The sky over Dreadhold wept crimson.
Rain, thick as blood, fell in slow sheets across the ruined fields that stretched beyond the obsidian walls. The once-proud banners of noble houses were soaked in it, sagging in the wind. The scent of metal, fire, and ash clung to every breath. Morning had come—not with warmth, but with wrath.
Trumpets sounded across the plain as the Allied Forces marched forward in a tide of silver and steel. Holy knights clad in radiant armor rode beneath banners stitched with divine runes. Beastmasters summoned creatures of flame and thunder. Mages, their cloaks billowing with arcane energy, chanted war-spells that shimmered in the blood-rain. And at the center, their generals watched from the safety of arcane towers, confident in their overwhelming numbers.
But they had not faced the Thorns.
From the ramparts of Dreadhold, the Twelve stood like the gods of old. Each led their own—their armies, their kin, their monstrous champions.
Valdran, the Blade of the Last Oath, cleaved through entire platoons as he leapt from the battlements, a streak of silver and crimson.
Luna and Eclipse danced in the storm, twin specters of death. One bathed in moonlight, the other cloaked in void.
Serika rained fire from her airborne wyvern legion, painting the skies in arcs of flame.
And throughout it all, Lyra stood at the front lines, obsidian armor gleaming, her silver-white hair matted by blood and rain. She held no crown, but to her people, she was queen. She raised her blade high and called out a single word.
"Defend."
Magic erupted across the battlefield as Dreadhold's defenses awakened—elemental walls surged from the ground, spectral guardians emerged from runes, and hidden artillery fired enchanted bolts that tore through ranks.
As the battle roared, Lyra's mind drifted.
"The hand that holds the blade must be the one that once reached for his heart."
The Elven Queen's words haunted her.
Was this prophecy? Was she truly the only one who could bring Kael back? The Kael who smiled, who held her hand when she was afraid, who whispered that he would protect her—no matter the cost.
She pushed the thought aside. Focus.
Far beyond flesh and stone, deep within the prison forged by a god, Kael hung in chains of obsidian and gold.
He was forced to see through his own eyes—through N'therak's control. Every spell cast, every soldier struck down, every terrified gaze turned toward him... it burned.
And N'therak whispered, sweet and cruel.
"Look at what they've become without you. Look at what you must become to save them."
"You want to protect her? Then let me. I will burn the world before I let harm touch her."
Kael's lips moved, but it was not his voice that echoed from them.
The first day's battle was ending.
The field was littered with corpses and broken banners. Smoke curled from scorched earth. Both sides had pulled back slightly, breathless.
Then the sky split open.
A pillar of divine flame cracked the heavens, and from it descended a figure cloaked in shadow and flame. Wings of cursed light unfurled behind him. His armor gleamed like molten gold veined with darkness. And his eyes—one bled light, the other void.
Kael landed before the gates of Dreadhold, cracking the earth beneath him.
All grew silent.
The Thorns stood still. Lyra stepped forward, her heart caught in her throat.
Kael did not look at her.
He stared past them all, toward the Allied Forces, and spoke coldly:
"Lay down your arms… or burn with the rest."
Silence reigned.
And somewhere high above, watching through hundreds of conjured eyes, N'therak whispered to the clouds:
"Let this be the first dawn of the last war."