Isvalon: A Chronicle of Seven Kingdoms
Internal Conflict and Maeron’s Approach
As the days passed, meetings with village representatives continued. Communication and diplomacy had been employed, yet success remained elusive. And on another night, in a modest camp not far from the village of Elhara, their conversation resumed—this time more candid, carrying a weight beyond mere strategy. Maeron and Azfaran sat across from each other beneath the glow of the campfire. Few words were exchanged. The silence between them was heavier than any debate held in the village halls.
“I think... I’ve failed,” Azfaran whispered, eyes fixed on the slow dance of flames. “I came with ideas, but forgot they’re not soldiers. They’re farmers. Shepherds. Herders.”
Maeron didn’t respond right away. She looked up at the sky, now veiled in mist, then stood. “Tomorrow, we part ways. You continue west. I’ll head north.”
“Alone?”
She nodded. “We need a different approach. You’re the leader. I’m the scout. Trust me with the quiet path.”
And so, Maeron began a personal approach to the dissenting villages. She didn’t arrive as a messenger, but as one of them. She carried wood, helped mend fences, or simply sat with elders to listen to old stories.
She understood their customs, knew when to speak and when to simply bow and listen. She never imposed. But slowly, her presence softened the hearts that once resisted. A granddaughter of Branleigh’s elder even snuck into one of the small training sessions she held for the youth—teaching survival techniques and how to read tracks in the damp earth.
Meanwhile, Azfaran began to change his approach. He taught village children how to draw irrigation systems he had studied from Iskhalin Grandma, building more personal, warmer connections. He came to understand that strength wasn’t in words or grand strategies, but in closeness and trust.
When the two met again at the forest’s edge three days later, a deeper respect had settled between them. There was no need for praise—they simply knew both had grown.
“I thought you’d give up,” Azfaran said.
Maeron smiled. “I thought you’d finally stop talking and get to work.”
A Sudden Attack
Just days after their new approach, unexpected news arrived from Mireden. The village, which had previously rejected the alliance, had agreed to consider joining. Azfaran and Maeron were scheduled to visit the next morning to discuss the terms.
But that night, the fog descended heavier than usual. From within it came soft footsteps creeping toward the wooden fence. No war drums. No banners. Only shadows.
The attack was swift. Fire was hurled at granaries. Sleeping villagers were jolted awake by screams and the sound of burning wood. The attackers were lightly armed, moving quickly as if they knew every corner of the village.
Azfaran and Maeron, who happened to be in the neighboring village, heard the emergency bell and rushed toward Mireden.
Maeron quickly led a group of youths to evacuate children and elders to the hills. Azfaran helped erect makeshift barricades with the farmers. They couldn’t repel the entire force, but managed to delay them until dawn.
As the fog lifted, so too did the attackers—vanishing with it. No flags were left behind, only heavy boot prints and foreign arrows—none made from local materials.
To the people of Eirindale, this was proof: the threat was real. Even villages that had once stood apart now began to realize—they would not be safe alone.
Formation of the Alliance
Within a week of the Mireden attack, the mood shifted. Suspicion gave way to urgency. Villages that had been silent began sending envoys. Those that had supported the cause from the start now stood taller, as if to say, “We knew this was coming.”
A great gathering was held again—this time beneath the ancient tree in the plains of Annvled, a place considered sacred and neutral since the age of ancestors.
The alliance pact was inked with resin from the old tree, signed one by one by village representatives. Not all villages came. Roughly a quarter remained neutral, choosing to wait and observe.
Azfaran didn’t press them. He knew true conviction couldn’t be forced. He gazed calmly at the names already written.
“Not all will stand with us,” said Maeron, now serving as liaison among villages.
“An alliance isn’t about numbers, but resolve,” Azfaran replied, quietly but firmly.
The ancient tree seemed to nod in silent agreement. A gentle breeze stirred its leaves, carrying with it the first whispers of change.
Echoes in the Firelight
That night, on a small hill where they camped, Azfaran sat alone, staring at the dwindling fire. The image of the old tree remained vivid in his mind.
The alliance had been formed, yet unease lingered in his heart. He replayed every attack, every movement of the mysterious enemy. They were too coordinated to be mere raiders.
Footsteps approached. Maeron arrived, carrying a piece of tanned hide marked with a strange symbol she had found in the ruins of Mireden’s granary. She laid it in front of Azfaran.
“I know this pattern,” she said softly. “It’s not local. It’s... it’s from the East. I once saw it in one of my father’s old books.”
Azfaran nodded slowly. “So it was orchestrated. Not random. But who’s pulling the strings?”
Before Maeron could answer, a faint sound echoed in the night sky. A messenger bird swept in from the northeast, flying low before vanishing behind the trees.
Azfaran turned to where it had come.
“Iskhalin?” he whispered.
Maeron said nothing.
And the night fell quiet once more.
Other Stories
ISVALON : Episode 1 – The Coup That Shattered Everything
ISVALON : Episode 2 – Azfaran Grows in Exile
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