arrowheads—we need quantity over quality there. But the iron blades? Give them to our best warriors. Make every one count."
He nodded grimly.
I moved on through the workshop district. Past the leatherworkers' station where tanners stretched hides and cobblers shaped boots. The sharp stink of curing leather mixed with woodsmoke. They'd gotten good—producing not just footwear but warm clothing, belts, bags.
Some experimented with leather armor, though metal scarcity meant they couldn't reinforce it properly with plates as I'd once suggested.
Still. Practical gear. Equipment that would serve us on a march west.
The weavers worked nearby, looms clacking in a steady rhythm. Thread became cloth, cloth became garments with embroidered patterns. Light clothing for warm seasons. Heavier weaves for cold. Not just functional—beautiful. The Avari's artistic sense showed through even in work meant to keep you alive.
I found Talanor at the carpenters' workshop, wiping sawdust from his silver hair.
"Selas. Come to check our progress?"
"Always." I examined the wagon frame he was assembling. Solid construction. "How many are ready?"
"Thirty completed. Another twenty in various stages." He straightened, stretching his back.
"Though I still think you're building too many. Where exactly are two thousand people going that needs fifty wagons?"
West. Away. Anywhere but here.
But I couldn't say that yet. The Council would decide when to tell the general population.
"Expansion," I said vaguely. "Better to have them and not need them."
Talanor gave me a look that said he didn't believe a word, but was too polite to push.
"The wheels are the real achievement," he continued, letting it go. "Wide enough they don't sink in soft ground. The metal rims Eol's people made? Brilliant. They'll last decades."
"What about the suspension?"
"Your spring idea?" He grinned. "Took some trial and error, but it works. The ride's much smoother. Cargo doesn't jostle as much. And the frame can handle more weight without breaking."
He led me to a completed wagon. I climbed in, tested the springs by bouncing.
The wagon absorbed the motion instead of transmitting it.
"Perfect," I said. "Keep at it. And Talanor? Make them sturdy. We might need them for more than just cargo."
His expression sobered. "Understood."
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Later. The fields. Afternoon]
[Mirwen— Witness POV]
The wheat—or what they called wheat, anyway—stood nearly waist-high. Mirwen ran her hand through the golden stalks and smiled.
Thirty years ago, this had been wild grassland. Now, neat rows stretched across carefully cleared fields. Four sections, rotated annually. One for wheat, one for roots, one for legumes, one left fallow with grazing.
Selas's idea, naturally. The strange young chief who thought like someone far older.
"Good crop this year," Tavor commented, joining her at the field's edge.
"The best yet." She plucked a head of wheat and examined the grains. Full and heavy. "We'll have more than enough to store for winter. Even feeding two thousand, we'll have surplus."
"Selas will find a use for it."
She laughed. "He always does."
They walked the field's perimeter, checking for signs of disease or pests. Finding none—the crop was healthy.
"Strange to think," Tavor said eventually, "how different things are now. My parents used to talk about the time before the Sundering. How we just… took what the forest gave us. Never planned ahead."
"We were children then," Mirwen pointed out. "All of us. Even the adults, in a way."
"And now?"
"Now we grow up." She looked back toward the settlement, its walls visible in the distance. Smoke rising from forges and cookfires. The faint ring of hammer on metal. Evening would bring music and games, laughter around communal fires. "Whether we want to or not."
But growing up meant building something worth defending.
And that, at least, they'd accomplished.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Evening. The healers' house]
"It'll hurt now," Lómiel warned the young man with a dislocated elbow.
Crack!
"AGRHMMM!" The patient groaned through clenched teeth, the leather-wrapped stick muffling his cry.
"There." Lómiel worked quickly, professional. "Endure a bit now. Healing will come later. Very soon you'll be able to take your place in the Wall again." She smiled slightly.
"What doesn't kill an Avari makes them stronger. Here, drink this tincture. The pain will recede."
The weakened youth shifted to sitting, greedily drank the medicine, and carefully began dressing. When he left, Lómiel approached her friend Mireth, who was sorting herbs at the workbench.
"Another dislocation." Lómiel's voice held equal parts exasperation and resignation. "They don't protect themselves at all in these Walls."
"Men." Mireth's tone was dry. "Instead of spending more time with us, they'd rather show off their prowess to everyone else."
"I'm afraid to imagine what else boredom might lead to."
"Hah, you'll hide in fear like all the Avari!" Mireth laughed. "Besides, you were scared yourself when the first wounded appeared."
"Fine, I admit these… activities have benefits. Our skills improved dramatically." Lómiel paused in her herb-sorting. "But our chief inventor is always too hasty. Too active."
"He needs a woman to set him straight. Occupy his thoughts. Then boredom won't drive him to such extremes."
"When will Selas finally choose a beloved?" Lómiel unconsciously began twirling a lock of dark hair. "Such a shame Ilvëa followed her parents' will instead of her heart. Young girls swarm around him, making eyes, but he still can't love again."
"We-ell, you're something too." Mireth's voice turned teasing. "I remember how you made eyes at him yourself. How you 'accidentally' touched him when setting that dislocation."
Lómiel's face flamed. "I did no such—"
"Anyone would fear your Tatyar assertiveness," Mireth continued, grinning. "The way you—"
"Mireth!"
Laughter echoed through the healing house—a sound that had become common over the years. Even in a society preparing for war, life still insisted on being lived.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Year 1135. Late summer]
[Selas POV]
I was inspecting the northern watch post when the runner found me.
"Chief!" The young scout was out of breath. "The hunting party—they encountered—"
"Slow down." I gripped his shoulder. "What happened?"
"Strange creatures. In the forest. One attacked when Calros tried to communicate."
My blood went cold.
No. Not yet. We're not ready—
But I'd known this was coming. Had been building toward it for thirty years.
"Show me."
They'd brought the body back. Laid it out on the ground near the main gate where anyone could see.
I stared at it and felt the world tilt.
Orc.
{ Image: Orc }
Ugly. Brutish. Crude weapons—a club, really just a heavy stick. No armor. Barely more sophisticated than an animal.
But unmistakably an orc.
"It charged us," Calros explained. He was shaken but unhurt. "Didn't even hesitate. Just… screamed and attacked."
I circled the corpse. First generation, probably. The features were rough, unrefined. Later generations would be more sophisticated. More dangerous.
But this was the beginning.
"How many were there?"
"We saw maybe two dozen. Could be more."
I nodded slowly, mind racing.
They're here. Thirty years of preparation, and they're finally here.
"Restrict movement outside the walls," I said, forcing my voice steady. "Hunting and gathering parties move in groups of five minimum. Armed. And I want scouting patrols—find their camp."
Calros nodded and hurried off.
I stood there, staring at the dead orc, and touched the acorn in my pouch.
Ilvëa. I hope you made it to Aman. I hope you're safe.
Because the prophecy was true.
Darkness was coming.
And we were in its path.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Three days later. The forest]
We found the orc camp easily. They made no attempt at stealth—fires visible from a distance, noise carrying through the trees, the stench unmistakable.
Twenty-five of them. Including females.
So that old Earth theory is wrong, I thought distantly. They reproduce naturally.
I'd assembled fifty warriors. Our best hunters, armed with bows and spears. Veterans of the training exercises, comfortable working in groups.
Not even a fraction of our potential force—we had perhaps four hundred capable fighters if we counted every able adult. But for this first encounter, fifty would be more than enough.
"Remember," I told them quietly. We were positioned in a loose circle around the camp, hidden in the undergrowth. "Shoot first. Exhaust your arrows. Only then close to spear range. Stay in threes. Watch each other's backs."
Nods all around. Faces pale but determined.
"When I give the signal," I continued, "all at once. Overwhelming force. Don't give them time to organize."
I waited until everyone was in place.
Then I stood, drew, and loosed.
My arrow took the nearest orc in the throat.
It went down gurgling.
And then the world exploded into violence.
Fifty arrows darkened the air. Most found targets. The orcs barely had time to scream before half their number lay dead or dying.
The survivors charged—wild, disorganized, shrieking rage.
More arrows. More bodies dropping.
By the time any reached our lines, only five or six remained. They crashed into our spear wall and died on elven iron and bronze.
Then silence.
Even the birds had stopped singing.
I stood in the center of the massacre, heart pounding, hands steady, and felt… nothing.
No guilt. No horror. Just cold, clinical assessment.
They attacked first. They would have killed us given the chance. This was necessary.
Around me, the Avari stared at the carnage. Some looked sick. Others exhilarated. All looked shaken.
I took a breath.
The sound tore out of me—raw, ugly, nothing like the songs we sang at night.
"Urráh!"
{Image: Orc in the encampment}
The victory cry burst from my lungs, surprising even myself.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then Angrod raised his spear. "Urráh!"
And suddenly they were all shouting, raising weapons, voices joining in a wordless roar of triumph and relief and survival.
We'd done it.
First blood was ours.
Before we left, I walked the edge of the camp one last time—checking for stragglers, for traps, for anything that might explain how they'd found us so quickly.
In the mud near a fire pit, something caught the light.
A thin strip of cloth—faded, soot-stained, but unmistakably woven by elven hands, embroidered with a simple pattern I'd seen on our own sleeves.
My stomach tightened.
We were late.
We'd noticed them too late.
So you've been closer than we thought, I realized. For longer than we wanted to believe.
I didn't show it to the others. Not yet. Not on their first day of blood.
But I kept it.
{Image: Avari hunter-warrior}
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Same evening. The settlement]
The return was triumphant. Word had spread—the warriors were met with cheering, dancing, music. Families embracing their fighters. Children wide-eyed at the blood-stained spears.
Bards improvised songs about the battle before it was even an hour old. The celebration lasted deep into the night—fires burning bright, voices raised in victory songs that would be refined and retold for years.
I let them have it. They'd earned it.
But I caught Thoron's eye across the fire and saw the same knowledge reflected there.
This was just the beginning.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[End of Chapter 4.1]