Smoke rose over the distant hills of Cindermoor, darkening the pale skies with the promise of war.
Kael stood atop a half-buried ruin overlooking the marshland pass, Ashrend resting across his back. The wind tugged at his crimson cloak as he surveyed the terrain — a narrow corridor between crag and mire, the only route the Black Host could take without exposing their flanks.
Lyra stepped beside him, her blades sheathed but her eyes sharp.
"Too quiet. They'll strike tonight."
"They want blood and spectacle," Kael replied.
"So we'll give them both… but on our terms."
Darric knelt beside the makeshift palisade below, directing lines of villagers turned militia. The Cindermoor garrison had already been shattered by Veilspawn — what remained were farmers and smiths, terrified but standing.
Kael descended the ridge to meet them.
"Steel your hearts," he called out, voice like thunder cracking through fog. "They come to shatter your lives — but we will break their bones first."
He drew Ashrend. The blade pulsed once with crimson fire, answering his will.
"You'll see me at the front. You'll hear their screams behind me. Stand with me, and we burn them back to the Veil!"
A cheer rose, ragged but fierce.
That night, the storm came.
They struck without warning — a sudden wave of shrieking Veilspawn followed by war drums echoing across the marsh. At their head rode Gharn the Butcher, mounted on a three-eyed horror stitched from wolves and smoke, his twin cleavers dragging behind him.
Kael met them with fire.
He charged first, Ashrend blazing to life, leaving trails of searing crimson as he cut down the vanguard. Veilspawn erupted in bursts of blood and light as his blade cleaved cleanly through armored flesh.
"Crimson Surge!" he roared, slashing in an arc that unleashed a fan of flame.
The marshland boiled under the heat.
Lyra danced between enemies with lethal grace, her twin sabers moving like silver fire.
Darric unleashed bolts from atop the barricade, striking down those that got too close.
But it was Kael who turned the tide.
Gharn the Butcher came crashing down the slope, howling with rage. "Sovereign's brat!"
Kael blocked his strike, Ashrend locking with Gharn's bone-cleavers, sparks flaring between them.
"You're the first," Kael said coldly. "Let's see how far you fall."
They clashed in a furious duel — Gharn's raw strength against Kael's speed and precision. Each blow from Kael's blade left burning scars across the brute's armor.
"Ashrend Fang!" Kael invoked.
He struck low, severing Gharn's leg at the knee. The general roared and swung wildly, but Kael ducked, rolled, and came up behind him.
Ashrend ignited in his hand.
Kael whispered the words of the Sovereign flame.
"For every soul you've taken..."
With one clean, blazing slash — he beheaded Gharn the Butcher.
The massive body crumpled.
Silence fell. Then screams. The Black Host faltered as word spread: their general was dead.
Kael turned to his people, his aura still burning.
"No mercy. Push them back."
The Crimson Sovereign led the charge. And that night, the Cindermoor Line held.