The Fall of Aenarion
Alatariel was the most beautiful elven bairn the light of the sun has ever illuminated, a princess every bit as filled with bubbling potential as her brother.
Every bit as cursed.
When forty two years had come and gone since the slaying of Prospertine she finally got her chance.
Leading a weltering tide of daemons into the mortal realms, K’syarta made her way to face her nemesis; her forces hacking and slaying all opposition they met to bloody ribbons.
Knowing that life could not continue with the forces of chaos running free, the mage Caledor began a powerful ritual to bind the winds of magic in a great vortex. Against his own better judgement, Aenarion defended the spellcasters as they began the incantations, fighting back against the onrush of slavering monsters.
Reaching him at last, K’syarta sent four greater daemons to make battle with him as she stood waiting; but the great Elven lord slew all of them.
But that time and that place would one day come. That she assured him.
So with good grace, the true heir to the Elven realm stepped aside and allowed the rebuilding of the Elven realm to continue.
And he bided his time.