The Order of Midnight (Prologue) by James L

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The emerald itself was stunning; cut undeniably by an expert, it was utterly unblemished. But the soul that it contained was simply awe-inspiring perfection. It transcended the meanings of beauty and purity.
Ameran smiled grimly. It was bleakly ironic that an object of such magnificence could cause so much destruction and bloodshed.
Carefully he picked it up with his free hand. The soulstone was surprisingly light and seemed to throb with a gentle warmth. No larger than a small apple, he cupped it safely in his hand and rose to his feet. One final time he closed his eyes and attempted to commune with his companions, searching hopefully for any familiar sign of life.
Nothing.
Exhaling heavily, his eyes flicked open. A black wave of despair threatened to wash over him from the depths of his mind. He was the last of the Phaeron. Fifty-two millennia of civilisation and he was the sole survivor, the final shard of a mighty empire, shattered by a war over four stones – one of which he now held in his hand.
He felt a tremor in his right knee but refused to let himself sag down into the snow, broken and defeated. If this was the end, he reasoned, they would not find him cowering and afraid.
Jaw set grimly, he raised the soulstone and gazed into its lustrous depths. Almost instantly a soothing calm eased into his mind, spreading downwards through his body, revitalising his muscles. Gone was the fear and the panic of earlier, replaced by a steely determination. He knew what he had to do. Raising the soulstone to his lips, he kissed its perfect surface.
"Forgive me, my Lady," he whispered, his voice laced with sorrow.
Ameran turned to the yawning chasm of air that dropped away not two yards in front of him. Taking a steadying breath, he let the cold mountain air invigorate him. Then, without any hesitation, his arm snapped back and he launched the soulstone into the air and watched with a heavy heart as it vanished into the darkness below.
Silently Ameran, the last of the Phaeron, turned and gazed into the gloom of the woods. He felt like he had lost a part of himself, a part of his history and that of his people. The comfort and reassurance the stone had brought him was gone, leaving an empty void. Hefting his blade in his right hand he waited for the final reckoning.

The black shapes moved smoothly between the darkened trees. Padding stealthily on all fours, they slipped through the shadows, feral eyes gleaming with a primitive hunger. Upon sighting Ameran, they hesitated just inside the tree line, growling low in their throats. Seeing their prey was trapped against the precipice, they moved slowly forwards into the moonlight.
Ameran watched the four coldwolves emerge from the trees and had to restrain himself from taking a step backwards. Unnerved, his eyes moved over the jet-black fur that covered their strong, muscular bodies. They were huge even by coldwolf standards; their paws looked as big as his own hands and he guessed they must be nearly his own height in length. He found himself fighting the urge to raise his blade as the four monstrous wolves closed in on him, their jaws slathering.