The moon hung low over the ancient ruins, casting a ghostly glow over the four elves who moved like shadows through the broken corridors. Cyril led them, his ranger’s instincts guiding their every step. His weathered features and graying hair marked him as a veteran of countless battles. He had seen centuries of conflict, fought in wars against death itself, and carried scars as reminders of every victory and loss.

Behind him, Nirelle padded silently, her keen eyes darting to every shadow. She was a rogue of unmatched precision, her twin daggers ready for action. “How much farther, Cyril?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Close,” he replied, his tone steady, the calm of a soldier long accustomed to danger.

“You’re sure this ruin holds what the generals want?” Elondar asked, adjusting the strap of his lute as he trailed behind. “I didn’t think they cared about trinkets anymore—not with an army of the undead bearing down on Avendale.”

“They care because this relic isn’t just a 'trinket',” Sythria interjected, her tone sharp. The mage brought up the rear, her glowing staff illuminating her piercing gaze. “If the priests are right, this artifact is a core of elemental power capable powered by a fragment of Ulogot’s power. We destroy it, and his forces weaken.”

“And if they’re wrong?” Elondar quipped, raising an eyebrow.

“Then we’re one step closer to death,” Nirelle said flatly, her fingers tracing the hilt of her daggers.

“Then we fight,” Cyril cut in, his voice firm. “This isn’t just about us. Every battle we win gives the army a chance to hold the line. Remember why we’re here.”

Their mission was clear: strike deep into enemy territory, retrieve or destroy the artifact, and cripple Ulogot’s forces. The elvish army relied on small, elite bands like theirs to fight battles others could not.

The skeletons that rose to meet them in the crypts were relentless. Their blades clashed in a cacophony of steel, but the elves fought like a well-oiled machine. Nirelle danced through the fray, her daggers carving through brittle ribs. Cyril’s greatsword cleaved wide arcs, scattering bone and steel alike. Sythria’s spells lit up the dark, and Elondar’s voice rang out in defiance, bolstering their resolve.

When the last skeleton fell, the group stood victorious, but their breaths were heavy, their expressions grave. They knew this fight was a prelude to something far worse.

As they ventured deeper into the ruins, they found a massive stone chamber, its walls carved with scenes of apocalyptic destruction. In the center, an altar stood, bearing an ancient tome. Sythria’s fingers trembled as she opened it.

Her face paled as she read. “This isn’t just a fragment of Ulogot’s power. The generals didn’t tell us everything.”

“What is it?” Cyril asked, his voice hard.

“It is the core of a Flesh Colossus,” she whispered. “An abomination built from the dead and animated by pure elemental energy. The core was sealed beneath these ruins, but it is not here anymore. The Colossus has been unleashed.”

Elondar’s usual humor vanished. “And it’s heading for the main force?”

Sythria nodded grimly. “We’re the only ones close enough to stop it.”

Cyril’s gaze turned to the others. “Then we cut it off at the pass tomorrow.”

~

That night, they camped beneath the stars, the ruins looming around them like silent sentinels. The fire crackled as they prepared for the battle ahead.

Cyril sat apart from the group, sharpening his greatsword. His eyes drifted to his companions, lingering on each of them in turn.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” Elondar said, breaking the silence. “I thought you’d be giving us one of your famous speeches about teamwork and courage.”

Cyril’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “You’ve heard them all before. Besides, it’s not speeches that’ll save us tomorrow.”

Elondar strummed a soft chord on his lute. “Maybe not, but a bit of morale couldn’t hurt.”

“I don’t need morale,” Nirelle said, inspecting her daggers. “I just need that thing’s weak spot.”

Sythria leaned forward, her expression serious. “This isn’t like anything we’ve faced before. A Flesh Colossus isn’t just a monster—it’s a weapon. Built to kill and destroy. If we’re not ready—”

“We’re ready,” Cyril interrupted. His voice was quiet but firm. “I’ve fought enough battles to know when a group has what it takes. And we do.”

Nirelle gave him a sidelong glance. “Coming from you, that’s almost a compliment.”

“It’s the truth,” Cyril replied. He hesitated, then added, “No matter what happens tomorrow, I’m proud to have fought beside you.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. The firelight flickered across their faces, illuminating Nirelle’s determined smirk, Sythria’s thoughtful gaze, and Elondar’s wistful smile. Cyril memorized each expression, committing them to memory.

~

The colossus loomed over the desolate battlefield, its grotesque form blotting out the sun. The ground shook with each of its steps. Its breath carried the crackling roar of elemental storms, its fists the destructive power of a battering ram.

Even so, the elves were undeterred.

Nirelle darted forward, her daggers flashing as she struck at the creature’s legs. She dodged its swipes with preternatural grace, her movements too quick for the massive creature to follow. Sythria’s magic carved into its flesh, melting through its crude stitches and exposing raw elemental energy beneath. Elondar’s songs wove through the chaos, strengthening his companions’ resolve and striking discord in the titan’s magic.

Cyril roared a challenge, charging at the colossus with his greatsword raised high. He fought like a man possessed, each strike aimed at weakening the beast’s defenses, each command rallying his companions to press their assault.

But the colossus was unrelenting.

Nirelle’s precision strikes brought the beast low, one leg buckling beneath its massive weight. Its swirling core was exposed for a brief moment. She grinned and turned to Cyril. “Weakness found. Now finish—”

The colossus moved faster than anyone thought possible. Its massive hand slammed into Nirelle, smashing her into the earth with a gruesome splat. Cyril’s roar of denial was lost in the thunderous crash.

Sythria redoubled her assault, her fireballs searing great holes into the colossus’s chest. Her magic struck true, but the beast responded with a devastating breath of elemental fury. Cyril turned too late to shield her. When the smoke cleared, only ash and embers remained where the mage had stood.

Elondar charged, his blade and voice rising in defiant harmony. His rapier pierced the creature’s hide again and again. But the colossus grabbed him mid-strike, lifting him into its grotesque maw. Cyril locked eyes with his old friend for a fleeting moment before the bard disappeared with a final, mournful chord cut off by a sickening crunch.

Cyril was alone.

He charged the creature with a battle cry that shook the heavens. The colossus met him with elemental fury, but he fought with the strength of a thousand battles, each strike driving the beast closer to its doom. At last, he reached its core—a pulsating, swirling mass of chaotic energy encased in its chest.

With a desperate leap, Cyril plunged his greatsword into the core, shattering it. The colossus convulsed violently, its form disintegrating in a storm of light and sound. Cyril was thrown back by the explosion, landing hard amidst what remained of his fallen companions.

The battle was over. The silence that followed was deafening.

~

Cyril wandered for years, his victories meaningless without the friends who had shared them. He became a ghost of himself, his once-famous name now whispered only in legend. The weight of his survival was heavier than any sword he had carried, and the memory of his friends' faces began to fade.

One day, his aimless journey brought him to a darkened cave. Inside, he found something strange—a gallery of petrified adventurers, their final moments immortalized in stone. He wandered among them, his hand brushing against the smooth, cold figures. In their faces, he saw echoes of his own comrades: Nirelle’s determined defiance, Sythria’s fierce resolve, Elondar’s unwavering spirit.

At the back of the cave, a slain basilisk lay crumpled, its body shielding a single egg. Cyril knelt and picked it up, his hands trembling. The egg was warm, pulsing with the faint promise of life.

As he stared at it, a strange thought took hold. Here, in this fragile shell, was a new beginning. A way to preserve what he had lost—not just the memories of his friends, but the essence of their final, heroic stand.

Cyril’s grip on the egg tightened as his lips curled into a solemn smile.

“From now on,” he whispered, “no one else needs to be forgotten.”