The battlefield was drenched in chaos as Elrianon's forces struggled against Zorath's newly risen army of the dead. Bodies that had fallen moments ago were now standing once more, their empty eyes glowing with the dark energy of necromancy. It seemed endless—the more they struck down, the more that rose in their place, a relentless cycle of death and rebirth.
"Elrianon!" one of the men shouted desperately, hacking away at a soldier that just wouldn't stay down. "They can't be killed! What do we do?"
Elrianon, standing amidst the swirling mass of undead, turned and shouted back, his voice calm but urgent. "Keep fighting! I'm ending this. The source lies with Zorath."
Without hesitation, he surged forward, pushing through his own men, weaving between the ranks of his warriors who were locked in combat with the undead. His eyes narrowed, locking onto the dark figure at the far end of the battlefield. Zorath, clad in his dark, flowing robes, stood with an almost casual demeanor as his undead minions wreaked havoc all around him.
Determined, Elrianon increased his speed, running faster as he neared Zorath. With a fluid motion, he leaped into the air, his sword gleaming as he aimed to strike down the dark lord. But with a mere wave of his hand, Zorath sent Elrianon flying through the air, slamming him into the jagged mountain wall. The impact was brutal, the force shaking loose debris from the cliffside.
Elrianon groaned as he pushed himself up from the dirt, the wind knocked out of him, but his resolve unshaken. Brushing off the dust and blood, he set his gaze back on Zorath. His enemy stood still, a smile curling at his lips, his dark eyes glittering with amusement.
"You're persistent, elf," Zorath taunted, his voice rich and full of disdain, carrying an air of superiority that twisted Elrianon's stomach. He took a step forward, his robe barely moving as if untouched by the wind or the chaos around him. "Why do you keep this up? You must know, you've already lost."
Ignoring the pain coursing through his body, Elrianon charged again, his sword raised high. He swung it with deadly precision, but Zorath was like smoke—each strike missed by inches, as if the dark sorcerer wasn't even trying. With every evasion, Zorath spoke, his voice dripping with a malevolent calmness.
"You're done, elf," Zorath said, sidestepping another blow. "What is this? A last stand of your kind? You should have accepted your fate long ago. Why persist when you know your kind is inferior to me? To what I am?"
Elrianon, seething with fury, managed to get close enough to grab Zorath by the collar, only for the dark lord to swiftly retaliate. Zorath grasped Elrianon by the throat with unnatural strength, lifting him off the ground as if he weighed nothing. Elrianon's feet dangled, struggling to break free as Zorath's cold grip tightened.
"You're nothing," Zorath said, his voice now a venomous growl, every word laced with cruel mockery. "Just an elf. And your kind is nothing compared to what I have become."
Elrianon, despite the pressure on his windpipe, managed to choke out a few words, his eyes blazing with defiance. "You… will pay… for what you did… You took everything from me."
Zorath's deep laughter echoed through the valley, reverberating off the walls like a haunting melody. His eyes gleamed with dark amusement, a predator toying with his prey. "Oh, the tragedy! Another poor soul looking for vengeance. And who are you to think that *you* will be the one to defeat me?"
A sudden surge of raw power flowed through Elrianon. His eyes began to glow with ancient magic, a forgotten force buried deep within his bloodline. With an explosive burst of energy, Elrianon unleashed a spell older than any of the magic his kin knew, propelling Zorath backward with such force that the ground beneath them cracked. The dark lord was hurled through the air, smashing through the blocked section of the valley, the rocks splintering as he was sent flying into the open field beyond.
Elrianon, breathing heavily but fueled by a new wave of strength, stepped forward, following Zorath into the clearing. Dust still hung in the air, and rocks crumbled from the shattered valley wall. His sword was ready, his eyes fixed on the spot where Zorath had landed.
As the dust began to settle, Zorath stood. His robes were torn, but the twisted smile remained. He wiped a smear of blood from his mouth, chuckling as though nothing had happened. "You're good," he said, his voice echoing through the valley like the dark omen it was, "but not good enough."
Elrianon's grip tightened on his sword as Zorath straightened, the two of them standing in the open field, the final battleground for a war that had been building for centuries.
Elrianon's strikes were fierce, his movements quick and precise, but Zorath was faster. Each swing of the broken sword was dodged effortlessly, and the dark lord continued to move with an unsettling grace, always just out of reach. Elrianon, frustration boiling in his veins, let out a guttural scream, his voice echoing through the battlefield.
"Fight back!" he roared, his sword gleaming with remnants of magic as he aimed for Zorath's throat.
Zorath, seemingly bored by the struggle, tilted his head as if considering the challenge. Then, with a cold smile, he finally responded, "Okay... I'll play along."
In a blur of motion, Zorath's hand shot forward, gripping the blade of Elrianon's sword mid-swing. For a moment, time seemed to freeze as Elrianon's eyes widened in disbelief. With a casual flick of his thumb, Zorath snapped the sword in two, the metal shattering like brittle glass. Dark, ethereal energy seeped from his fingertips, tainting the once-holy elven weapon. The malevolent magic crawled along the broken edges, corrupting it, almost reaching Elrianon's hands before he recoiled.
Desperate, Elrianon unleashed a beam of ancient energy from his palm, a powerful spell that had once decimated armies. But Zorath didn't flinch. Raising his hand, he casually absorbed the blast as if it were nothing more than a breeze, the dark magic swirling around his palm before dissipating into the air. He laughed, a deep, cruel sound that sent shivers down the spines of all who could hear.
"You still don't get it, do you?" Zorath said, his voice soft but filled with contempt. "No matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, you are *nothing* to me."
With terrifying speed, Zorath's hand shot out, seizing Elrianon by the throat once more. Lifting him into the air, Zorath stared into his eyes, a flicker of amusement crossing his dark features.
"You will *always* be nothing."
Zorath slammed Elrianon into the ground with bone-shattering force, the earth cracking beneath them. Pain shot through every nerve in Elrianon's body, his vision swimming as his head throbbed. But Zorath wasn't done. He pressed his boot into Elrianon's chest, crushing him into the dirt, applying more and more pressure until Elrianon felt as though his ribs might break.
"You will never be good enough," Zorath whispered, leaning down close, his breath like frost on Elrianon's skin. "You will never have the power you crave. And you know what else?"
Zorath's voice dropped to a mocking whisper, his lips curling into a sneer.
"You'll never be the hero."
The words struck deeper than any blade. Elrianon, his strength waning, could feel the darkness closing in around him. Zorath's laughter filled his ears, drowning out everything else, and for a brief moment, Elrianon thought it might be over.
Then, out of nowhere, a massive blast of energy struck Zorath, hurling him off Elrianon. The dark lord was sent flying backward, tumbling across the ground before coming to a halt. For the first time, Zorath's laughter ceased, replaced by a look of surprise.
Elrianon, barely conscious, coughed, blood spilling from his lips. His vision was blurred, the world around him spinning as he tried to comprehend what had happened. Through the haze, he felt a hand grip his arm, gently pulling him to his feet.
"Who…" Elrianon rasped, his voice weak as he squinted to see who had saved him. His eyes, still foggy, slowly began to clear, and standing before him was a familiar figure.
"Father?" Elrianon whispered in disbelief. "Is that you?"
"Yes, my son," the voice replied, strong and filled with warmth. "We're here."
As Elrianon turned to face the source of the voice, his heart nearly stopped. Stretching out across the battlefield, as far as his eyes could see, was an army—an army of elves. Their armor gleamed under the sunlight, their banners flying high, and at the forefront, leading them, stood his father.
Elrianon's breath caught in his throat. "How…" he began to ask, his mind racing as he looked around in astonishment.
Elrianon stood in disbelief, staring at his father, trying to process the impossible. His father—alive, standing before him with a power that rivaled even the ancient elven lords. He had thought him lost long ago, in the chaos of the first wave of Zorath's invasion.
"How… I thought you were dead," Elrianon whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
His father smiled, a bittersweet expression crossing his weathered face. "My son, it takes a lot more than a war to kill this old man."
"And mother?" Elrianon asked, hope flickering in his eyes, though the question was laced with fear. There was a long pause, the weight of silence suffocating, before his father finally answered.
"I'm sorry, Elrianon... your mother didn't make it."
The words hit Elrianon like a hammer. His heart clenched, pain surging through him that had nothing to do with the physical wounds he had suffered. He had feared as much, but hearing the truth was different. His mind raced back to Elyndra, her gentle smile, her warmth, her unwavering support. She had been a beacon of light, guiding him through the darkest times. And now, that light was gone.
Grief flared into anger, and Elrianon's gaze snapped back to Zorath. His fists clenched around the shattered remnants of his sword, and he whispered to himself, "You will die for this."
Zorath, who had been dusting himself off after the blast, looked up at the sight of the massive elven army standing before him. He raised an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across his face. Then, laughter—deep, mocking laughter—filled the valley. It was the kind of laugh that sent chills down spines, full of arrogance and a twisted sense of amusement.
"I must say... color me impressed," Zorath said, his voice dripping with condescension. "An army of elves, here to save the day. How quaint. Your kind, my lord," he addressed Elrianon's father with a mock bow, "doesn't usually put up much of a fight. But *you*..." Zorath's eyes shifted to Elrianon, a flicker of something dark glinting in them, "...hoo, you don't give up, do you?"
As Zorath spoke, a long, sinister blade began to form from the shadows of his cloak, extending outward like a living entity. The sword pulsed with dark energy, and as it took shape, it seemed to sap the very light from the air around it. Zorath gripped it tightly, his wicked grin widening. "This," he hissed, "will be fun."
Without hesitation, Zorath lunged toward Elrianon with terrifying speed, but before he could reach him, a brilliant flash of energy shot out from Elrianon's father. The blast struck Zorath square in the chest, hurling him backward once again.
"I will not fall for your tricks again, demon," Elrianon's father roared, stepping forward. His voice was like thunder, filled with the authority of a thousand years of rule. "You are in the land of Aeloria, and though you may have found us off guard once, and struck a terrible blow, we will rise again. For our fallen brothers, for our fallen sisters—we will fight!"
Zorath skidded across the ground, sliding backward as he raised his hand to block the beam of energy, dark magic swirling to meet the force of the blast. He struggled momentarily against the sheer might of Elrianon's father, his feet digging into the earth. But as the beam continued to push him back, Zorath's laughter echoed through the valley once more.
"Now this is fun!" Zorath sneered as he broke the beam, dispersing it with a snap of his wrist. The ground trembled beneath them as dark and light magic collided, the sheer force of their powers shaking the very earth.
In a blink, Zorath disappeared, teleporting out of sight, leaving only a swirling mass of shadows where he once stood.
Elrianon's eyes darted around, his heart pounding in his chest. "Where did he go?" he muttered under his breath, scanning the battlefield.
Suddenly, Zorath reappeared behind Elrianon's father, his sword raised high, ready to strike. But before he could land the blow, Elrianon's father spun around, meeting Zorath's dark blade with his own weapon, a blade forged from pure elven magic, shimmering with the light of the stars. The clash of their swords rang out like thunder, sparks flying as the two titans locked in battle.
Zorath grinned wickedly, pressing his blade against Elrianon's father's. "You're good," he sneered, "but not good enough."
The battle between the two raged on, each strike shaking the ground beneath them. Zorath's power was immense, but Elrianon's father matched him blow for blow, his ancient elven magic keeping the darkness at bay. The two were like forces of nature, light and dark, battling for control over the very fate of Aeloria.
Elrianon, watching the fight unfold, felt a surge of pride for his father. But beneath that pride was a burning desire for vengeance, for his mother, for his people, for everything Zorath had taken from them.
As the battle between his father and Zorath intensified, Elrianon gripped the broken hilt of his sword, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew that this was only the beginning. The real fight—the fight to end Zorath once and for all—was still to come.