Dear Lady Illyria,

I am truly grief stricken for the sorrow you must be feeling. The loss your father, nephew, and of course, Hamish is a loss that will be felt throughout all of Amelor. I know this is a difficult time for you, and I shall keep my correspondence brief out of respect for you and your family.

Although my words will bring little relief, know that I am here for you and Anders, and the Belzen’s stand ready to assist our great Corsin allies. You need only say the word. You, Lady, are strong and resilient. I have little doubt that you will successfully carry your great house through these troubling times with the grace that befits your name.

The primary reason for my letter involves the Oath. As much as I desire to carry out the promise made by our late fathers, I cannot pretend that this tragedy doesn’t put great emotional strain on your soul. And I cannot in good conscious force you to carry it out. Although he has left us, your bond with Hamish was deep and true. I cannot look beyond that, and neither should you. With our fathers gone, the oath need not become public knowledge.

My only hope is that this small gesture will help ease your pain and allow you to continue with your life as you see fit. You. Deserve nothing less.

May the spirits bless you and guide you.

Yours truly,

I heard them first.

Snarling breath and heavy limbs, some dragging their tools of slaughter with the sharp, high sound of incoming screams. Others opted to carry their weapons with more dignity, but the thumps of their feet gave them away. Those were the older ones, the slower but stronger ones. The fresh ones were more lithe of foot and more in control of their limbs. But their breath, that dragging, labored sound of one trying to catch their breath as if something was caught in their throat, gave them away.

Then there was the smell.

The fresher ones smelled of afterbirth and burning oak (and other scents to cover their unique, pungent aroma), of burnt clothes, sage, fresh cadavers. They were the first to cause alarm, the first to strike.

To be expected, Aldens were the first line to fall. Blue became purple in splatters, showers, from slow, fallen pools. The ones who could fight did so, valiantly, but it was when they made the mistake of tearing off the veiling cover of the Fresh that they would cringe in terror from their twisted, henious visage. Just enough to catch a blade to the temple, or a pick, or a hammer. The Fresh carried small, quick weapons and decimated the first line of defenders. Aye, the Fresh moved with remarkable intelligence, for just as Aldens were ambushed with Corsin like swiftness, it was then screams of horror came from the Corsin tower.

I watched them climb the stone walls with a spider's grace and swiftness, with a predator's intent. Some had clawed weapons, others used picks, and others just used their twisted claws to dig into the stone as they breached the walls of the outer towers of the elite and homes of the fortunate. They caused panic, with panic comes the high screech of women to alert all, and then... the Old moved with new vigor. Knight Commanders barked orders, Aldens went running with clanging weapons and shields. Rangers turned a late, pink and orange afternoon sky near black with torrents of arrows from above. Corsins, the ones that could escape, fled like rodents into the sewers they thought Aldens didn't know about (well, I did). And the Royals..?

Delayed. A fatal mistake for most of them. Which cost Alden lives for we are meant to protect Royals until our last breath. The last breath was used to swing a sword, and that carried into a Royal's throat to either scream or beg before it was taken by Old, gory pikes and hammers.

Where was I? Watching and listening... What were they..? Not human, they didn't smell like displaced Spirits or Shadows nor did they look like Elves... They looked like... vengeance. As the air filled with smoke and smelled of piles of fresh corpses.