The Nightthral stared down at Mathes with a gaze as heavy as fate itself. Its eyes didn't just look at him—they claimed him. Mathes knew in that moment… death had already closed on him.
"Crap. Here we go again..." he muttered helplessly as he took a deep breath to face the monster with everything he got.
Somewhere within the safety of the Aetherthorn, beneath the towering canopy of the protective dome, the elven folk clustered around the central fountain. Above its gentle cascade hovered a floating screen—an arcane projection linked directly to the Lantaw outside. The screen shimmered with swirling images from the outside world, its mirrored surface revealing the unfolding danger beyond the barrier.
Dozens of anxious faces had their faces glued to the screen —elders, children, warriors with clenched fists. Their eyes were wide, their breaths held. Through the orb, they watched Mathes standing alone before the Nightthral, a golden figure against the backdrop of looming death.
