Smoke curled over the obsidian plains beyond the border of Artherion, thick and cloying, like the breath of a storm that refused to break. Above the sky, the clouds had blackened, shaped not by wind but will. It was there, beneath this cursed sky, that the Legion of the Rift advanced.
Seven thousand strong.
Led by Saevan's appointed commander, a dread knight named Lorcan, whose name was whispered with fear even among his own, these soldiers bore the sigils of betrayal and the fire of false prophecy. Their blades thirsted not for justice, but conquest.
They moved swiftly toward the provincial fortress of Nareth's Hollow, a sleepy outpost nestled between the Ravencrest cliffs and the Vale of Whispers. A place whose towers were old and moss-wrapped, and whose soldiers were few.
Easy prey.
Or so it seemed.
---
The fortress gates had stood open. No horns. No watchmen. Just dust and silence.
Lorcan gave the order.
"Advance. No quarter."
The Legion spilled into the narrow streets, boots echoing off stone, blades drawn. Arrows were knocked, chants prepared, spells preemptively whispered. Yet no resistance met them. Not even a whisper of movement beyond the banners swaying in the stillness.
"Cowards," spat one knight. "They've abandoned the city."
But there was no fear in the walls of Nareth's Hollow. Only waiting.
Lorcan signaled for the mages to form their positions. A shield spell was raised around the forward guard. Fire magi ignited their palms in preparation.
And still—nothing.
Only wind.
And a strange ringing in the ears, like the hum of distant glass.
One soldier called out.
Another collapsed, clutching his head.
Then it began.
From the highest tower of the keep, a pulse of light burst outward, not blinding, but bone-deep. Ancient sigils along the towers' surfaces ignited, glowing with gold and sapphire. Glyphs that predated empires began to unravel into the air itself.
And then, from the center of the square, a figure rose.
He had not been seen. Not sensed. Not counted.
Cloaked in gray.
Barefoot.
Eyes closed.
An old man. Thin. Forgotten.
Until now.
He raised one hand.
His eyes opened.
They blazed with golden light.
"I am Calzareth," he whispered, though his voice rang like thunder, "High Mage of the Ninth Circle. Bound for one thousand years beneath the Oath of Silence."
He stepped forward.
"No longer."
---
The magic erupted.
It was not fire. Not thunder. Not storm.
It was unmaking.
Whole squadrons of the Rift Legion vanished mid-step. Screams were cut short. The air folded in on itself as spells disintegrated and armor turned to air.
A war-beast summoned from the southern gate, twenty feet tall and plated with enchanted bone, charged at the mage.
Calzareth raised a finger.
It collapsed into a pile of lifeless feathers and rust.
Soldiers fled. Some tried to teleport.
They reappeared inside walls. Or not at all.
One battalion of twenty elite blood-rites raised their hands in unison to cast the Dread Wreath. Calzareth looked up,
...and all twenty fell, lifeless, before the spell could form.
Lorcan bellowed, rallying the remnants of his men.
"Stand and fight!"
He charged.
Blade in hand, crimson energy surging around him, he came like a comet.
Calzareth extended his hand. The blade shattered before it met his aura. Lorcan froze mid-step. His limbs locked in air.
"You know not what you serve," Calzareth said.
Lorcan's eyes widened in horror.
And then he was gone.
No ashes. No blood.
Just… gone.
The battle had lasted less than twelve minutes.
The earth was still.
Birdsong returned.
Only one remained alive.
A boy.
Barely eighteen.
He had hidden beneath a broken cart, his hands shaking, his mind unraveling.
He stumbled back to Dravenguard four days later. His hair had turned white. His speech trembled. His gaze saw things not present.
"They… they weren't soldiers," he whispered. "We were lambs. And they fed us… fed us to a god…"
He collapsed at the gates.
---
Saevan stood in the Hall of Black Mirrors. Twelve generals lined the perimeter. Spies and warlocks filtered in like smoke.
He had seen it all. He had watched through scrying flames, his brow furrowed not in fear, but calculation.
"The Legion is lost," one general said.
Saevan raised his hand.
"Not lost," he said. "Spent."
Murmurs rose.
"Let Artherion believe we aimed to take Nareth. Let them celebrate. Let their silence become arrogance. We will give them time… to relax their grip."
"But High Mage Calzareth.. "
"Yes," Saevan whispered. "Their monster has awoken."
A pause.
"Then we shall unchain ours."
He stepped into the center of the circle. A silver blade cut across his palm. He knelt, placing the blood on the obsidian sigil at the floor's heart.
"I call on the roots that bind the worlds," he intoned, "the names unspoken before the firmaments formed."
The temperature dropped.
Flames turned black.
"Summon the Primordial Hosts."
A silence followed.
And then, a groan from deep beneath the earth.
Ancient.
Hungry.
Alive.
And far across the realms, in the Tower of Stars, King Elyrion stirred.
He opened his eyes.
The constellations blinked.
And the war, though headlong begun, was beginning.
To be continued...