The war outside felt like a storm that was slowly ripping the world apart, but inside the Chieftain's house, the silence was worse. It was a thick, heavy silence, broken only by the distant, muffled screams of men dying and the rhythmic thudding of the wooden floorboards beneath their feet.
In the main room, Elara sat at the heavy oak table. Her loom stood silent in the corner, the half-finished cloth forgotten. Her hands were clasped so tightly together that her knuckles were white, trembling against her lips. She was not crying; she was past tears. She was chanting a low, desperate prayer to the Spirit of the Tree, begging for a shield, begging for Thorne to walk through the door.
In the back room, the nursery door was cracked open just an inch.
Aael sat on the edge of his bed, his knees pulled up to his chest. He looked small, fragile. His large, dark eyes were shimmering with unshed tears. It wasn't just fear of the monsters; it was a deeper, colder dread. He could feel the golden light of the village fading. He could feel a terrible, jagged void where his father's burning presence used to be.
He's gone, a voice in Aael's head whispered. The wall has fallen. The thought made his throat close up, terrified that if he blinked, the tears would finally fall.
Beside him, Rian was pacing.
Unlike Aael, Rian was not crying. He was vibrating with rage. His small hands were clenched into fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. Every time a roar echoed from the street, Rian flinched—not away from it, but toward it. He hated this. He hated hiding like a rabbit in a hole while his father was out there fighting wolves.
Rian stopped pacing and looked at Aael. He saw his brother's trembling shoulders, the fear etched into his pale face.
Rian crouched down, bringing his face level with Aael's. His eyes burned with a fierce, childish intensity.
"Aael," Rian whispered, his voice soft but sharp.
Aael looked up, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve.
"We can't just sit here," Rian hissed, glancing toward the door where their mother sat. "Father is out there. The whole village is out there."
Aael shook his head frantically, his voice a tiny squeak. "Father said to stay. He said—"
"Father is busy!" Rian interrupted, leaning closer. "He needs help. I'm strong, Aael. I can lift the heavy stones now. And you... you're fast. You're smarter than anyone."
Rian grabbed Aael's wrist. His grip was warm and desperate.
"Why don't we go out?" Rian whispered, his voice trembling slightly, revealing that he was scared too, but his pride was stronger. "Why don't we go out and fight those monsters? Just us. We can help him."
The latch of the nursery window clicked softly. Aael held his breath, glancing back at the sliver of light under the door where their mother prayed. She didn't hear them.
Rian went first, sliding legs-first into the cold mud of the alleyway. Aael followed, shivering as the freezing air bit through his thin tunic. The noise of the battle was no longer muffled; it was a roaring beast. The clash of steel, the screams of men, and the unearthly howls of the dead filled the night.
"To the gate," Rian whispered, gripping his wooden practice sword tight. "That's where Father is."
They sprinted through the shadows, keeping low against the copper-wood walls. But as they rounded the corner near the baker's shop, they skid to a halt.
Blocking the path were three skeletons. They were armed with rusted scimitars, their bones stained with mud and old blood. At the sound of the boys' footsteps, three skulls snapped around. Green fire flared in their sockets.
Aael froze, his legs turning to water. "Rian..."
The skeletons hissed and lunged.
Rian didn't run. He stood his ground, his eyes squeezing shut for a split second. He remembered Thorne's voice in the training ring: The Tree gives us breath (Wind), but against the dark, it gives us Light (Holy).
Rian's eyes snapped open, burning with fierce determination. He gripped the hilt of his toy sword with both hands.
"Break!" Rian shouted.
He channeled his mana. A swirl of green wind erupted around the wooden blade, but threaded through the green was a blinding, pure white light—the Holy essence of the Elder Oak.
Rian swung. It was a clumsy, childish swing, but the magic was true.
The wooden blade struck the first skeleton's ribcage. Instead of bouncing off, the holy energy detonated. CRACK-BOOM. The skeleton shattered into a cloud of white dust.
Rian spun, letting the momentum carry him. He slashed the legs of the second skeleton, then thrust the tip into the skull of the third.
In three heartbeats, the alley was empty, save for three piles of smoking bone dust.
Aael stared at his brother, his mouth hanging open. "You... you did it! You used the Paladin Strike!"
Rian panted, grinning, the white-green aura fading from his sword. "I told you! I told you I could fight!"
Aael stepped forward to high-five his brother, but his foot stopped in mid-air.
A sudden, violent chill raked down his spine. It wasn't the cold of the winter night. It was a sensation like icy fingers brushing the back of his neck. Someone—something—was watching them.
Aael looked up, scanning the rooftops. He saw nothing but smoke and shadows, yet the feeling of being hunted was overwhelming.
"Rian, stop," Aael whispered, grabbing his brother's tunic.
"What? We need to keep mov—"
"Look," Aael pointed with a shaking finger down the main street.
The smoke cleared for a moment. Marching toward them was not a patrol of three. It was a phalanx. Twenty skeletons, led by two of the massive, iron-skinned Orcs. They were stomping over the debris of a fallen house, heading straight for the Chieftain's home.
Rian's grin vanished. He looked at his wooden sword, then at the towering Orcs. He realized, with crushing clarity, that three skeletons were luck. This was an army.
"We can't fight that," Rian breathed, his voice trembling.
"We have to run," Aael said, pulling him back toward the shadows. "Now!"
"This way!" Aael hissed, his voice tight with panic.
He didn't know how he knew. He just felt a hum in his bones, a magnetic pull dragging him toward an old storm grate hidden beneath a patch of overgrown briars.
"That's a sewer drain!" Rian argued, looking back at the encroaching Orcs.
"It leads to the roots!" Aael grabbed Rian's tunic and shoved him toward the opening. "Go!"
They scrambled into the dark, damp tunnel just as the heavy footsteps of the Orcs shook the ground above. The tunnel was narrow, smelling of wet earth and sap. Giant roots from the World Tree pierced through the dirt ceiling, glowing with a faint, dying pulse.
Aael led them through the twisting dark, his hand trailing against the roots, feeling their vibrations. Pain. The Tree is in pain.
After what felt like an eternity, the tunnel opened up. They scrambled up a muddy slope and emerged through a hollow in the trunk of the Great Tree itself, hidden behind a veil of thick moss.
They were at the heart of the village. The sanctuary.
But as they looked out, the sanctuary had become a graveyard.
The boys froze. The air here was thick with the smell of ozone and copper.
The village of Silverleaf was silent. The screams had stopped. The clash of steel had ceased. The fires still burned, casting long, dancing shadows, but there were no defenders left. Bodies of the brave—weavers, smiths, hunters—lay scattered across the square, motionless.
Silverleaf had fallen.
Only two figures remained in the center of the devastation.
Hovering ten feet in the air was the High Lich, Azaroth. His robes were untouched, his skeletal face impassive. He floated closer to the tree, his green eyes burning with greed.
And blocking his path, standing alone in the mud, was Thorne.
The boys gasped, clutching each other's hands.
Their father was unrecognizable. His chest plate was gone, disintegrated by the void spell, leaving a blackened, smoking ruin of flesh. His left arm hung uselessly at his side, the bone clearly shattered. He had lost his warhammer; now, he leaned heavily on a jagged greatsword he must have scavenged from a fallen guard.
He didn't look like a Chieftain. He looked like a corpse that refused to fall.
Blood poured from his mouth, dripping onto his boots. His legs shook violently with every breath, but his feet were planted firm. He stood between the monster and the Tree.
The Lich drifted lower, looking down at the broken man with utter apathy. He did not speak in the common tongue of men. He spoke in the language of the grave—a sound like dry leaves scraping against stone.
"Khar... Thu'um... Vok... Mor."
The words were unintelligible to the boys, and they meant nothing to Thorne in literal translation. But Thorne was a warrior. He had spent his life reading the intent of wolves, bears, and men.
His sharp senses cut through the pain. He heard the cadence of the rasping voice—the arrogance, the dismissal, the command. It was not a spell. It was an order. The monster was telling him to kneel. To accept that he was conquered. To yield.
Thorne spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground. He gripped the sword with his one good hand, his knuckles turning white as he forced his trembling knees to lock into place.
"You speak in riddles, monster..." Thorne wheezed, the sound wet and ragged. He raised his chin, staring directly into the green fire of the Lich's eyes. "But I know what you want. You want my knees in the dirt."
Thorne smiled. It was a bloody, terrifying grimace.
"I am the Chieftain of Silverleaf," he growled, raising the sword point toward the Lich. "And I... am not going to fall here."
"Then perish," the Lich rasped in the common tongue, bored by the defiance.
Azaroth raised a single finger. The air around Thorne began to distort, a massive sphere of green necrotic gravity forming to crush him.
Thorne didn't flinch. He didn't look back at the house. He simply roared—a final, defiant sound that was more animal than man—and braced for the end.