In the quiet hamlet of a village, close to the dome's edge, screams broke the air as Void Reavers attacked.
A farmer, his rough face twisted with fear, swung a pitchfork at a misty beast, his arms shaking with effort, only for its claws to cut through his chest, blood splashing across the muddy ground.
His wife held their son tight, her tear-covered face frozen in terror, whispering a soft prayer, before a Reaver's strike tore them apart, their cries fading into the dark twilight.
Nearby, in another village, a young mother locked her door, her shaky hands fumbling with the rusty latch, her breath coming in sobs, but the wall crashed under a Reaver's rush.
Her last scream rang out as the beast's claws ripped through her, leaving only silence and the glow of a fallen lantern's embers.
Across the northern lands, the dome's beat grew stronger, taking lives with no mercy, homes turned to broken piles under the endless attack.
The scene switched to Fallow's Ferry, wrapped in the dome's creepy twilight, the air heavy with ash and a stinging mist that hurt the eyes.
Void Reavers struck with wild fury, their misty shapes popping up from the cracked ground, claws shining in the weak light.
Ash, with messy dark hair around a scarred face, bright brown eyes full of fight, let loose his essence, a bright white glow tearing through the shadows.
Lyra, her sharp face set with focus, pink tied hair wet with sweat and stuck to her forehead. She moved like a ghost, her daggers hitting weak spots, though she had to block more than attack, her breathing was hard.
Blackthorn, his tough face hard as rock, gray-streaked beard tight with effort, smashed Reavers with Iron Resonance, the loud booms shaking the air, but he couldn't cover everything, his big body tiring.
Ash and Blackthorn fought where cracked, uneven earth strewn with broken wooden planks and shattered stone had collapsed from houses.
Tall trees loomed in the distance, their dark silhouettes framed by the dome's smooth, obsidian surface pulsing with faint purple light.
They'd just cleared their spot, Lyra was battling a separate group across the square, her figure a quick blur, when a distant cry from Lyra signaled a Reaver's fall, her daggers flashing in the mist, buying them a fleeting moment of respite—then more Reavers charged.
A villager's yell stopped as claws sliced through, blood spraying wide, another fell under a Reaver's weight with an awful crunch—they couldn't save them all.
"There's way too many of these cursed things!" Ash shouted, his voice rough and tired as he held his short sword. "We need help, Blackthorn—we can't do this all alone!"
"There's nothing I can do about it," Blackthorn growled, his deep voice thick with frustration as he swung his katana in a big sweep, breaking another Reaver, its misty form vanishing in a puff.
"We're stretched too thin, and these beasts keep coming—there's no stopping them!"
Magister Sol, who was hiding in a corner, stood up, his pointy face pale and sweaty, spoke up in a wobbly voice.
"I can call headquarters if I can get to one of my machines—it might bring help from outside this awful dome!"
Blackthorn turned fast, katana still up, the blade catching a dim gleam, his rough face showing doubt. "Are you sure that device of yours can really reach outside this dome"
"Yes, it sure will," Sol answered, fixing his ripped coat with a nervous tug, his voice picking up a bit of pride.
"It's a top-notch device, built with great care to cut through any wall, no matter how tough—its signal is the strongest around."
"Where's this wonder at?" Ash asked, his grip tightening on his sword.
"Our camp," Sol said, his voice shaky but clear, "a small cottage right near in the middle of the village square"
"That's where the Reavers are thickest," Blackthorn said.
"But we don't have any other choice if we want a chance to get out of this mess—we have to go there."
"Who's going to keep the villagers safe while we're gone?" Ash asked, his voice strained with worry, looking at the scared survivors huddled together, their faces full of terror, the weight of their lives pressing on his aching shoulders.
Ash leaned against his sword, the villagers' screams echoing in his mind, a bitter taste of failure on his tongue.
Hooves pounded through the mist, a sudden loud noise cutting through the mess.
Sven and eleven men charged in, swords out, their dented armor showing their fight, the shine of steel a bright spot in the dark.
Blackthorn stared, his rough face showing shock, mouth dropping open in surprise. "How in the world did you get here?"
"We were halted halfway when the dome sealed us in," Sven gasped, jumping off his horse with a heavy thud, his wide face red from the ride.
"It rose up like a wall of shadow, cutting us off from the capital—we had no choice but to turn back and fight our way here. We fought through a swarm to get back—lost two men to those shadows."
"Where's Borin?" Blackthorn asked, his tone urgent, searching the foggy air for the big man.
"I'm here," Borin roared, his wide face set with determination, axe gleaming with a deadly edge as he stepped out of the shadows, his strong body a welcome sight. "Let's get to fighting, shall we?"
Blackthorn nodded, taking charge with a strong voice.
"Sven, Borin, take your men—eleven with Borin makes thirteen brave fighters. Hold off the Reavers and keep them from breaking through. Ash, Sol, and I are off to retrieve a device—our only hope to call for help."
They agreed, splitting up with loud shouts of agreement, the clash of swords against shadow starting again as Reavers roared, the village hanging by a thread.
The dome's pulse thrummed like a living heartbeat, the purple light flickering as if mocking their efforts, a constant reminder of the shadow entity's grip.
AETHELBURG, THE CLOVER KINGDOM CAPITAL.
High in the watchtower of Aethelburg, the morning sky stretched clear and blue—until the north showed the awful aftermath.
A massive obsidian dome shimmered on the horizon, covering half the kingdom, including the northern territory and Fallow's Ferry.
Its surface pulsed with a faint, evil purple light, a rough scar against the rolling hills and far-off woods.
Sir Windham, a big knight with a worn face full of deep lines and beard, held the stone railing tight, his pale face showing the fear in his hazel eyes.
The wind blew through his thin hair as young Cedric came closer, his young face framed by messy sandy hair, blue eyes big with fear under a wrinkled forehead, his smooth skin shiny with nervous sweat, armor clinking with every slow step.
"Sir Windham… the people are panicking," Cedric stammered, his voice breaking under the pressure, his hands twisting the edge of his cloak.
"The markets are in chaos, stalls knocked over, goods crushed underfoot in a wild panic. They're calling it the 'Darkening,' a name whispered with dread and trembling lips. They're saying the northern lands are… gone, swallowed whole by that horrible thing on the horizon."
Windham didn't look away, his eyes fixed on the dome, voice heavy with a fear that sat on his broad shoulders like a heavy load.
"I know, son. I see it with my own eyes, a sight that freezes the heart. By the roots, I wish Blackthorn were here—he always had a plan, a steady hand when all was lost. I'm a soldier, not a ruler, trained to swing a sword, not to lead a kingdom through this darkness."
His fingers pressed into the cold stone, the lines around his mouth growing deeper with every word. "I don't know how to fight that. It's not an army we can meet on the battlefield. It's… something beyond my grasp, a nightmare made real."
The tower door creaked open with a low groan, the sound bouncing off the stone walls like a sad cry.
Windham and Cedric turned fast, expecting another panicked messenger with bad news, but a figure in a dusty cloak stood outlined against the faint light, the fabric worn from a long trip.
He pulled back his hood, it was King Elvis—his sharp face marked with the years, a neat beard outlining a strong jaw that spoke of endurance, bright green eyes shining with smarts and tired power, shadowed by the weight of rule.
A dry, humorless laugh came from him, rough and bitter, breaking the heavy silence
. "So. Blackthorn left you in charge of the end of the world, did he, Windham? A fine mess he's dumped on your shoulders, and mine by the same token."
They dropped to one knee, heads down, the clank of armor marking their shock with a loud ring. "Your Majesty! You've returned!"
Windham's voice carried a mix of relief and disbelief, thick with the hope of a savior.
"Get up. There's no time for bowing or fancy greetings in the face of this disaster," Elvis snapped, his tone quick and slicing through their stunned quiet with the strength of a born leader.
He walked to the railing with a firm step, his cloak flapping like a flag in the wind, and stared at the dome with a look that hushed the air.
His kingly calm broke for a brief moment, showing pure, fatherly fear, his forehead wrinkling deep as his lips pressed into a tight line, the lines around his eyes tightening with worry.
"My daughter… Elis… she was in the north, a bright hope in that shadowed place." He took a sharp breath, pushing the feeling down with clear effort, the king taking over the father with a hard resolve that lit his gaze.
"This changes nothing of our holy duty to protect what's left. Windham, gather every knight, every guardsman, every person who can hold a spear or lift a shield with courage in their soul. Strengthen the city walls until they stand like iron, fix the gates with all the power we have. Guard the farmlands to the south—every bit of wheat, every barn must be safe as our last stand. We prepare for war, a fight for our very lives. We'll need allies beyond these walls," he added, his gaze hardening as a plan formed behind his eyes.
"War, Your Majesty? Against what kind of enemy do we rise to meet?" Windham asked, standing slowly, his rough face carved with confusion, hands shaking a little at his sides as he tried to grasp the huge threat.
Elvis pointed sharply at the dome, his eyes burning with a mix of anger and unshakable will, the green depths glowing with a fire that wouldn't die.
"Against whatever evil force did that. They've taken my lands with their dark grip, they hold my people in their claws, and maybe even my heir is lost to me in that cursed shadow. We are now a kingdom under attack, split by this monstrous wall, and we will not give up. Now, move!" His voice thundered like a storm, sending Cedric rushing down the spiral stairs with a clatter, Windham following with a firm nod, the weight of their king's order pushing them on.