Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Finnubar sat on the bench, his shoulders slumped slightly, as if he was carrying the weight of the entire Lothern for a thousand years. His robes were no longer as crisp as before, and the patterns inlaid with gold threads were now just a blur of light and shadow in the night, like a faded glory, eroded by time bit by bit.

He held a half-burned cigarette between his fingers, the tiny orange flame flickered in the darkness, appearing and disappearing from time to time, just like the thoughts and doubts in his heart that had not yet been extinguished. Every time he inhaled and exhaled, the white smoke filled and swirled in front of his eyes, and then quietly dissipated, and those unfinished obsessions gradually peeled away in the night wind.

His feet were already full of cigarette butts, lying messily on the ground, just like the impulses and struggles he suppressed year after year, burned, discarded, and finally forgotten as a gray mark. He did not clean them up, nor did he want to clean them up again - because those ashes were his true traces, his undecorated self along the way.

The night sky is like an inverted abyss, silent and vast, dotted with stars, like the silent gaze of the gods.

Finnubar raised his head, his gaze passed over the deep blue dome above the sky, penetrated the countless stars, and saw the old times deep in his memory.

Those were the words his father whispered in his ear when he was dying, in the silence of all.

“The sky is filled with countless bright stars, each of which is a flame and a sign.

The omens I saw indicated that my journey was about to end.

Death is an inevitable end—it will come when it is time.”

He was still young at that time and had never really understood the profound meaning of the word "death". He only remembered that when his father said these words, his voice was steady and calm, and there was no fear in his eyes, as if death was not the end, but the destination, and the relief of finally being able to unload the burden.

"I have no trophies of victory to prove it, but I have lived without regrets. My soul will rest in peace too."

Finnubar closed his eyes, his eyelashes, which had not moved for a long time, trembled slightly, and he let the smoke slide through the corners of his eyes, like a slow and heavy memory. As time passed, he finally understood that his father's glory was not in the record of military exploits, nor in any triumphal ceremony. It was the calmness that a true leader maintained in the face of death.

"We are but flesh and blood, knowing our fate will come, but unable to predict its exact moment.

In this respect I am fortunate, for I can foresee the hour of my own death..."

At that moment, the light in his father's eyes was the clearest he had ever seen in anyone else's eyes. There was no fear, no nostalgia, only a kind of destined acceptance and a calmness without resentment, like a lake of still water without any disturbance, reflecting the trajectory of the stars and destiny.

"To face my destiny and die."

The firelight suddenly dimmed at his fingertips, and Finnubar slowly pressed the cigarette butt on the armrest, so softly that it was almost inaudible, but it was particularly clear in the night. The sound was like he was extinguishing a memory, and also like he was crushing some tiny possibility in the future.

He murmured in a low voice, as if responding to his late father, or as if speaking to himself: "It turns out that so-called luck is not knowing the end, but accepting the existence of the end."

It is not about welcoming death, but about welcoming the final chapter that is destined not to be understood or remembered.

Wind blows.

Like a sigh from the depths of the distant sea, it came from the edge of the world. The wind blew from the distant sea to the port, bringing with it a salty and humid breath, and also brought with it a kind of inexplicable ancient silence, as if the silent gods finally began to breathe.

The robe fluttered slightly at Finnubar's feet, and time quietly folded around him. He sat on the simple bench, his posture steady, but also tired. He looked up at the night sky, with neither confusion nor determination in his expression, only an unspeakable silence.

The stars were still bright, twinkling in the sky, piercing the night like cold light. But in his eyes, it seemed as if one of them was falling quietly, with some symbolic meaning, falling from the sky into the abyss, silently.

His figure was stretched out under the light, like an isolated monument, silent and eternal.

That is a posture of confrontation with history and destiny.

His breathing was slow and almost inaudible, and every rise and fall seemed like a silent wrestling with fate.

He finally spoke softly, whispering as if to himself.

“The stars… they never whisper, yet they always point the way. They don’t speak, yet they make us feel insignificant.”

The tone was gentle, but with a barely perceptible tremor.

He recalled the countless times he had looked up at the night sky alone before dawn. At that time, the stars were his compass and his only contemplation before making a decision. They were also the ones he often looked at when he stole a moment of clarity amid the crowds and prayers on nights of celebration.

They are always silent, but always watching.

That is not a gaze, but a destiny, it is the gaze of the gods and the recorder of all the souls passing by.

But tonight is different.

Tonight the stars are no longer witnesses, but judges.

He suddenly remembered his father's voice, which was the first prophecy in his life.

“Every star in the sky is a soul from the past. They gather together just to tell you: you are not the only one, and you will not be eternal.”

He didn't understand it then, but he understands it now.

Not because of being smarter, but because of being tired.

He smiled gently, and there was no joy in that smile, only understanding.

"All of us are ultimately just the pens of fate." He uttered these words slowly, his tone as heavy as water. "We think we are in control, but we are just writing the period of destiny."

He was silent for a moment, looking down at his feet, the pile of cigarette butts like a hill, like the rings left by a life burning out in time. Each cigarette is a thought, a sacrifice, a decision that must be made but cannot be confided.

Yes, he understood better than anyone else that he was not the one who could freely choose to love or escape.

He is not the kind of person who can turn around and flee before the storm comes.

He never was.

He was the one who had to stand there, the one who had to sacrifice.

He lowered his head and looked at his hands. Those hands once held the seal, wielded the sword, signed treaties, and comforted those in mourning. Now, they were only trembling slightly as they held a cigarette. They were tired hands, hands that had been numb from carrying too much.

“Death is my destiny… but it is not my end.”

He raised his head and looked at the starry sky again.

"I will die, and even all the civilizations I cherish may eventually be obliterated in the wind and sand, but so what?"

He took a deep breath, it was his last breath before smoking his last cigarette of the night, like some kind of ritual, also like a farewell.

"If there is any meaning, it is not to stay, but to... bring a little more light to the world before being forgotten."

His voice was almost swallowed by the wind, but those words were clearer and more powerful than any speech.

At this moment, a meteor streaked across the sky, dragging tiny rays of light and falling from the sea of ​​stars. At that moment, time seemed to stand still and the world seemed to hold its breath.

Finnubar stared at the streak of light, his eyes reflecting the distant yet near eternity, and he whispered softly.

"Even if it only burns once...it's worth it."

The night was dark, like an endless black silk, spreading over the entire port. The wind blew along the coastline, bringing with it a damp breath and an indescribable heaviness.

Ivarn Meltan stood in the night, wearing a silver-blue battle robe, his cape fluttering in the wind. His eyes were dark blue, like a pair of lighthouses in the night sea - calm, but alert. He quietly looked at Finnubar not far away. The man who was once hailed as the "most perfect king" was sitting on a lonely bench. The outline of his face was hazy in the smoke. He was slowly withdrawing from reality and retreating into the darkness of some ancient memory. After a long time, he spoke in a low voice, with a bit of hesitation in his voice, but it was hard to hide his concern and worry.

"You look... troubled."

Finnubar did not answer immediately. He just stared at the star trail in the distant sky with his eyes as sharp as nails, piercing through the night. The light was like an ancient omen, and also like some kind of future that had already ended looking back at the sky. He took a long puff of cigarette, then exhaled a cloud of light blue smoke, and his voice was as low as the wind blowing over the broken monument.

"Have you ever had... a feeling? That everything you built with your own hands will eventually be torn down by your own hands?"

These words were like a cold stone thrown into a lake at night, causing ripples.

Ivarn was slightly startled. He had never heard Finnubar speak like this before. His tone was like that of a mortal without his crown, no longer a monarch ruling over all people, but just a tired and lonely father, sitting alone under the starry sky, listening to the hourglass of time slowly falling.

"I have been trained since I was a child, and taught to be a bridge, a stable bridge, carrying the past and the future." Finnubar continued, his voice gradually becoming lower, "But no one told me... this bridge will collapse one day, and it will also shatter on the foundation it built."

He turned and looked at Ivarn. There was fatigue, confusion, and even imperceptible pain in his eyes, but they were still sharp enough to penetrate the soul.

"You know, in Ulthuan, it was not the enemy who first sensed the decline of the elves." His tone was slow, but every word was like sparks from a hammer. "It was us, we who quietly smelled the odor of decay in the festivals and celebrations, in the songs and dances and feasts, and among the glorious city-states."

Ivarn nodded silently. Of course he knew. He had also heard faint trembling sounds coming from the cracks in the stone on the steps of those magnificent palaces, and caught a glimpse of deathly silence between the fluttering of gorgeous clothes.

"Then why do you continue?" he asked in a low voice.

Finnubar gave a bitter smile, the curve of his mouth was like a bow sinking to the bottom of the water, tight and weak.

"Because of responsibility."

He paused, took a deep breath of the cold night air, and then spoke slowly.

"Sometimes I think, maybe the meaning of a king is never to lead victory. It is to stand there when everything begins to collapse, still not running away or hiding, and use the last bit of willpower to bear the powerlessness."

He looked extremely calm when he said this, as if this was not a painful realization, but a contract that had been signed long ago.

Ivarn was silent. He suddenly realized that Finnubar, whom he had always admired, was not omnipotent or fearless. Finnubar, like him, would get lost, be afraid, and repeat an unspeakable nightmare over and over again in the middle of the night.

He just had to hide.

He cannot have any cracks and cannot be weak, because everyone relies on that mythologized figure to move forward.

Ivarn looked at Finubar and suddenly whispered.

"If the price is a curse... I will fight for it too."

The words hit the ground like stone, no longer a pledge from a follower, but a promise from a fellow believer.

The wind became colder, stirring up layers of silver waves in the lagoon. In the distance, birds chirped, drawing a sad arc in the air, like some forgotten poem, gently falling in the dark night.

The two stood side by side, like two silent statues, looking beyond everything to the starry sky. There was no longer just a projection of fate, but a light of judgment that traveled through time and space.

“Perhaps none of us will be remembered in the future…perhaps our names will eventually disappear in the cracks of the chronicles. But if we are still resisting, still standing, and still guarding even an inch of faith at this moment…that is enough.”

Finnubar's voice was very soft, but louder than thunder, like a brand, deeply engraved in the depths of the night and in their own souls.

Ivarn nodded silently and said nothing more. He didn't need to say more. The silence at this moment itself was the deepest commitment and understanding.

When Finnubar pushed open the ancient wooden door, the lights in the room illuminated everyone's solemn expressions. This was a meeting room, and also a palace of decision. There was a smell of unburned fire in the air, heavy and tense, like the oppression before a storm.

Italis, Aurelian, Asheris, Kelis, Elardesi, in addition, there are several high-ranking officers and children from various families. They are trustworthy people and the only force that Finnubar can rely on in the coming storm.

Only Thoran Angrier was not present.

After that council, he and Finnubar had a fierce dispute due to their different political views. Their words were like sharp arrows, almost piercing their friendship of many years. But in the end, he was persuaded by Finnubar. But at this moment, he is not here. He has returned to Angril to carry out key deployments that are closely related to the direction of the next war.

Finnubar stood still, his eyes slowly sweeping across the faces of everyone present. Some were worried, some were confused, and some were full of expectations. But without exception, every pair of eyes was looking at him, waiting for his voice, waiting for the order that would break the old system and reshape the future.

He took a slow breath, as if he wanted to swallow the silence of the entire night into his heart and lungs, and then he opened his mouth. His voice was low and deep, but it echoed throughout the hall like the sound of a bell.

"There is a voice, sharper than any melody, calling to me."

He paused, wanting this sentence to seep into everyone's bones.

"It does not come from the ears, but echoes deep in the folds of the soul. The voice is as old as if it has existed since the birth of the world, and as young as the whisper of the stars tonight. It is not the will of the gods, nor the warning of magic, it is more like... fate, whispering a reminder!"

He raised his head slightly, trying to see through the ceiling of the hall and catch sight of the light of truth behind the sky.

"I once thought that I was born for the throne of the Phoenix King. I received education, practiced swordsmanship, and carried the hope and future of the entire nation. I thought that the throne was the destined destination of my destiny and the destination of my glory."

He paused, there was no pride in his eyes, only an unconcealable fatigue and relief.

“But now, the throne that symbolizes glory has lost its luster in my eyes. It is nothing more than a rock full of sacrifices and silence, and I — no longer want to be the last drop of blood on that rock.”

No one spoke, the air froze, even the fire was still for a moment.

"Is it Dacus that shakes me? Is it the whispers of the gods that shake me?" He asked himself, and answered himself, "No! Not just them. I saw the future, a hidden abyss is slowly opening. It is not the victory and revival predicted by the prophets, but a real reconstruction, the final chapter of the old world, the rupture and wailing before the transformation of a civilization."

His voice became more and more determined, and there was an almost unstoppable power in his tone.

"We once claimed to be orthodox, and held up blood and honor as proof of destiny, but we were wrong. 'Orthodoxy' is nothing but inertia accumulated over time, and 'purity' is nothing but a cage that disguises fear as an ideal."

He swept his eyes around and looked at everyone.

"I once doubted whether I was betraying, betraying the thousand-year glory and the ideals of my ancestors. But now I understand that it was not betrayal, it was a reckoning! It was a wake-up call!"

Finubar took a step forward, his voice low but like thunder.

"The gates of Lothern will open! Duruchi will enter the city that once kept them out!
They are not alien to us.

They are the forgotten other half of our bloodline. We can no longer atone for the hatred of our ancestors forever, nor can we turn our ideals into shackles and put them on the shoulders of future generations, depriving them of freedom from generation to generation. "

His eyes moved between Italis and Aurelian, as if he was looking for a ray of resonance, or as if he was saying goodbye to some old contract.

"If my name will eventually be engraved on the tombstone of 'traitor', it doesn't matter!" When he said this, his voice was almost gentle and compassionate.

"I heard that voice. It was calling. It was not a cry of dying, but the first cry of a new world transforming in the darkness."

He stood straight, like a flag, silently flying high in the wind.

"And I will respond to it!" (End of this chapter)