Prologue 1

Durante os últimos vinte anos, o maior continente do mundo, Terranova, lar de reinos poderosos e seres extraordinários, tem estado sob a ameaça de forças sombrias, assassinas e predatórias. Esses são os demônios, criaturas malévolas cujo único propósito é destruir tudo em seu caminho, expandindo seu domínio em nome de seu mestre e criador: Astaroth, o Rei Demônio.

Durante esse tempo, humanos, anões, elfos e outras raças lutaram com todas as suas forças contra os exércitos de Astaroth. Mesmo enfrentando inimigos implacáveis, muitos ainda mantêm sua fé nos deuses, deuses que, por mais de cem anos, deixaram de oferecer sinais, bênçãos ou esperança aos habitantes deste mundo.

Entre aqueles que ainda se apegam a essa fé, há também aqueles que aceitaram a dura realidade: estão sozinhos. Sem o apoio das divindades que veneraram por séculos, cabe a eles resistir à escuridão por conta própria. Mesmo assim, o Reino Humano de Unthor, o mais antigo e influente de Terranova, continua na vanguarda dessa guerra.

Diante do avanço das forças demoníacas, três grandes reinos — os humanos de Unthor, os anões das Montanhas Ocidentais e os elfos de Lythalorien — formaram uma aliança militar emergencial. Embora cada reino mantivesse sua própria soberania e cultura, eles concordaram em unir esforços estratégicos, tropas e recursos para enfrentar Astaroth.

Ainda assim, antigas tensões e desconfianças entre as raças persistem. A mesa em que seus representantes agora se reúnem carrega não apenas o peso da guerra, mas também o fardo de séculos de rivalidades não resolvidas.

Na verdade, neste exato momento, o Rei de Unthor está reunido com aliados de outros reinos em um conselho estratégico.

Eles estavam sentados ao redor de uma mesa rústica de madeira com detalhes refinados, claramente fruto da dedicação e cuidado de um carpinteiro, dentro de uma sala espaçosa e elegante. As paredes de pedra eram adornadas com tapeçarias bordadas com brasões, enquanto tochas de ferro iluminavam o ambiente com uma luz quente e suave. O piso de madeira polida era parcialmente coberto por um tapete espesso, conferindo ao salão um ar nobre e imponente, sem excessos.

Havia cinco cadeiras na sala, ocupadas por cinco indivíduos, todos discutindo os próximos passos da guerra.

Na cabeceira da mesa, como o patriarca de uma família, estava sentado o Rei de Unthor, Castran Valongo III. Um homem que aparentava ter mais de cinquenta anos, suas vestes por si só já deixavam claro que se tratava de alguém de grande importância. Com seu manto vermelho e coroa cravejada de joias, o Rei de Unthor não fazia nenhum esforço para esconder sua riqueza e poder. Seu rosto perpetuamente sério ostentava uma longa barba grisalha, e seus olhos castanho-claros transmitiam uma inconfundível aura de autoridade.

À sua esquerda, sentado na ponta da mesa, estava um homem com uma barba e bigode negros, selvagens e desgrenhados. Ele vestia uma armadura de couro simples, marcada com o símbolo de um martelo sobre uma forja. Este era o brasão do Reino Anão, localizado a oeste de Unthor. De baixa estatura, cerca de um metro e quarenta e cinco centímetros de altura, com um corpo robusto e um olhar feroz e indomável, este era Thurgan, Rei das Montanhas Ocidentais, lar do povo anão.

“Não, devemos enviar o triplo de tropas para o leste do rio Térsifo e usar toda a força contra esses vermes. É assim que os derrotaremos, pela força bruta.”

Balançando a cabeça em desaprovação, sentada em frente a Thurgan, estava uma mulher de traços delicados cuja beleza estonteante parecia quase etérea. Seus olhos verde-esmeralda contrastavam com seus longos cabelos dourados e soltos. Suas longas orelhas pontudas revelavam sua herança élfica. Ela era verdadeiramente uma elfa magnífica, não, não apenas uma elfa magnífica. Lady Carey de La Vontana era a matriarca do Reino Élfico, localizado a noroeste de Unthor. Como uma verdadeira nobre élfica, ela vestia um belo manto branco, discreto, porém confeccionado com um tecido raro encontrado apenas em seu reino.

“Uma ideia tola, embora eu não esteja nada surpreso que venha de um homem de baixa estatura e intelecto ainda mais limitado.”

Thurgan cerrou os punhos e rosnou entre os dentes.

“Mulher maldita. Como ousa falar comigo dessa maneira? Sua falta de respeito deve ser paga com a morte.”

“Não me ameace, anão, a menos que queira morrer.”

O rei anão bateu com o punho na mesa, lançando um olhar assassino para o elfo, que não demonstrou nem medo nem arrependimento. Vendo isso, Thurgan voltou seu olhar para um jovem sentado ao seu lado.

“Senhor Provolon, como Grão-Mestre do reino, o senhor deve concordar com meu plano, não é? E não acha que esta elfa deva pagar por sua falta de respeito para comigo?”

Sentado ao lado de Thurgan estava o Grão-Mestre de Unthor, Sir Provolon Porstre II, a mais alta autoridade militar do reino.

Apesar da aparência juvenil, por volta dos vinte e cinco anos, ele era um estrategista brilhante. Vestia o uniforme militar que denotava seu comando, com uma espada presa à cintura. Sua postura era disciplinada, e seus olhos azuis pareciam analisar tudo e todos com precisão.

“Por favor, acalmem-se. Lembrem-se de que somos aliados nesta guerra. E Rei Thurgan, com todo o respeito, não creio que seu plano seja adequado para a situação atual.”

Embora fosse rei, Thurgan nutria grande respeito por Sir Provolon. Inicialmente, quando Provolon foi promovido a Grão-Mestre e encarregado das estratégias de batalha, Thurgan não aceitou bem a mudança, desejando ser o responsável por tudo. Contudo, durante a votação dos líderes aliados, ele foi o único a se opor. Mais tarde, quando demônios atacaram uma fortaleza anã que se acreditava perdida, Thurgan a reconquistou com facilidade sob a orientação do novo Grão-Mestre. A partir daquele momento, o jovem estrategista conquistou não apenas seu respeito, mas também sua admiração.

“I still fail to see what is wrong with my plan. It is simple, yet devastating. However, if the young Grand Master believes it flawed, then I know there must be a reason. Even so, I would like to hear it.”

“I appreciate the consideration, King Thurgan.”

“Please, call me by my first name. Even if you are not a king, I consider you an equal in terms of hierarchy.”

“I appreciate the gesture, but I must insist, by protocol and ethics…”

Before he could finish, Thurgan struck the table again, this time without anger. He smiled. A smile that many would see as the snarl of a wild beast, but which Sir Provolon understood as a clear message: accept it, and do not argue.

“Enough of trivial talk and pointless arguments. We are busy people, especially under the current circumstances. A massive war is unfolding, and from my perspective, we have little chance of standing firm against our enemies.”

Eldros Mirakael was the royal mage advisor of Unthor, the highest-ranking mage of the kingdom, second only to Archmage Rufus Ardentus, who was not present at the meeting.

Despite his usual elegance, Eldros had already lost what little patience remained. He rarely found meetings with other leaders useful for planning, as most strategies were devised by Unthor itself, as Sir Provolon had recently stated.

Lady Carey looked at Eldros and simply nodded in agreement. She studied him for a few seconds. Though around forty years old, he appeared much younger. Clean-shaven, with long loose hair, and dressed in garments that could easily be mistaken for those of a knight rather than a mage. When she looked at him one last time, she was reminded of her former lovers during her days as a princess, when she had been, shall we say, rather vain and promiscuous.

“Yes, you are absolutely right, Mage Advisor. Let us proceed with the meeting.”

Provolon knew that, in Rufus Ardentus’s absence, Eldros felt especially responsible for keeping discussions focused, as Rufus was known for bringing everyone into line during planning sessions.

“Even if we send three times as many troops east of the Térsifo River, we stand no chance of winning that battle. Furthermore, the demons outnumber our forces there significantly. To match them, we would need to send at least five times as many soldiers.”

“Then we will do that. We will kill them all, hahaha!”

“We do not have enough soldiers for that.”

“Then we will relocate troops from other regions. Simple.”

“Oh, my gods, how can a man who calls himself a king fail to see how terrible his idea is?”

Lady Carey covered her face with both hands and let out a long sigh. Her wide eyes and incredulous expression spoke louder than words.

“Woman…”

Before Thurgan could continue with another insult, Lady Carey cast a direct glance at Sir Provolon. Without saying a word, her gaze made her intent clear: continue the explanation.

The Grand Master nodded slightly and reached for a cylindrical case made of reinforced leather beside him. Carefully opening it, he removed a large rolled map. He spread it across the table, unrolling it with firm, precise movements, then secured each corner with small metal pins so everyone could clearly see it.

Sir Provolon smoothed the map’s surface with one hand, his eyes fixed on the dark-inked borders.

“At present, the northwest and central-west flanks are nearly compromised. If enemy pressure continues at its current pace, we have, at most, two months of supplies to maintain defenses in those regions.”

He slowly traced his finger across the map, pointing to two locations marked with small fortress symbols.

“Haldras Fortress, in the north, has already had three of its five supply caravans intercepted by demons. In the south, the Rhen garrison is operating at less than half the required strength. This does not even account for desertion or magical exhaustion among our arcanists.”

Thurgan scratched his unkempt beard, his gaze fixed on the map. His tone was more restrained than before.

“I see… it seems my idea of attacking with full force truly was terrible.”

He let out a heavy sigh, then continued.

“Still, I cannot shake the feeling that retreating, waiting… feels cowardly. As if we are accepting defeat in advance.”

Sir Provolon maintained a calm but firm tone.

“It is not cowardice. It is the only sensible choice. Our duty now is to ensure these flanks hold long enough. Even if it costs more lives. At least… until the moment of our triumph.”

At that final word, both Thurgan and Lady Carey lifted their eyes toward Sir Provolon. Then they turned to Castran and Eldros, as if they had heard something out of place.

“Triumph? Do you have some powerful weapon hidden that you have not told us about?”

“I must agree. How were we unaware of such a trump card until now?”

The room fell silent. Thurgan and Lady Carey looked simultaneously at King Castran. Despite their differences, both made it clear through narrowed eyes and flaring nostrils that they were dissatisfied. The king met their gaze with solemn seriousness.

As tension rose, Sir Provolon stood. His chair slid back a few centimeters, and he bowed deeply.

“I apologize for concealing this trump card from you, our allies. The reasons…”

“No. I do not want excuses.”

The dwarf turned his gaze directly to the King of Unthor, fixing him as if demanding repayment of a debt.

“What is this triumph, King Castran Valongo III? Tell us.”

“How dare you raise your voice to His Majesty?”

“He is not our king. He is our ally.”

“You agreed to leave military strategies in our hands.”

“The strategies, yes. But our agreement also stated that we would be informed in advance, and that our opinions would be respected.”

Planning meetings always involved disagreements, but this argument cut deeper. Pride against pride, and both sides knew it.

With a measured sigh, Castran rose calmly, a calm Thurgan clearly lacked.

“Lady Carey, Matriarch of the Elves. Thurgan Hammer, King of the Western Mountains. My dear allies. It was not a lack of trust… but because we did not wish to resort to this triumph.”

“And why not? And what exactly is this triumph?”

“You all know that twenty-two years ago, Estela Ardentus, wife of Archmage Rufus, was granted the gift of clairvoyance. Before her death, she uttered her final prophecy.”

Lady Carey narrowed her eyes.

“The Prophecy of the Seven Heroes…”

“Exactly. The only hope capable of turning the tide of this war.”

Thurgan scratched his beard, suspicion etched on his face.

“I have never heard of this. Why was I not told about such a prophecy?”

“Thurgan, the records I consulted state that your kingdom was informed months later, at Estela’s own request.”

“Perhaps your father, the former king, received the message. Did he not tell you?”

Thurgan’s face hardened. He knew the answer was no. His father had never trusted him, always calling him hot-headed. But he would not admit that before the others.

“Ah, yes… of course. My father mentioned it. Something about seven heroes from another world, was it not? I must have forgotten.”

Lady Carey raised an eyebrow, clearly seeing through the lie.

“Easy to forget something so… insignificant. Perhaps you would like to remind us of the details, Majesty of the Mountains?”

The dwarf growled softly but did not respond. Castran then raised his hand.

The king closed his eyes for a moment, as if drawing strength from an old memory. His voice emerged deep, slow, almost solemn, filling the hall like an echo of the gods themselves.

“Thus spoke the seer Estela Ardentus: In the darkest hour, when hell rises to consume the world, seven heroes shall come from beyond the stars. They shall complete one another, and their union shall bring hope to those who have lost faith. And the Demon King shall know defeat at their hands. But… among the seven, a traitorous heart shall arise. And when it strays from the light, it shall open the path for darkness to pour upon us a river of fire and blood.”

The final words lingered in the air like a sentence. The silence that followed was too heavy to breathe.

Even so, after a few moments lost in his own thoughts, Thurgan confronted the others once more. He found the idea deeply unsettling. How could he place his faith in heroes who might not even exist?

“You expect us to place our hopes in a ritual that sounds like a fairy tale? Never! I, a follower of the War God Heir, will never accept this. It would be an insult to him.”

“Set aside your pride. The gods have been silent for years. If this fairy tale is our best chance, we must not waste it.”

“Even without the gods, we do not need to beg forces from other worlds. I believe this is a test, to see if we are strong and faithful enough to fight alone. I have always believed that.”

“This speech again? Do you not see? The gods abandoned us. Left us to our fate. Those who still cling to them are nothing but fools.”

“How dare you! You humans were always the most devout. Now, simply because we have been left to prove our strength, you turn your backs…”

“Do not be ridiculous. How can you be so blind? I, as Matriarch and representative of the elves, accept this plan without hesitation.”

“Of course you do. You elves only know how to hide in your forests, waiting for saviors. Pathetic! We dwarves will not hide behind legends. We will fight to the end, and if we die in battle, it will be honorable.”

The already heavy atmosphere became suffocating after the elf’s reply.

“Honorable? If I recall correctly, the deaths of your two sons on the battlefield were anything but honorable…”

The dwarf’s eyes reddened. In a sudden surge, he lunged toward Lady Carey, ready to seize her by the throat. But before he could reach her, a shadow moved. Sir Provolon grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed him to the ground with a swift motion, pinning him down. The young strategist used his body weight and leverage to restrain him. The effort was visible, but he did not yield.

“Calm down, Thurgan!!”

The dwarf struggled violently, straining every muscle, trying to break free. Normally, his race was physically superior to humans, yet Provolon held firm.

“Filthy elf… how could you say that to me…”

His red eyes trembled. Not from rage alone, but from pain. Within them lay the weight of a grief that had never healed.

Provolon released the dwarf once he saw that he had calmed down. He knew that behind Thurgan’s temper lay a sensitive side, and he considered Lady Carey’s comment an act of extreme cruelty.

“Lady Carey, please, do not worsen the situation. These arguments lead us nowhere.”

She shrugged, like a child trying to appear indifferent after being scolded. Deep down, even she knew she had gone too far.

The already tense mood grew even heavier. It was broken only when Castran spoke again.

“Enough! Do you not understand our situation? We have already lost. It is only a matter of time before we are killed… or enslaved.”

He turned to Thurgan, his gaze severe. The dwarf had returned to his seat, his eyes still moist.

“Even the gods have turned their backs on us. Thurgan, listen to me. You, more than anyone, know what it means to lose a part of yourself. We cannot allow that to happen again. We must do this.”

The hall fell into silence. They exchanged glances, but none dared speak. The war was beyond difficult. Each of them understood the weight of defeat, yet none wished to admit it. Castran was the first to have the courage to voice the obvious.

“Then how will the ritual be performed? Are there required items? A specific location?”

“Everything is already prepared, from the materials to the site. Do not concern yourselves with that.”

“And when will it take place?”

“In two days. When Rufus Ardentus returns from his mission, he will lead the ritual. I, along with eight of the kingdom’s finest mages, will participate.”

Lady Carey kept her eyes fixed on the king. Despite all that had been said, something still troubled her.

“Your Majesty… and what of the final part of the prophecy? The one that speaks of a traitor among the seven. What do you intend to do about that?”

The hall sank into silence once more. The air felt heavier, as if even the torch flames wavered at her words.

King Castran took a few seconds before responding. His tone was firm, but tense.

“That matter will be addressed after the ritual. First, we must ensure that the heroes arrive safely.”

Thurgan clenched his fists in silence. Eldros looked away, unwilling to dwell on the implication. Even Sir Provolon, usually so composed, showed a trace of concern.

No one dared add anything further. The room remained silent, and for the first time since the meeting began, all present felt not only the weight of the war… but also fear of what was yet to come.