Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Chapter 1063, Section 915: Moving Forward (Part 2)

Bel-Aiholm looked at the glimmer of light in Karundir's eyes, his expression unsurprised. A faint smile appeared on his lips; he offered no praise, said nothing more, and simply nodded.

He took out a piece of stiff paper that he had prepared beforehand. The paper was crisp, with a coat of arms printed on it, and an address written in clear handwriting.

“Very good.” He handed over the slip of paper. “Report here three hours after sunrise tomorrow. Someone will tell you what to do next. Remember to bring your identification.”

The words were few, but the message was clear, leaving no room for ambiguity.

Kalentil accepted the piece of paper with both hands, his movements almost cautious. He tucked it into his inner pocket, then unconsciously pressed it, as if to confirm its presence. He then gave Bel-Aihol a brief, firm bow.

"I will certainly come, sir."

Not far away, Finnubar stood with his hands behind his back.

He stood perfectly still—neither too close nor too distant. The wind carried the intermittent sounds of their conversation, and the sunlight clearly outlined their figures. He watched quietly, his gaze fixed on his son and the old seaman.

He saw Bell-Aihol's slight forward lean, not a condescending gesture, but a focused listening; he also saw the natural ease with which Bell-Aihol offered the tobacco and lit the cigarette. These details, imperceptibly, smoothed over the initial barriers between their identities.

More importantly, he saw the changes in Karendil.

The initial hesitation and defensiveness, followed by a sudden gleam in his eyes, was not an expression of being persuaded, but rather the instinctive reaction of someone burdened with family responsibilities when they see a concrete way out.

Bell-Eihall didn't use strong language or paint a grand vision. He simply talked about land, inheritance, and compensation, using the most direct words to make things clear.

Finnubar's gaze lingered for a little longer at that moment.

That wasn't simple satisfaction, but a quieter affirmation. His son was learning to break down complexities and focus distant goals on the individual. This wasn't a technique of rule, but the beginning of leadership.

Nagarus's trials were not in vain; those worries and letting go were not in vain.

Standing beside him, Himara also gazed into the distance, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression calm and revealing little emotion.

"not enough."

She suddenly whispered something.

"Oh?" Finnubar turned his head slightly.

Hemara's gaze remained fixed on her, but her tone revealed an undisguised urgency, even a touch of childlike bluntness.

“I want to retire as soon as possible.” She paused, as if weighing her words, and finally gave up, “These things… I can’t wait to hand them over.”

She was clearly referring to more than just the immediate reconstruction. It also included the emerging institutions, the still-unstable operating logic, and the entirely new order that a community was about to face.

Finnubar did not answer immediately.

He simply continued to gaze into the distance, his gaze calm, yet deeper than before.

She was used to Nagalus's relatively straightforward logic of power operation, and she found it more exhausting and tedious to build such a complex system that required extremely high political wisdom and patience to integrate different ethnic groups and cultures.

Finnubar understood. A gentle smile curved his lips, revealing a knowing yet tolerant expression. He understood Himara's impatience; it wasn't laziness, but rather an instinctive resistance to the unfamiliar and a longing for her more familiar territory.

“You still have a heavy task ahead of you,” Finnubar said in standard polite phrases, but there was no perfunctory tone in his voice. Instead, it carried the knowing and slightly teasing tone of an old friend. “To turn this ruin into a garden, we need your sharpest shovel to cultivate the hardest soil.”

He meant to remind Himara that her abilities, qualifications, and experience were irreplaceable in the early stages of breaking down the old and establishing the new, and that now was far from the time for her to "drop the job" or retire.

Just then, from afar, faint yet solemn music and orderly singing drifted over like a rising tide. The sound was initially subtle, but gradually became clearer and stronger, piercing through the silent air of the street.

The parade was approaching.

The arrival of music and singing acted as an invisible dividing line, signaling the end of this private observation and brief exchange.

The curtain of a new era is being quietly lifted in a corner, revealing a glimpse of its operating methods. The glory and sorrow of the old era and the prelude to the new era are about to converge in a strange yet inevitable way on this wounded land, with the approaching melody.

Finnubar and Hemara simultaneously composed themselves, turning their gazes away from Bel-Aihor and towards the direction from which the music was coming. Their bodies unconsciously straightened as they prepared to welcome the procession that carried sacrifice and symbolism.

Fifteen minutes later, the third coffin, draped with a flag, silently and solemnly joined the procession, becoming the new focal point on this river of mourning and honor.

Cahill rests in his coffin.

He came from Nagarus, from New Hagrid Graves, a typical working-class family. Through his excellent grades and good conduct, he rose through the ranks to become an Azsati, and subsequently a junior officer. He was then transferred with the fleet across the vast ocean to Ulthuan, to Lor'then.

His responsibility was to coordinate civil and military affairs, specifically managing the entire neighborhood, including the Karendir house, and serving as a vital bridge between the new policies and the old citizens. Sadly, he ultimately died in yesterday's battle, falling in the neighborhood he tried to protect, in the now-ruined Karendir house.

At this moment, the group that lifted his coffin was another group of people with illustrious status but with a different significance.

Located on the right front is Finnubal, who is not only Lorthorn's prince and a strong contender for the Phoenix King, but also the current "Phoenix King's Left Hand," a core minister who assists the Phoenix King, coordinates various parties, and handles daily government affairs.

He wore a dark blue parliamentary robe embroidered with silver stars and waves, an outfit symbolizing his identity as a mediator, wise, and authoritative leader. The symbolic meaning of him carrying the coffin of a low-ranking official in such a capacity was self-evident.

The highest civil service system pays tribute to the grassroots implementers who are dedicated to their duties and even sacrifice their lives.

On the left is Hemara, the Director-General of the House of People, overseeing the vast and complex system of people's livelihood, household registration, and grassroots mobilization. She wore a neatly tailored, crisp, deep red robe. Her presence represented the people's livelihood governance system personally bidding farewell to one of its own who had fallen on the front lines of work, demonstrating the system's internal recognition and honor.

Behind Finnubar stood Bel-Aihor. His presence was natural as the leader of the newly formed Society of the Weavers, dedicated to reshaping the foundations of society. He wore a stylish, practical, and dignified deep red robe. His participation symbolized the future forces of construction and transformation, commemorating and absorbing dedicated pioneers like Cahill.

Behind Hemara stood the elderly but upright Elardesi. He was a senior representative of the Asur nobles of Lorthen, clad in a traditional Itien noble robe, its varied colors and ancient patterns representing Asur tradition and local power. His presence signified the acceptance and recognition of this outsider, the Duruch official, by the local old elite, symbolizing respect that transcended ethnic barriers.

In the third row stood a high-ranking official, Duruch, who oversaw civil and military affairs throughout Lorthen, dressed in a crimson official robe befitting his role; and Cahill's direct superior, wearing a crimson uniform corresponding to his rank. Their presence represented the most direct expression of mourning and responsibility between superiors and subordinates within the bureaucratic system.

The fourth row features Karendir and his neighbors. They wear no fine clothes or robes, only sturdy work clothes provided by Duruci for practical use. Their presence represents the most basic level of those being managed and served, offering a simple and direct farewell to this departed neighborhood administrator. They are the truest witnesses to the value of Cahill's work and the most direct associates of his sacrifice.

The attire and identities of the members of this third coffin-carrying team together form a sophisticated symbolic picture.

The Finnubar robe represents the bowing of the highest executive power of the state.

Herma's uniform represents the internal identity of the social welfare system.

Bell-Eiholm's uniforms represent the absorption of future building forces.

The traditional robes of Elardesi represent the acceptance of outsiders by the old local order.

The robes worn by government officials represent the internal customs and traditions of the bureaucratic system.

Karendil's work clothes represent the ultimate evaluation of the grassroots people.

What they carried together was not only the remains of a fallen official, but also a vivid demonstration of the new era's concept of integrating the old and the new, working together with one heart and mind, and fulfilling their responsibilities for their common home.

Unlike the coffin-carrying procession in Malekith, which symbolized military glory and inter-racial alliances, this group focuses more on the narrative of the civil service system, social governance, and class integration.

It tells all citizens of Lorthern that in this new era, dutiful officials, regardless of their origins, will receive the highest respect and honor from the highest levels, across ethnic groups, and down to the grassroots.

This in itself is a silent yet highly impactful political lesson.

The music was still playing, and the singing continued.

The "Hymn of Einarion," composed by Torandil himself and played with great passion by the military band, was no longer merely background accompaniment. It had transformed into an invisible yet resilient thread, weaving through the narrow, winding, and war-torn streets and alleys of Lorthorn. The music struck the walls on either side, producing a slight echo, mingling with the continuous chanting, weaving a solemn and captivating soundscape that enveloped the entire marching route.

At first, the citizens simply stopped and watched, filled with surprise, sadness, or pure curiosity. But gradually, as the melody struck their ears again and again, and as the meaning of sacrifice, rise, and protection of their homeland in the lyrics became clearer and clearer.

A change has occurred.

Watching has turned into following.

No longer passively observing from afar, the crowd began to move, starting with a few scattered individuals, then a dozen, then dozens. They spontaneously and silently left their homes or hiding places, merging into the previously empty areas on both sides of the street, and then, naturally, joined the end of the vast crowd of the marching procession.

The Black Knights and Sea Guards did not stop them; their task was to maintain order, guiding those who came later with their eyes and simple gestures, ensuring that the ever-growing line of people would not block the passage or cause chaos.

And so, a strange sight unfolded in the streets of Lorthern.

Ahead were solemn guides, a dignified band, a coffin carrying the spirit of a hero, and prominent pallbearers; in the middle were elves and red dragons who, though unable to carry the coffin themselves, insisted on escorting it; and at the rear of the procession, growing ever larger and longer, were the ordinary citizens who followed silently.

Some of them had red eyes; some had tense faces, still bearing the lingering fear of battle; and many more wore blank expressions of exhaustion and bewilderment. Yet, at this moment, their steps involuntarily followed the same rhythm.

Then, humming began to emerge from this enormous 'tail'.

At first, it was a suppressed, almost inaudible hum, as if afraid of disturbing something. But as it progressed, as the melody repeatedly filled the mind, the sound gradually became clearer and more focused. Not everyone knows all the lyrics, but the catchy chorus and the powerful core phrases began to be hummed by more and more people in a mumbled but earnest tone.

"When the chaotic tide tears through the sky..."

"The great Einarion rises from the sacred fire..."

"We will stand guard until our dying breath..."

The voices were uneven, some even off-key, yet they were filled with a raw and genuine emotional power. This was not a rehearsed chorus, but a natural outpouring of emotions ignited in a collective atmosphere, proof that a sense of identity was sprouting under the catalysis of music.

They may not fully understand all the historical and political metaphors behind the lyrics, but at this moment, the song has become their most direct way of expressing grief, seeking resonance, and vaguely perceiving a kind of collective identity that is coalescing.

Music guides our steps, and songs connect our hearts.

The narrow streets seemed to become a flowing river of sorrow and unity, composed of sounds and crowds. From above, the procession, constantly absorbing citizens along the way, had become awe-inspiring in its sheer size. Wherever it passed, it left behind not only footprints, but also a collective memory and emotional bond that was being shared and shaped together.

Music and parades are no longer just ceremonies held at the top; they are becoming events that people actively participate in and identify with.

This is precisely the most vivid manifestation of the fermentation process that Darkus and the Prophecy House hoped for, allowing glory and sorrow to flow from the stage to the streets and alleys, ultimately permeating the hearts of every ordinary citizen, where they take root and resonate.

Soon, the fourth coffin appeared in the procession, covered with a forest green banner with a white stag emblem in the center and a wooden vine staff on top of it.

Soon, the fourth coffin, draped with a unique flag, slowly joined the moving river amidst the watchful eyes of the crowd.

The coffin's covering was unusual: a deep, ancient forest green banner, its material seemingly textured with plant fibers. Embroidered in the center was an elegant white stag emblem, radiating tranquility and mystery. Straddled the banner, holding down its corners, was a gnarled, ancient wooden staff, as if just plucked from a living tree. This striking visual symbol silently proclaimed the deceased's identity and destiny.

Resting in the coffin is a spellcaster, a weaver from Azsor Loren. He died yesterday in the battle to defend the field hospital, fighting to the last drop of blood to protect this sanctuary of life and healing.

Of the eight people who carried the coffin, only Alalos was not a spellcaster; the other seven were all accomplished practitioners of magic.

This lineup itself is the highest tribute the spellcaster system can pay to this fallen comrade.

Located to the right front is Anna Sara, a renowned and legendary mage, as well as the Grand Master of the Arcane Academy, the key figure in unifying and leading the vast and complex spellcaster system of Durucci. She wears a deep purple-black magic robe adorned with flowing silver runes.

Her personal act of carrying the coffin signifies the official will and collective mourning of the entire Drucci magical force.

On the left is Belanar, the legendary Supreme Spellsword of the White Tower of Hos, the pinnacle of Asur's magical tradition and combat skills, and a highly respected leader among Asur's spellcasters.

His participation represents the ancient and orthodox magical heritage of Ulthuan, and is an acknowledgment and respect for the sacrifice of this Asley spellcaster.

Behind them stood Alaros, the ruler of King's Grove, who had no reason to be absent from the final farewell of his people. To his left was Asanok.

This elder's identity and background are so complex as to be almost legendary. He comes from the ancient Vinnior family of the Kingdom of Iris, and his cousin is the fifth Phoenix King. He spent most of his life residing in Elsin Alwyn, had a close relationship with Enil of Lauren Loren, and also once set foot in Aesol Loren with Darkus.

He himself is like a walking history.

Throughout the long and winding past of the Elves, his name appeared repeatedly in the records of different kingdoms and forests—sometimes as a messenger, sometimes as a witness, sometimes simply standing quietly by, yet always present. A significant portion of the ineffable yet never truly severed connections among the various Elven races were maintained by beings like him.

At this moment, he stands here, lifting the coffin.

It was not merely a farewell to a weaver, but more like a solemn lifting of an old bond that spanned kingdoms and woodlands, transcending positions and eras, onto one's shoulders.

In the third row, on the left is Terra, the current prophet of Atholloren, representing the profound prophecies and ancient wisdom of Atholloren; on the right is Morana, the woodland lord of Mordren, symbolizing the collective will of the various woodland lords within Atholloren. Both are important pillars in the power and spiritual structure of Atholloren.

In the fourth row, on the left is a female weaver who is closely related to the weaver in the coffin and was assigned to Alasya; her grief is the most direct and personal. On the right is a formal mage from the White Tower of Hos, whose presence represents the empathy and respect of the Asur spellcasters for the sacrifice of this ally.

This coffin-carrying procession, composed of spellcasters and forest lords, carries a significance far beyond simple mourning. It is a public demonstration to all of Lor'then and to all elven races of unity and cross-boundary respect for magical power.

Duruci's magical power stands shoulder to shoulder with Asur's traditional magic.

The political leaders of the forest kingdom share a legendary bond that transcends ethnic groups.

The prophetic authority of Azsorloth and the personal escort of local lords were involved.

Close comrades and fellow travelers from other races followed closely behind.

They said nothing, but on this road to the Land of Rest, all the elves who witnessed this scene would understand—in this new era, magic is no longer divided by schools, and sacrifice is no longer limited by boundaries.

Anyone who has ever protected life and home with extraordinary power, regardless of their origin, system, or stance, will be remembered by the entire magical world and solemnly bid farewell.

That dark green banner and wooden staff not only marked the final resting place of the deceased, but also served as a symbol of the deep integration and mutual recognition among the elven races in the realm of mystery and knowledge.

This in itself is the most powerful way to break down potential barriers and regional prejudices.

As the funeral procession was about to pass through the commoners' quarter and enter the relatively open noble quarter, the fifth coffin, carrying a profound and solemn sense of grief, silently and solemnly joined the moving stream.

Lying in the coffin was a naval guard, a junior officer.

He sacrificed himself in yesterday's bloody battle, and his heroic deeds have been spread in a small circle: to protect civilians, he charged towards the twisted, terrifying, and about-to-be-activated Slaanesh chariot, using the explosive power of his life and will to forcefully stop the soul-devouring demonic machine in its path.

The flag covering the coffin was of great significance; it was taken from the battle flag atop the mainmast of Aislin's flagship, the dragon ship "Calandrien".

The upper half of the flag is a clear, high sky blue, while the lower half is a deep, vast ocean blue, symbolizing the territory of Haiwei stretching from the heavens to the abyss. In the center of the flag, a golden, radiant ring represents the sun that never sets, and at the center of the sun is a proud eagle claw emblem.

This flag, representing the soul and glory of this fleet and even the entire Asur Navy, is now draped over an ordinary officer, a supreme affirmation.

The procession carrying this coffin represents the pinnacle of naval power and faith.

To her right front is Serene, a demigod, leader of the Stormweavers Order, and the noble daughter of Matheran. She is draped in a robe that appears to be woven from sea mist and starlight; her presence symbolizes Matheran's direct gaze and supreme protection.

On the left is Darkus. In elven society, he has many identities. At this moment, he is the leader of the Seren Waves and the spokesperson for Matheran. Of course, the ocean system is more accustomed to calling him the Son of Matheran.

He stood side by side with Serene, representing the highest will of the elven ocean power at the intersection of mortal and religious forces. The fact that these two demigods personally carried the coffin signified a ceremony that transcended mere mortal honor and was akin to a sacred coronation.

Behind them stood Dulias, the de facto head of the Serenade, and Aislin, the supreme commander of the Asul Navy. Dulias represented the core naval military force under Darkus, while Aislin represented the authority of the traditional Asul Navy. Their positions symbolized the synergy between the old and new naval forces and the unity of leadership.

Behind Aislin was Veltrie; and behind Dulias was Adana.

Both were high priests of the Stormweavers Order.

Veltrie is Trucchi, and she stands behind Aislin rather than Dulias. This subtle arrangement clearly signifies the integration and recognition of Trucchi's naval power with the Asur naval system.

Adeanna is an Asur from the Kingdom of Kosqui. She is not only a high priestess, but also represents the diverse regional and factional forces within the Asur navy, which are not monolithic but united at this moment.

Behind Adana stood a silent black knight. He was not of naval rank, but rather the temporary superior, close collaborator, and comrade-in-arms of the Sea Guard who had perished in the coffin. His presence represented the close cooperation and unwavering bond between the army and navy during yesterday's fierce battle for the city's defense.

Behind Vilterly stood Aranion. This young Sea Guard, who had achieved the glorious feat of shooting down three dragons in yesterday's battle to defend the waterway, was selected for his outstanding performance. He represented the broadest ranks of the Sea Guard, a shining continuation of the heroic tradition in the new generation. His presence ensured that this honor and inspiration resonated directly in the hearts of every ordinary sailor.

The structure of this coffin-carrying procession is an exquisite map of maritime power, faith, and inheritance.

On a divine level: Serene and Darkus represent the will of Matheran.

At the command level: Dulias and Aislin represent the core leadership of the old and new navies.

On the level of faith and integration: Violet and Adana represent faith that transcends ethnic groups and the integration of factions within the Navy.

On the level of cooperation and camaraderie: The Black Knight represents the wartime bond between the Army and the Navy.

Grassroots and Future Levels: Aranion, representing Haiwei's heroic traditions and new vitality.

What they shared was not just the sacrifice of a naval officer, but also the embodiment of a series of grand themes: "the unity of the maritime will, the integration of naval power, the resonance of beliefs, the camaraderie across services, and the inheritance of heroic traditions."

As the coffin draped with the dragon boat battle flag slowly moved forward, escorted by the highest representative of the sea, the message it conveyed was deafening: In this new era, every warrior who fights to protect the sea and their home, regardless of their race or status, will have their sacrifice placed under the dome of the entire elven ocean community, receiving the highest praise from gods, commanders, faith, and comrades.

This is the ultimate tribute to the victims, and also the most powerful call to action and rallying of the living.

The procession marched on resolutely, its path long enough to put both body and mind to a sustained test. This was certainly one of the reasons why Malekith greeted Newkel in that manner before the parade began. He knew this was not merely a ceremony, but a prolonged test of physical strength, willpower, and solemnity.

The procession passed through the viewing platform where yesterday's bloody battle took place. The broken stone railings and charred marks silently testified to the ferocity of the battle. At this moment, the funeral procession cast a solemn shadow over it, as if drawing a solemn conclusion to yesterday's battle and sacrifice.

The procession passed through the noble district, where only a few nobles stood on their balconies bowing in respect. The magnificent buildings still bore the marks of dragon breath, and the silent sculptures watched over the procession composed of people from different social classes. The barriers between classes were temporarily smoothed over by the equality of death and the sharing of honor.

The procession passed through the spacious square in front of the Phoenix King's Court, large enough to host a grand military parade. Today, there was no clamor of celebration, only the sound of orderly and heavy footsteps echoing in the empty space, each step seemingly striking the heart of Ulthuan.

The procession finally reached the straight and magnificent Phoenix Avenue, the axis leading to the city of Lorthern. More and more citizens lined both sides of the road, converging from all the streets and alleys, almost filling every available space. The crowd was silent and orderly, save for the continuous, collective humming emanating from the rear, like a low, resonant tide, carrying the procession forward.

Fortunately, it is not nighttime; otherwise, the torches and lanterns held by countless citizens would surely form a long, winding, fiery dragon.

The clear daylight made this collective mourning and remembrance appear even more solemn, restrained, and profound.

After a long journey, the procession finally arrived at the edge of the city, before a wide, gentle slope nestled against a gray-blue mountain. Here, the view was expansive, overlooking the city of Lorthern and the distant lagoon; the wind rustled through the trees, carrying the scents of the mountains and the sea.

This place, in its planning, is not a traditional, gloomy, and crowded cemetery, but rather a sacred landscape that integrates rest, remembrance, contemplation, and education. It is the most prestigious, renowned, and educationally rich garden-style cemetery in Lorthorn, and even in the entire Ausuan region.

In the future, this place will be the final resting place for heroes who sacrificed their lives for their people and sages who made outstanding contributions. Their tombstones and memorial halls will themselves serve as classrooms of history and virtue. Winding paths will meander through meticulously maintained gardens and contemplative groves, and inscriptions on monuments will be engraved with stories of sacrifice and dedication, making it a sacred place for future generations to pay homage, learn, and unite their spirits.

Landmark +1
At this moment, this land still retains its relatively primitive appearance, with silent mountains and sparse vegetation. But the arrival of the funeral procession seems to have laid the foundation for the first sacred act on this chosen land.

Five coffins, each draped with a different flag and carried by different illustrious teams, slowly came to a stop before this future resting place for the fallen heroes, marking the highest honor and eternal remembrance of the victims in a new era, where they will find their dual physical and spiritual home.

The long road comes to an end here, and another form of eternity is about to begin.

"I need to leave for a while."

The parade had just ended, the noise was subsiding, and the mourning and honors were temporarily set aside. Malekith found Dakota in the crowd and got straight to the point.

Upon hearing this, Dakota turned his gaze from the orderly dispersing crowd in the distance to Malekith. Before he could even ask a question, Malekith appeared out of thin air or performed a delicate magic trick, his wrist flicking almost imperceptibly, and a letter materialized in his outstretched palm.

Dakos raised an eyebrow, said nothing, reached out and took the letter, unfolded it, and began to read it.

The letter was short, perhaps only a few lines long, but Dakota read it many times.

His gaze swept back and forth across the paper, initially with a calm scrutiny, then his brows furrowed slightly, and the corners of his mouth began to twitch uncontrollably upwards, finally settling on a bizarre expression that mixed absurdity, amusement, and intense interest.

“To be honest…” Darkus looked up, his gaze fixed intently on Malekith, his tone filled with undisguised, almost mischievous anticipation, “I want to go too.” He paused, lowering his voice, but it only made it more teasing, “I really want to see with my own eyes how he beats you up! Or… for something even more exciting, kill you?”

Upon hearing this, Malekith's face instantly turned frosty. He glared at Darkus with an extremely irritating look that seemed to say, "Are you looking for death?" His fists, hanging at his sides, clenched so tightly that his knuckles made a series of slight cracking sounds, and the veins on the back of his hands were faintly visible.

If it weren't for the inappropriate setting, with important figures and citizens still around; if it weren't for the fact that the two of them were special individuals whose every move was under scrutiny... he had no doubt that he had given Darkus a taste of what a beating would feel like.

“But unfortunately,” Darkus seemed oblivious to Malekith’s murderous glare, or perhaps he saw it and found it amusing. He spread his hands dramatically, feigning helplessness. “The Battle of Lorthorn is over, but there’s a whole mess left to clean up that’s even more grueling than the war itself. Someone has to stay in the center and keep things stable. Since you’re going to keep your appointment, this chore naturally falls to me.”

Finally, he dropped his nonchalant expression, reached out, and patted Malekith's shoulder armor neither too lightly nor too heavily, a complex smile on his face that seemed to lie between sincere blessing and anticipation of a good show.

"I wish you... all the best."

He emphasized the word "smoothly" a little, his eyes gleaming with a light only the two of them could understand. It was as if he meant: Go, go face your "old friends," your "old rivals," and whether you come back bruised and battered, or... worse, I'll be here, "guarding the house" for you, and eagerly awaiting the story.

Malekith snorted coldly, brushed away Darkus's hand, said no more, and turned to leave.

Dakos remained where he was, glancing once more at the short but weighty letter in his hand, a strange smile lingering on his lips.

On the stage of Ausuan, a grand drama has just ended, while another, perhaps more private, more intense, and more interesting, drama seems to be about to begin.
(The chapter from yesterday was banned and can't be unbanned, so I posted it in the group.)