The night stretched over the battlefield like a funeral shroud. The sky, once crimson with war, had darkened into an abyss of stars. A sharp wind whispered through the ruins, carrying the scent of death and frozen steel.
Voss stood in the midst of it all, her army of the dead behind her.
The High Lord's forces had moved on, their banners disappearing beyond the distant hills. They believed her crushed, Skaikru erased from history. They believed they had slain the last of the air mages.
They were wrong.
She would make them remember.
Drakonix moved beside her, its six heads scanning the field, tongues flicking at the air like serpents scenting prey. The hydra's shadow loomed over the risen warriors, a silent god of war in the dying moonlight.
Voss turned to her soldiers. They did not breathe, did not shift, did not waver. Their silence was absolute.
She lifted her hand. The shadows rippled around her fingers, eager, hungry. She felt their connection to the undead, the pulse of dark magic binding them to her will. They were not mindless husks—they were hers, and she would wield them like a blade.
She spoke a single word in the Eldar tongue.
"Follow."
The army moved.
The frozen ground cracked beneath their march. Armor clinked softly in the stillness. The dead did not stumble. They did not hesitate. They obeyed.
And so they began the hunt.
The High Lord's Camp
The High Lord sat atop his throne of iron and bone, his crimson cloak pooling at his feet. The war tent stretched high above him, its black silk lined with runes that pulsed with arcane light.
His generals stood in a half-circle before him, their faces grim, their armor still stained from battle. The air inside the tent was thick with the scent of blood and burnt flesh, the remnants of victory.
Negar lay curled beside him, the ice-dragon's massive form partially hidden in the shadows. Its silver eyes flickered open, its breath misting the air.
One of the generals, a towering warrior clad in spiked obsidian plate, stepped forward. His voice was rough, edged with unease.
"My Lord… the battlefield was searched. Skaikru is dead. We found no survivors."
The High Lord did not speak.
He simply raised a single finger.
A pulse of magic filled the tent, cold and absolute. The temperature plummeted. Frost spread across the floor in a thin, creeping web. The general flinched as ice cracked along his boots, but he did not step back.
"You lie," the High Lord said softly.
A heartbeat of silence.
Then the general screamed.
Frost erupted over