A clear, resounding horn call echoed across the hills—high, proud, and ancient.
"They once rode beneath the stars."
The line came to Eric unbidden, like a half-remembered song. He didn't know where he'd heard it, only that it fit.
RUMBLE.
The thunder of hooves rolled across the ground. Silver-gray cloaks streamed behind galloping steeds; flashes of white and cold steel gleamed under the sun. Riders swept past him like a flood, organized yet wild, like wind made visible.
Eric stood frozen, a lone figure in the middle of it all, like a snag of driftwood caught in a fast river. The current of cavalry split around him seamlessly, then closed again, flowing forward without breaking stride.
Not one of them even looked at him. Their eyes were fixed on the orcs ahead.
CRASH!
In an instant, the elven riders smashed into the orc formation. Wargs in the front line were bowled over, snarling and stumbling. Orcs fell under hooves or blades—whichever reached them first. A few tried to rise. None succeeded.
With just one charge, the enemy formation crumbled. The orcs scattered in disarray, unable to regroup. Their hunt had become a desperate scramble to survive.
And the elves? They adapted like seasoned predators. Their charge gave way to clean formations, efficient and deadly.
Thunk!
An arrow buried itself in the spine of an orc attempting to flee. Its rider didn't even stop—drawing, nocking, and releasing all in one smooth motion. The precision made Eric whistle under his breath.
"If that were me, the arrow would've flown into the sun or skewered my own horse…"
Swords, spears, axes, bows—all danced in the hands of the elves like extensions of themselves. And still, not a word. No chants, no cries, no thunderous roars. Only the grim song of steel on flesh and the occasional orcish scream.
Eric sat astride his horse on a hillside, watching the massacre unfold. A quiet, precise massacre.
"Slaughter," he muttered. "Elegant, terrifying slaughter."
The orc leader, realizing the hopelessness, bellowed a retreat and fled with what little remained of his unit. A few were caught and cut down. The rest vanished into the trees.
The elves did not pursue.
Instead, they turned to the battlefield, tending to fallen comrades and collecting supplies. Efficient. Clean. As if they'd done this a thousand times.
After a moment, Eric noticed something unsettling: the riders were surrounding him.
Circling.
One loop. Two. Three.
"…Alright, what's going on now?" he murmured, tightening his grip on the reins.
Then, one rider broke from the group. He was tall—very tall—with a silver circlet across his brow and a gleaming longsword at his side. His armor bore no scratches; his posture was regal.
"Stranger," the elf said, his voice calm and clear. "State your name."
"Eric Starfell," he replied. "An adventurer from a human town west of here."
"What brings an adventurer to the borders of the Hidden Valley?"
"I've heard the valley holds the fairest sights in all the central lands," Eric said with a sheepish grin. "Thought I'd come see for myself."
The elf raised an eyebrow. After a long pause, he simply said, "Then ride with us."
They marched for some time.
Not a word was spoken. The elves rode with the silence of statues. Even the horses made little noise.
Eric, finding conversation impossible, occupied himself by fiddling with his backpack. He opened his inventory, sorted a few things, even tried to whistle a tune—but thought better of it.
His status screen told him they were "friendly", but the wall of silent elves around him said otherwise.
Eventually, they entered a narrow valley.
The entrance was shaded, the air cool and damp from the looming cliffs. But as they progressed, the canyon walls peeled away, revealing open space—and starlight.
Eric couldn't help himself. He urged his horse forward a few steps and gasped.
Before him lay a breathtaking glade bathed in starlight. Waterfalls spilled from cliffs like threads of silver. Trees shimmered as if painted by moonlight. A soft breeze carried the scent of nightbloom.
"Welcome, adventurer Eric Starfell."
The silver-circled elf had dismounted. He turned to Eric with a quiet gravity.
"I've heard tales," he said. "A human sorcerer appeared in the northern wilds. In one night, he built a fortress. He hunted orc bands single-handedly, and left none alive. He called himself an adventurer."
Eric blinked.
Seriously? That rumor made it here already? And of course they made it sound way cooler than it really was…
"I, uh, wouldn't go that far," he said quickly. "Bit exaggerated."
The elf studied him closely. And then…
"Lord Elrond," a voice called from behind—a younger elf descending a flight of stairs carved into the stone.
"Lindir," the tall elf nodded, handing over his sword.
Eric's mouth went dry.
Lord Elrond?
And that must be Lindir—the steward or secretary or whatever you'd call a glorified elf administrator.
So, this was the Lord Elrond, the legendary loremaster, healer, warrior, and—apparently—casual battlefield commander.
Elrond turned back to him.
"Strange things have been stirring. From the Last Bridge to the rushing waters of Silverrun, orc movements have grown aggressive and erratic. I suspect a cause behind this."
Don't worry. They'll be back next year with a bigger budget.
"…I believe I've found that cause."
"Uh," Eric scratched his head. "That might be me. I've… kind of been making a mess of their warbands. Killed a few dozen here and there. Might have ticked off their chieftain. Word is I'm on his hit list now."
Elrond's eyes narrowed slightly, but it wasn't suspicion. It was something closer to… respect?
"You have slain more than orcs, I think," he said quietly. "I can sense the weight of your deeds."
Eric flinched.
Oh boy. He's checked my title list, hasn't he?
"There is no shame in strength used wisely," Elrond continued. "Deeds such as yours deserve praise."
He turned to Lindir. "Prepare a feast. Let us welcome our guest."
Eric tried not to gawk.
A feast?
With elves?
He was ushered to a long, elegant table in a garden pavilion overlooking a moonlit lake. The food smelled heavenly. And when an elven hand offered him a goblet of wine, Eric nodded with a grateful smile.
"Thank you."
Elrond sat beside him—no crown, no ceremony, just a host among guests.
"I first heard your tale from the Dúnedain," he said. "They spoke of a human sorcerer who aided them when few would."
"I owed one of their rangers a debt," Eric replied. "He helped me when I was lost in the wilds. I promised I'd repay the favor."
"Generosity often finds its way back to its source," Elrond said with a knowing smile.
Then, suddenly, Elrond's gaze shifted.
"To your sword," he said. "May I examine it?"
"Of course."
Eric unclipped the blade from his belt. He hadn't stored it in his inventory on purpose—he'd hoped someone like Elrond might recognize it.
The elf lord took it gently, running a hand along the flat of the blade.
"It was forged in the First Age," he murmured. "Likely for the wars against the orcs. Its edge is pure, its balance true. This is no common sword."
He frowned slightly. "And yet, I know no tale of it. Perhaps it was lost before it ever earned a name."
"I, uh, took it off a Ogre," Eric said, clearing his throat. "From his hoard. He was using it as a… roasting skewer, actually."
Elrond blinked. Then nodded solemnly, as if such indignities were just part of the sword's long, tragic journey.
"I see," he said gravely. "Then it has already suffered greatly. Let it now taste better fate."
He handed it back to Eric.
"I hope it earns a name soon."
Meaning: go do something heroic with it, kid. Got it.
That was the thing about Elrond—he could insult and inspire you in the same sentence and make you feel grateful for both.
As the feast went on, Eric found himself relaxing. The wine was good. The company better. And the sense of being truly welcome?
That was rare indeed.