From a nearby hilltop, Valebane stood still, his dark cape snapping in the wind like a banner of fate. His arms were folded tightly across his chest, his face carved from stone—cold, unreadable, as if he already knew how this battle would end. He watched in silence as chaos unfurled below, his sharp gaze drifting from the clashing armies to the approaching warlords.
Then, he smiled.
It was a quiet, bitter curve of the lips—less triumph and more vindication. The kingdom of Aurliath, so proud, so righteous, had once mocked him… rejected his offer to aid them in this very battle. And now? Now, they were being swallowed whole by the very enemy he could have helped them defeat.
On the battlefield, the army of Aurliath surged forward, a final push against the orc tide. But just as steel met steel, the orcs stopped. Every one of them.
As if commanded by some unseen force, they stood grinning at their enemies—grins too wide, too calm, too knowing. It wasn't the look of soldiers in a fight. It was the look of victors watching their prey walk into a trap.
Then the earth groaned.
A low, terrible sound echoed across the field, and without warning, the ground beneath Aurliath's forces gave way. A massive pit tore open in the heart of the army, as wide as a village. Screams ripped through the air as men and horses alike plummeted into the abyss.
In an instant, half of Aurliath's army vanished.
On the ridge above the chaos, the five royal knights turned in horror, their eyes wide as they watched their comrades disappear into the void.
"H-how... how is that possible?" Kaela whispered, her voice cracking, barely audible over the rising wind. Her hands trembled on the hilt of her sword. Her lips parted, but no words followed—just the stunned silence of someone watching everything she believed in unravel before her.
Sophi staggered back a step, her armour suddenly feeling far too heavy. "Half of our army is gone," she said, her voice quivering, her breath hitching. "Just like that…" Her knees buckled slightly, fear crawling up her spine like ice. She looked back toward the orc warlords who stood untouched—watching them.
Smiling.
"How are we supposed to fight this?" she whispered, the question hanging in the air like a curse.
And from his hilltop, Valebane watched it all.
And he said nothing.
he orc warlords loomed like statues of some ancient, cruel gods — motionless, yet brimming with scorn. Their jagged smiles carved into their brutish faces mocked the trembling army before them. Death, it seemed, was no burden to these beasts; it was a game, a delight, a promise of more blood to savour.
The soldiers of Aurliath faltered, their spirits buckling under the weight of a terror they had never known. How could they fight an enemy that could twist the tide of battle with a mere thought?
"Hold the line!" roared Ser Dorian, his voice cutting through the rising panic like a blade. His fingers clenched tighter around the hilt of his greatsword, his knuckles pale with resolve. "Do not let them see your fear!" he cried, stepping forward, his armour battered but unbowed. "It will only make them stronger!"
He turned, meeting the eyes of the soldiers who still stood, and of those who had fallen to their knees. "Take up the weapons of your fallen brothers," Dorian commanded, voice thick with a furious, unyielding hope. "Stand with me — and charge! We will claim victory or die with honour in our hearts!"
A tremor ran through the army — not of fear, but of awakening.
Broken swords were cast aside in favour of weapons snatched from lifeless hands. Wounded men tightened the straps of their torn armour. Mages, their strength nearly spent, gritted their teeth and dragged power from the deepest, darkest wells within themselves, summoning what little magic still flickered in their veins.
Hope, raw and desperate, surged across the field like a spark catching dry grass.
Together, with a ragged battle cry, they surged forward — not just soldiers now, but a storm fuelled by defiance, ready to meet death or glory on their own terms.
High atop the blackened ridge, the Orc King stood like a shadow carved from iron, his eyes gleaming with cruel delight as he gazed down upon the battlefield. The warlord orcs, massive and brutal, flanked him in grim silence, their weapons slick with anticipation. A wicked grin stretched across the King's scarred face, twisting into something nearly feral.
"Look at them," he rasped, his voice low and venomous. "Marching straight into death's embrace and thinking it victory. Fools—every one of them."
He turned his gaze toward Glush, a towering orc whose eyes glowed faintly with restrained bloodlust. The King's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "It's time they learned what true strength is. Blow the Horn of Khal. Let the warlords loose—let them feel what power really is."
Glush lowered his head in solemn obedience, then lumbered toward the massive horn that stood like a dark monument atop the hill. Forged from the bones of ancient beasts and bound in black steel, the Horn of Khal radiated malice like heat from a forge.
Taking hold of it with both hands, Glush pressed the cold mouthpiece to his lips. He inhaled deeply, his chest expanding, then unleashed the breath in a single, thunderous blow.
The sound that erupted from the horn was not a call—it was a curse.
A long, haunting wail tore across the battlefield, soaked in ancient hatred and echoing with a power that seemed to crawl beneath the skin. It was the sound of madness made music, and those with fragile hearts or unsteady minds faltered where they stood. Some screamed.
Some dropped their weapons. A few fell to their knees, clutching their heads as if trying to block out a voice only they could hear.
Kaela collapsed to her knees, a broken cry slipping from her lips."What's… happening?" she gasped, her voice trembling as she clutched at the air. Her body, once so full of strength, now felt foreign and frail."My body… why is it giving out?" she whispered, her eyes wide with terror, the colour draining from her face. Panic gripped her chest like a vice, each breath harder to take than the last.
Across the battlefield, Iancyne staggered back, his fingers loosening on the bow he had once held with such certainty. For the first time in his life, something dark and paralyzing slithered into his heart — fear. Raw, suffocating fear. Panic clawed at the edges of his mind, and for a moment, he couldn't even remember how to breathe.
All around them, the mighty army of Aurliath crumbled. Weapons slipped from trembling hands, clattering uselessly to the ground. Soldiers who had once stood tall with pride now shrank back, eyes wide with despair. The terrible sound that had erupted from the Horn of Khal had ripped the soul from every man and woman who heard it. Within the great walls of Aurliath, hope itself seemed to wither and die.
It was as if Death had stepped into their midst — not as a shadow or a whisper, but as a living force that tore away courage, stripped away strength, and left only the hollow certainty that defeat was inevitable.
Ser Dorian — once the bravest among them — felt his courage slipping through his fingers like sand. Yet he refused to show it. His hand clenched tighter around the hilt of his greatsword, the leather biting into his palm. Gritting his teeth, he turned to glance over his shoulder — and his heart lurched.
No...
His eyes widened in disbelief. His men — the very soldiers who had once roared into battle at his side — were fleeing, their faces pale with terror. The mighty army he had trusted, now crumbling like ash in the wind, retreating from a battle they knew they could not win.
Dorian's chest tightened as he watched them scatter. Hope, once a burning fire in his heart, now guttered like a candle in the storm. Even Kaela, even Iancyne, even Sophi — the ones he had trusted most — had turned and run.
And he... he alone remained.
A single figure standing against the advancing horde of monsters.