In The Weeks Since... [Plot]

As the weeks have passed since the initial invasion, the lands of Volaire begin to show the first fragile signs of recovery. The chaos and terror that once choked the roads and fields have lessened. Reports continue to trickle in from outlying villages and remote townships—tales of ambushes in the dark, twisted Fae illusions wreaking havoc, and desperate survivors stumbling into cities with blank stares and broken spirits. Yet, amidst the lingering dread, there is hope. The attacks have become sporadic, and some villages, through grit or clever strategy, have managed to hold their ground against the Fae onslaught.

In Seshtau, the stronghold of Umbris endures. Its spires rise defiantly against the twilight skies, guarded by the ever-growing legions of the undead. With every fallen soldier—friend or foe—Lady Katalina’s forces swell. Her command is absolute, her strategy brutal but effective. The Fae may still probe the barony’s defenses, but they have yet to breach Umbris’ iron grasp.

Tuatha remains cloaked in mystery. No messengers come from its borders, no ravens bear its sigils. Yet, within Volaire’s embassy halls, Tuathan emissaries still perform their duties, cool and collected. The silence from their homeland is deafening, but the illusion of calm presented within the embassy suggests that Tuatha, too, has weathered the Fae’s wrath—at least for now.

But not all news brings hope.

Dalefaer, jewel of Foresetidale, remains ensnared. The Fae have claimed it, and the fate of its people is uncertain. A powerful magical barrier now surrounds the city—eerily beautiful, shimmering like spun glass in sunlight, but impenetrable. None can enter. None have escaped. Within, the remnants of Dalefaer’s population are silent ghosts, their voices unheard since the barrier’s rise. Whether they are alive, entranced, or worse, none can say.

In the Baroness’ absence, Knightmaster and Seneschal Ser Fallin has assumed command of the scattered remnants of the Foresetidale military. From within the Volaire embassy, he works tirelessly, rarely seen outside the war room, pouring over maps, deployment plans, and Fae counter-strategy. The embassy’s portal, once a symbol of connection, now serves as the last known tether to Dalefaer. It remains sealed—guarded day and night by Ser Fallin’s loyal knights, a silent promise that the city is not forgotten.

Whispers carry on the cold spring breeze—something has changed.

A courier arrived at the Foresetidale embassy just days ago. He bore no sigils, no livery, no banner to claim allegiance. Clad in plain traveler's garb and wearing the look of someone who had not slept in days, he was silent as stone. When questioned, he offered only one demand:

“The message is for Knightmaster Ser Fallin. No other.”

Though suspicious, the knights allowed him entry.

Witnesses say the exchange was brief. Ser Fallin took the sealed scroll, broke the wax, and read it in silence. His expression did not change, but something in his posture did. A slow breath. A slight nod. Without a word, he walked to a nearby candle and held the scroll to the flame. The parchment curled and blackened in his hand. When the ashes had cooled, he placed a coin purse in the courier’s palm and sent him on his way.

He has not spoken of the letter since.

Yet something is different.

In the days that followed, those under Ser Fallin’s command report a shift in the Knightmaster’s presence. No longer brooding or uncertain, he moves with renewed clarity. His voice carries the sharpness of purpose, his orders issued with unwavering resolve. There is no talk of search parties. No renewed hunt for the missing Baroness.

The only priority now: Dalefaer.

Still, the rumor spreads like wildfire through the embassies and camps:

Baroness Charlotte lives.

No one knows who sent the letter but among the citizens of Foresetidale, hope flickers for the first time in weeks. Whether the Knightmaster’s confidence stems from truth or illusion, no one can say.

Elsewhere in Volaire, pressure builds.

The city strains beneath the weight of hundreds displaced by the invasion. Food grows scarcer by the day; the generous gift from the Dragon Kingdom has long since been used-Hunger gnaws at morale. Tempers rise.

But all is not lost.

The Orc settlement on the city’s outskirts—long a quiet presence—has opened its gates to refugees. Their fortified camp now houses as many as it can hold, easing the burden on the city proper. Some whisper that their leaders have struck a bargain with Volaire’s officials, or perhaps with the embassies themselves. Whatever the case, for many, the Orcs have become unlikely saviors.

With the dragons still embroiled in their own war, trade routes in disarray, and the Fae a looming threat…

What will become of Ariad?

[For the foreseeable future, Dalefaer is inaccessible. Tuatha remains on lockdown. Seshtau, Volaire, and the Orc Settlement are overflowing with hungry refugees.]