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The Masters of Hoeth had attributed Sildaen's acute magical sense to a gifted bloodline. The talented Archmage knew this to be truer than the respected scholars realized, for his grandsire was among those who created the Vortex to suppress Chaos' spread during the first incursion. His ancestor was among the few selfless and legendary Mages who locked themselves in the timeless void at the Vortex's center to ensure the spell's success for the good of all. In his youth, Sildaen believed his ancestor spoke to him through the many ley lines that crossed the world, eventually converging on the Vortex. If ever these magical tether lines ebbed and flowed, the Archmage would hear it on the wind; he would see it in his dreams.
Over the years, as Sildaen's proficiency grew, pride took a foothold. He began to dismiss the signs in favor of his own gained knowledge. When news of Malekith's invasion reached his ears, the extent of his pride was matched only by the punishing weight of his guilt. Sildaen fell to his knees and cried to the heavens for forgiveness.
The Archmage's plea was heard. Like a tidal wave over the jagged coast of the Shadowlands, an overwhelming sensation washed over him. He collapsed. Visions of things, both ethereal and corporeal, flooded his mind. A thousand whispers and screams closed in around him. Most mortals would have crumbled under the cerebral weight, but Sildaen's heart begged for redemption. Defiant strength filled his veins as he rose back to his feet. The training of a thousand years in the White Tower of Hoeth took hold. His mind sifted through the barrage of imagery with a renewed fervor, as if paging through coveted tomes in the Halls of Knowledge.
Sildaen saw Malekith's Black Arks piercing grey clouds off the coast of the Blighted Isle. The imposing citadels landed violently against the cragged cliffs. Boulders fell from the broken ground into the watery darkness below. Rocks rolled one over the other, swirling into a maelstrom until they finally came to a sudden halt, standing tall in symmetrical formation. Brilliant blue lights pierced the centers of the newly formed pillars.
"The Menhir Stones," Sildaen whispered to himself as revelation settled in. "Malekith's madness knows no bounds."
The Archmage's apprentice, Variel, rushed into the study.
"I heard a commotion. Is everything in order, master?"
Sildaen responded flatly as he proceeded to sift through the ornate bookcase. "No, everything is not in order, Variel," he answered. "Pride has blinded me." Taking grip of his choice tome and a rune-inlaid staff, he continued. "Alert the Phoenix King's Shining Guard, send word to the Shadow Warriors of the Blighted Isle, and call upon the White Lions of Chrace, then see that my steed is readied."
"To where shall you ride, wise Sildaen?" Variel asked.
"Malekith's armies march toward the Menhir stones," Sildaen answered. "To what end I know not, but I do know what I must do. Today, I ride in honor of my ancestors, to preserve that which they toil for across eternity. I ride in defense of the Menhir Valetear. I ride for my redemption.
"For today, the Witch King's armies will suffer true mastery!"