The princess held the hilt of her sword, its tip resting in the mulch beneath her feet. Sunset had faded across the forest, taking with it the last vestiges of safety. The leaves, dense upon the boughs of her ancestors' forest, hissed and sighed, echoing the tension in her own heart. The princess breathed deep, fog cooling her face and lungs. She stared into the inky darkness and prayed, hearing the creak of leather and tinkling of chain mail behind her.
Tonight, the last of the elves would follow their beloved princess, faithful and fearful, into their last battle. Victory or destruction, they would follow. For set upon her raven head, the crown wrought of Nightsoul gleamed with the hope of moonlight. And so long as there was light, there was hope.
The princess lifted her blade. "To me, brethren. To me, sons and daughters of the sky."
And so the stars began to march, the moonborn princess their guiding hope, in the final gloaming of this final hour before their swords would flash across the sky in war against despair. If humanity would watch the twinkling blades and their hearts would leap with joy and awe, the elves would gain the strength to continue their battle across the sky.
"For hope," the elven princess murmured, and raised her blade.
