Crossing the swamp a second time, they knew the place now — knew its hungers, its lies. Leeches still bloated on the waters. The trees still whispered. But they pressed on, determined to return to Kosh with their prize and fulfill the mission that had once seemed so simple.

But the Queen had awoken.

The mist thickened. Shadows grew teeth.

And then she was there —
Not a woman.
Not a creature.
Something older and crueler than any word spoken by mortal tongues.

Maltheris.

She did not attack.

She stood amidst the rising fog, cloaked in tatters of blackness, her voice like the death of stars.
"You carry what is mine," she said, and even the swamp itself seemed to freeze at her words.

The companions drew steel and spell — gods, they fought — but her presence alone bent the world.
Spells faltered.
Blades dulled.
Hope crumbled.

And then the Queen, smiling a smile colder than the grave, offered them a choice.

"A game," she said. "Answer my riddles, children of the mist. Each success shall buy you a breath longer. Each failure shall cost you... dearly."

In fear, they agreed — believing they bargained for their lives.

The riddles were cruel things — twisted echoes of elven wisdom long buried in the swamp's bones.
Howls of memory, puzzles woven into the very roots of the world.

The companions answered them, one by one.
Trevor and Rand, thinking quickly.
Peren, calm as the still sea.
Moroseth, guessing with hunter’s instinct.
Baris, whispering truths he should not have known.
Even Biff, simple and brave, offering an answer that somehow made the mist hesitate.

And with each answer, they saw no chains, no prisons.

But Maltheris did.

Each riddle solved, empowered by the ancient gems in her unseen hand, shattered another of her bindings —
the last spells laid by the elves of Eldoria when the world was still young.

The companions thought themselves clever — thought they bargained wisely.

In truth, they were the final keys to her escape.

And when the last riddle was answered, and the last gem surrendered, Maltheris laughed.

Not with joy.

But with inevitability.

The world screamed.

Maltheris seized the Eternal Flame from its hidden sanctum in Eldoria.
The skies cracked open.
The seas boiled.
The mountains bled fire.

Earthquakes split the lands they once called home.
Volcanoes tore the horizon apart.
Mist rolled outward like the slow heartbeat of some ancient god rising from its tomb.

They ran, away from the ruin they had helped unleash — even as the world fell apart behind them.

When they reached Kosh, it was already dying.

The wizard who had hired them was dead — slain by the backlash of his failed teleportation spell, his body shattered amid the broken towers.
Streets crumbled.
The mists grew thicker.
The seas roared, surging against the dying city’s bones.

Trevor seized command.

While others panicked, he acted.
Rallying sailors, merchants, guards — anyone still breathing — he forced order from chaos.
He and the companions loaded thousands onto battered ships, battered skiffs, anything that could float.

Rand and Baris worked side by side, healing and shielding the desperate.
Peren and Biff held the docks against riots and stampedes.
Moroseth organized the hunters and sailors into scouts and defenders.

Above them, the skies grew darker.

The final convulsions of the earth sent tidal waves crashing outward.

Their tiny convoy sailed into storm and flame.

At last — battered, broken, but unbowed — the ships crested the final ridge of waves.
The walls of Harbinger rose before them — scarred, but still standing.

They staggered ashore — the refugees, the saved — and the companions, hearts heavy with guilt and triumph alike.

And when they turned to the south, they saw it:

Black clouds boiling over the horizon.
Lightning forking across a sky as dark as a grave.
The clouds stretched outward —
growing —
reaching —
hungering.

The storm had only just begun.