Aldion the Demon King
Aldion of the bloodline Duathathor lounged on his throne while Mortem, his right hand, droned through reports. His massive frame, carved from centuries of discipline and battle, dwarfed the seat. One leg rested on the armrest, his elbow propped on the other side, fingers brushing his square jaw.
The long, sharp blue horn rising from his forehead marked him as heir of Gol'Koxzurc's line—the greatest general of the Horde. Since the fall of the Demon Lord, Aldion's family had ruled, vowing to finish what their master began.
"The orc incursion is successful," Mortem reported. "Over a thousand new slaves taken. Ore production from the western territories is increasing. Soon—"
Aldion's mind began to drift. This litany never changed—supplies, reinforcements, slaves, campaigns against the Galan Wall. Always the same cycle: advance, retreat, rebuild. Eternity wasted.
He needed more than raids. More than this endless dance. To break the Alliance, he would have to take the field himself. But if he did, they would unite against him.
His gaze darkened. One kingdom was the key—Rosun. The Demon Lord had died attacking it. Aldion would not. He would crush it.
Mortem's droning suddenly sharpened into urgency.
"—The Western General claims a blast of dark aura was felt near his borders. Potent. Unnatural. The strongest since the Age of Legends."
Aldion sat upright, his golden eyes narrowing. The western border lay dangerously close to the Elven Realm… and to the place where rumor spoke of a forbidden summoning.
"Mortem," he interrupted, his voice a growl of command. "Send word to the West. I want the source of that aura found. Now."
Mortem bowed deeply. "As you command, Your Highness."
But Aldion was not finished. His instincts screamed of danger—something new, something serious.
"Mobilize five battalions. March them to secure the western territory."
Mortem hesitated, eyes flicking up in shock. "Your Highness—that is twenty percent of our strength. Surely the Western General can handle this with the battalion he already commands. Sending five more may be… excessive."
Aldion's horn glinted as he leaned forward, his aura pressing like a storm.
"The Never Day Realm has been ruled by my bloodline since the fall of the Great Demon King. I will not allow a threat to take root unchallenged. If there is rebellion, I will crush it utterly. If there is something worse… I will see it broken before it spreads."
Mortem lowered his gaze, sweat beading at his temples. "As you wish, my King."
But behind his bow, his thoughts raced. Five battalions, pulled from the heartlands, on the king's instinct alone? Mortem's mind turned, calculating the risks, and the possibilities.
---
Ortan the Orc Pack Leader
Ortan the Elf-Slayer stalked through the northern forest, watching the lone elf stride with unnerving calm. His pack had shadowed the intruder for hours, waiting.
This elf was either a fool or a killer. Ortan chose caution, letting him wander deep where no rescue could reach. When the moment came, he whistled. Five orcs lunged from the brush.
Steel rang. In seconds, the elf cut them down.
Ortan snarled and signaled ten more. They fell just as swiftly.
Shame burned his chest. He would not allow this insult. Bellowing, he led his full pack into the fray. Fifty orcs charged from every side.
The elf moved like water, shield and sword weaving a deadly dance. Blocks, pivots, slashes—each motion precise, merciless. Orcs dropped around Ortan, and fury drove him forward. He raised his greatsword to cleave the elf in two.
But the elf's shield rammed his chest. Air left his lungs in a roar as he flew into a tree.
When he staggered to his feet, the forest was gone.
He now stood in a vast throne room. His pack hung suspended in the air, eyes wide in silent screams. The throne before him was carved from the gaping jaws of a dragon, its base littered with bones.
And upon it sat a hooded figure, eyes burning like flame.
"I am the Dark Lord."
Shadows tightened. One by one, the orcs dissolved into shrieking nothingness.
Terror froze Ortan's limbs. He had never known fear—until now.
"Where are the prisoners taken from the Galan Wall?"
Before he could answer, invisible claws lifted him, arms and legs stretched until agony lanced through every vein. He screamed until his throat tore.
The torment ceased. The voice came again, cold and unrelenting.
"Where are they?"
Weeping, Ortan gasped the location.
The shadows closed in. His howl echoed—and was cut short.
---
Ella of the Fae
From the shadows, Ella and the freed slaves watched the orc vanish into darkness. Her heart leapt and quailed at once. The MagalaN's power was terrifying—but at last, they had a champion.
He could free them. All of them.
But the girl at his side… Ella now understood who she was. If the Alliance learned of this bond, they would unite, and their first goal would be his destruction.
And yet—perhaps the Alliance's fear was misplaced. For the High Court of the Fae remembered truths this world had forgotten: there were always five MagalaN.
Now that one walked the Ancient Realm, four more were bound to follow.
And when they gathered, the Ancient War would begin anew.
It is written in stone—The Song of the Five—a prophecy instilled in memory to all Fae strong enough to be a member of the Court of the Fae.
She ran it silently through her mind:
*The Land of Light and Shadow is dying…
The flames of Darkness are rising.
The myth long thought forgotten is weaving,
The Time-Lost cast beyond the world returning.
The hero in his slumber waking,
The son of greatness, bound to dawn's breaking.
The dawn lies shattered, its ruins crowned,
A MagalaN summoned by empire bound.
The remnant yet waits, uncalled, unnamed,
But once he is drawn, the fate is the same.
For the Endless is coming—faceless, devouring.
And the Ancient War will soon begin.*
For millennia, Fae scholars have tried to interpret this ancient prophecy. There are variances, but they all agreed in whispers: five MagalaNs will rise again.