Jolthar approached cautiously, pressing his palm against the ice.
It felt solid beneath his touch, cold but not unbearably so.
The chaos energy continued to swirl around his hand, occasionally sending tendrils that seemed to caress the icy surface.
Taking a deep breath, Jolthar stepped forward, bracing himself for resistance—but instead, he passed through the barrier as though it were merely mist.
The sensation was disorienting—a momentary feeling of intense cold followed by sudden warmth, as though he'd stepped from winter directly into spring.
Turning back, he saw the ice wall still intact, seemingly solid from this side as well.
Beyond it, Maelruth remained in the outer world, separated from him by the mystical barrier.
The drake attempted to follow, pressing her scaled snout against the ice wall, but could not pass through.
The magic, it seemed, recognized only those of chaos touched.
"Maelruth," he called, his voice muffled by the barrier between them.
He could tell that she couldn't pass through the wall.
Instead, he said, "Stay in the area, and I will call for you when I come back."
The drake's eyes—intelligent beyond any normal beast's—fixed on him with what could only be described as concern.
She reared back slightly before dipping her massive head in a gesture of acknowledgement. Through their connection, forged by his power, Jolthar sensed her reluctant agreement.
"I'll call for you," he promised, placing his palm against the barrier one last time.
Satisfied that his companion would remain safely in position, Jolthar turned away from the translucent wall and continued along the glowing path.
The passage narrowed further, forcing him to proceed with caution.
The path in front of him now spread into thin lines of violet energy; he could tell it was chaos, moving into a narrow stream.
And Jolthar was pulled towards the stream.
He walked involuntarily, attracted by the energy.
A couple of paces later, his vision was covered with pure violet colour, like a veil enveloping his surroundings.
Within seconds, Jolthar felt something shift beneath him.
The cold chill had disappeared around him, and he could tell that he was no longer in that mountain.
The sensation of solid ground returned as his boots sank slightly into damp earth.
Cool air kissed his skin, rich with the scent of moss and blooming wildflowers. His hands brushed against thick leaves, and as his vision began to sharpen, he realized he was standing within a dense thicket of foliage.
Slowly, he pushed aside the leafy branches and stepped through the undergrowth—only to freeze in sheer awe.
Spread before him was an astonishing world hidden deep within the chained snow mountains.
It was a secret realm untouched by time. Towering trees with luminous leaves stood like ancient guardians, their roots winding through the earth like veins of the land itself.
In the far distance, he could see the wooden homes of breathtaking craftsmanship nestled among the trees, connected by bridges of woven vine and crystal thread.
He stood in awe of the scenery before him and how magnificent it was. His gaze swept around the whole area, amazement evident in his eyes. Updates are released by novel[f]ire.net
But what caught his breath were the beings who moved among this paradise—elves, though unlike any he had ever seen.
They stood tall—some over eight feet—with elongated ears that curved like crescents and eyes that shimmered with impossible colours.
Their beauty was otherworldly, almost divine.
Some bore the build of warriors, their muscular frames moving with silent grace, while others were lean, draped in flowing robes and adorned with intricate patterns of glowing ink along their skin.
As Jolthar stood at the edge of the thicket, mesmerised, one of them spotted him. An elf who was standing on the edge of the city. He seemed to be a guard, and the place he was standing wasn't exactly what you would call an outpost, but it was a large trunk with a flat surface on top of it.
As he saw Jolthar, he took out the horn which was hanging at his waist, then brought the horn to his mouth and blew it.
A sharp horn shattered the calm.
Someone walked past the veil barrier!!
In moments, a squad of towering elven warriors surged forward, swift as a gale. Their steps were silent, but the intensity in their eyes was deafening.
Within seconds, they approached Jolthar.
They encircled Jolthar with practised precision, long spears and rune-blades pointed toward him. Their stances were neither panicked nor angry—merely efficient, as if this was a drill they'd rehearsed a thousand times.
He merely stood there, surrounded, a stranger in a realm thought to be legend.
And now, all eyes were on him.
While Jolthar pursued ancient secrets within Mount Chelheim's frozen corridors, the Empire trembled under the weight of an unprecedented threat.
And they are not the only ones who were coming towards the human lands; this time, they were aided by the Nyphorites.
The news shook the entire empire.
In the grand audience chamber of the Imperial Palace, Emperor Federic XII stood before his war council, his normally composed features strained with concern. The golden crown of the Eternal Vroulan Dynasty seemed to weigh heavily upon his brow as he studied the maps spread across the massive table of silverwood.
"It defies all historical precedent," declared Lord Archivist Thaleon, his wizened fingers tracing the reported movement patterns of the enemy forces.
"The Nyphorites and Nynthralls have maintained their blood feud for millennia. Not since the Sundering have they even acknowledged each other's existence except in battle."
Yet the reports were unequivocal.
Imperial scouts had confirmed what many believed impossible—the dreaded depths had disgorged an alliance that threatened to overwhelm the Empire's southern defences.
Nyphorites in numbers not seen since the Third Incursion of 1692 marched in disciplined formations, their pallid, amphibious forms moving with uncharacteristic precision beneath the dark banners of Nynthrall war chiefs.
"Numbers, Lord General?" The Emperor enquired, his voice steady despite the gravity of the situation.
One of the Great Six, General Pellidar stepped forward, the medals of his long service clinking softly against his breastplate. "Conservative estimates place their combined strength at three hundred thousand, Your Radiance. Perhaps more."
A hushed murmur rippled through the assembled council members. Such numbers would require a response beyond standard defensive protocols.