Dear Diary,
I am writing this with shaking hands, sitting on the cold stone floor of the ruins of our former keep. We failed.
The plan was sound. We hit the prison barracks from two fronts—Gael and Dadroz taking the high ground, the rest of us storming the gates. It started beautifully. Alistan summoned the proxy spirit of Galiene, a shimmering copper dragon that roared into existence, drawing every eye and every arrow to the sky. While they panicked, Dadroz and Gael rained death from the rooftops.
I summoned an earth elemental, a titan of stone to shield us, but amidst the chaos, a single, lucky arrow found the gap in my defenses. My concentration shattered, and the elemental crumbled into gravel. Desperate, I tried to bluff. I called on the guards—poor, drafted humans—to surrender. When they hesitated, I unleashed a *Fireball* into their midst to scatter them.
We retreated into a *Fog Cloud* Hayley conjured, and I raised a *Wall of Stone* to stem the tide of reinforcements. We were holding. We were going to make it.
Then the Golden Knight arrived. Mounted on a war-unicorn, shining like the sun, he charged through the mist. He struck Alistan down with a single, terrifying blow.
We were outmatched. I saw it in Alistan’s unconscious form, in the endless stream of guards. I grabbed my friends and teleported us blindly to the safety of the mausoleum.
I feel sick. Our entire strategy for defending Tarn relied on freeing Sir Callos and his knights. Now, they remain in chains, and we are running with our tails between our legs. I have failed them.
We were plotting our next desperate move when the *Sending* came. The voice in my head wasn't an enemy commander, but a ghost from my past.
Emily. My former fiancée.
*"It has been a while. The King asks to contact you. He wants to meet to make peace. Come to the ruins of Wolf’s Rest."*
Peace? After everything?
We debated it, terrified it was a trap. But we had no leverage. So, we went. I teleported us to the ruins of our old home. The keep was gone, but the teleportation circle remained.
A pavilion had been set up amidst the rubble. Two knights stood guard. Inside, the King sat eating a meal, casual as you please. And standing beside him, in white robes clutching a staff of power... was Emily. She looked older, harder, but still as beautiful as the day I met her.
The King urged us to sit. He claimed he "exaggerated" the attack on our keep only because we were flaunting the Mask of Vincent at Haggayn.
Gael demanded the mask back.
"Non-negotiable," the King said. "It is essential for the ritual. To unify the two kingdoms."
We pressed him. Which King would rule this unified realm? Him? Or High King Ulther of the Fey?
The King smiled, a cold, humorless expression. He reached up, grabbed the scar on his face, and *pulled*. The skin gave way to reveal a half-mask.
The King of Keralon *is* High King Ulther.
The revelation hit us like a physical blow. There is no invasion. There is no war between nations. It is a merger. Ulther has been playing both sides of the board for years. The Leper’s Revolt? A desperate attempt by the *last* true King to keep Ulther out. Vincent wasn't a usurper; he was the King’s son.
Which means Gael... Gael is the rightful heir to the throne of Keralon.
Hayley, ever the firebrand, demanded a public apology and reparations. The King—Ulther—actually considered it. He offered us a deal: The imprisoned knights can leave. They can go. But the common people? No. He needs the population for his new, dual-planar kingdom.
He offered a truce. "You have shown yourselves to be dangerous," he said. "If you keep causing trouble, you will feel the full might of Neverhold."
He put the mask back on and teleported away, leaving us standing in the ashes of our home with a truce that tastes like ash in our mouths.
I stayed behind for a moment with Emily.
The air between us was thick enough to choke on.
"Terrorist," she spat. "You get people killed, Luke."
"Pawn," I shot back. "You're just a piece in an evil fey's game."
We stared at each other. The anger was there, hot and bright. But beneath it...
"It was good seeing you again, Emily," I said softly. And I meant it.
Her expression faltered, just for a second. Or maybe I imagined it.
"I hope we never have to fight," I added.
She didn't reply. She just turned and walked away.
I am still engaged with an elven princess who is a prisoner. I am fighting a war against my ex-fiancée. My former King is an evil Archfey. And my Ranger friend is the rightful heir to the throne.
Fate is not just a river; it is a cruel, winding joke. And I am tired of being the punchline.
— Luke