The High Lord rose from his throne, his expression sharp as a blade. He had ruled long enough to recognize when something unnatural had taken root in the world. Voss should have died—her body broken, her magic spent. Yet, even in victory, he had sensed the disturbance.
The battlefield was too quiet.
The wind carried whispers of something ancient, something that had no place among the living.
Negar stirred beside him, the dragon's silver eyes narrowing. Its breath, thick with frost, rolled over the ground in misty tendrils. It sensed it too.
One of the remaining generals, a woman clad in red-plated armor, stepped forward. Striga.
"My Lord." She knelt, her face unreadable beneath her hooded helm. "Do we send scouts?"
The High Lord tilted his head, his gaze lingering on her. He had always suspected her loyalty was fractured, her belief in his reign shaken. But she was useful, for now.
"No." His voice was smooth, unhurried. "Send the warlocks. Have them call the spirits of the fallen." He turned, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "Let them tell me who walks among the dead."
Striga did not move immediately. "If she has returned… what would you have us do?"
The High Lord chuckled. "The same thing we did before." He looked toward the night, where a storm brewed beyond the hills. "Burn her."
The March of the Dead
Voss moved like a phantom through the night, her resurrected warriors at her back. The shadows curled around her feet, drawn to her presence, whispering secrets only she could hear.
The High Lord's army had encamped just beyond the valley, their torches flickering in the dark. Banners bearing his sigil—an obsidian crown wreathed in frost—snapped in the wind. Soldiers patrolled the edges, unaware of what approached.
Drakonix let out a low growl. The hydra's heads moved in unison, tongues flicking at the air. It was restless. Eager.
Voss reached out, running a hand over its dark scales. "Not yet," she murmured.
Patience.
Her enemies had not yet realized what had risen against them.
The undead moved without sound, their frozen armor reflecting the moonlight in eerie glimmers. Their swords were still slick with blood, but they did not feel the weight of exhaustion, nor the sting of past wounds.
They felt nothing.
Voss turned to them, her voice cutting through the silence. "Tonight, we strike." She raised a single hand, shadows swirling around her fingers. "Tonight, we make them fear the dark."
A single order.
A single command.
The hunt had begun.
The first scream cut through the night like a blade.
It came from the eastern ridge, where a sentry had barely drawn breath to sound the alarm before an undead warrior drove a rusted spear through his ribs. His cry was swallowed by the wind as his body collapsed, lifeless. A moment later, his own eyes flickered open, milky and void, as the shadow magic bound him to Voss's will.
Panic spread like wildfire.
The High Lord's soldiers scrambled from their tents, reaching for weapons, for shields, for anything to fight against the impossible. But the dead were already among them.
Voss moved through the chaos with purpose, her cloak billowing like the night itself. The shadows clung to her, seeping into the ground, into the very air.
She whispered a single word in the ancient tongue of the Eldar.
A maelstrom of darkness erupted from her hands, consuming everything in its path.
The ground beneath the enemy's feet cracked, and from the fissures, skeletal hands clawed their way upward, dragging the living down into the abyss. The High Lord's men screamed as they were swallowed whole, their forms vanishing into the churning shadows.
Drakonix struck next.
The hydra's six heads unleashed devastation, each exhaling death in a different form—fire, ice, lightning, raw shadow. Soldiers were torn apart, incinerated, frozen where they stood. The beast's roar shattered the night, and the battlefield trembled beneath its fury.
Voss's gaze locked onto a commander at the heart of the camp, desperately trying to rally his troops. He was seasoned, a fighter, but this was not a battle he could win.
She moved toward him, shadows trailing her steps.
The commander turned just as she raised her hand. He had a sword, but she had power.
A tendril of darkness lashed out, wrapping around his throat. He choked, his body convulsing as she lifted him from the ground. His eyes bulged, terror overtaking defiance.
"You serve a doomed king," Voss said, her voice calm, almost gentle. "But you do not have to die for him."
His lips parted, gasping for breath.
She tightened her grip. The tendril squeezed.
Bones cracked.
A final shudder.
She let him drop.
Silence.
The camp had fallen.
Voss exhaled, surveying the battlefield. The dead stood victorious. The living had been cut down, reanimated, or fled into the night—they would carry tales of this massacre back to their master.
Good.
She wanted the High Lord to know what was coming for him.
She turned to Drakonix, placing a hand against the hydra's scales. "This is just the beginning."
The beast rumbled in response, its heads lifting toward the stars, its many eyes glowing with ancient power.
War was coming.
And this time, Voss would not fall.