The plaza was a sepulcher.
The only sound in the sudden, vast silence was the wet, ragged, gurgling breath of Magister Kellan, his body a broken ruin, drowning in his own blood on the shattered cobblestones.
Lord Grak-thul stood over him, a mountain of black, victorious iron. His massive, crimson-runed axe was raised high, its runes pulsing with a hungry, red light, eager for the final, severing blow. The demon commander was a statue of triumph, his boot planted firmly on the back of the city's greatest hero. He was savoring this. The silence. The terror. The absolute, crushing finality of his victory.
Elara's silver wall still shimmered, a beautiful, impassive line of light dividing the battlefield, holding back the endless demon horde. On the other side of that barrier, Dain Ragnor, his face a mask of tears and raw, impotent fury, slammed his tower shield against the unyielding light with a muffled, heavy thud.
"NO! NO, YOU... YOU BASTARD! LET ME THROUGH!"
