Voss led the Varden through the dense, twisted woods of the eastern borderlands. The journey to the elves' domain was perilous—not because of the terrain, but because they were being watched.
She could feel unseen eyes tracking their every movement. The elves had long abandoned their kinship with mortals, but their mastery of the wilds remained unmatched. If they wanted to kill the Varden before they reached their lands, they could.
And yet, they didn't.
Drakonix prowled alongside Voss, its six heads shifting restlessly, tongues flicking at the air. It could smell the magic in these lands—ancient, untouched by time.
Striga walked beside her, her red-plated armor dulled by dust. "This is a mistake," she muttered. "The elves won't listen. They'll turn us away, and we'll have wasted precious time."
Voss didn't break stride. "They'll listen."
Striga scoffed. "And what if they don't?"
Voss's grip tightened on the hilt of her sword. "Then we remind them of what's coming."
The High Lord's mutated army was already growing—goblins and orcs twisted into abominations that felt no pain, that followed orders without fear. Voss had seen what awaited the world if no one stopped him.
And if the elves thought they could stay hidden in their sacred forests, untouched by war—they were wrong.
A shift in the air. A flicker of movement.
Then they appeared.
Elven warriors emerged from the shadows, their silver armor glinting in the half-light, bows drawn, arrows nocked. Their presence was so sudden, so effortless, that some of the Varden flinched.
Voss did not.
At the center of the elven formation, a tall figure stepped forward. Unlike the others, his armor was adorned with golden etchings, his cloak woven with shimmering threads of silver and green. His sharp eyes locked onto Voss, his expression unreadable.
"Turn back," he commanded. His voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the authority behind it. "The affairs of men are no longer our concern."
Voss met his gaze without flinching. "They will be soon enough."
The elf's expression did not change. "Your war is not ours."
A flicker of shadows curled at Voss's fingertips. Not an attack, but a reminder. "It will be," she said evenly. "The High Lord is no longer just a threat to men. He is twisting the very creatures you once swore to destroy."
She took a step forward. The elves did not stop her.
"Orcs and goblins are no longer mere beasts of war," she continued. "He is remaking them, stripping away their weaknesses, making them faster, stronger, immune to pain. You've seen the signs. You've heard the whispers."
The elf's jaw tightened, but he remained silent.
Voss pressed on. "The old alliance was broken by betrayal. I won't ask you to trust mortals again." She let the weight of her words settle. "But if you stay hidden now, when he rises beyond even your power to stop—you will regret it."
Silence.
Then, the elven leader exhaled slowly. "You speak boldly for one who stands alone."
A smirk tugged at Voss's lips. "I don't stand alone."
At that moment, Drakonix stepped forward. The hydra loomed over the elves, six heads shifting as it regarded them with piercing, ancient eyes. A low growl rumbled from its throat, sending vibrations through the ground.
The elves did not lower their weapons, but unease rippled through their ranks.
Their leader studied the beast, then looked back at Voss. Something unreadable passed through his gaze.
Finally, he spoke. "Come with me."
---
........Far to the North.......
The High Lord stood before the sealed chamber, his fingertips tracing the glowing runes that kept the ancient power at bay.
His warlocks knelt in a half-circle behind him, chanting in the old tongue, their voices weaving into something dark and terrible.
Negar coiled nearby, the dragon's silver eyes fixated on the doors, its breath freezing the very air. It did not like what lay beyond. It was wary.
The High Lord smiled.
"Do not fear, old friend," he murmured. "This power is not meant for you."
Negar growled, but it did not move.
The runes flickered. The chamber pulsed with something alive.
The High Lord raised his hands, speaking the final incantation.
The doors opened.
And from the darkness beyond, something looked back.
Voss rode Drakonix over the endless canopy of the Elderwood, where trees stood like titans, their leaves whispering secrets of a time before mortals. The elves had remained hidden for centuries, their lands untouched by war, their magic undiluted by the corruption of men.
Now, for the first time in an age, they had allowed an outsider to enter.
Drakonix descended into a mist-shrouded valley, his wings churning the fog as he landed on a stone platform carved into the mountainside. Voss dismounted, her boots touching the ancient stone. The air crackled with power, thick with divine magic.
The elves stood before her—tall, ethereal, their silver eyes gleaming beneath moonlit hoods. They did not flinch at the sight of the hydra, nor at the woman who commanded it.
A single figure stepped forward. Unlike the others, he bore no cloak, only a set of armor that shimmered like woven starlight. His face was sharp, regal, untouched by time.
"I am Elenion, High Warden of the Eldar." His voice was calm, yet it carried the weight of centuries. "You bring war to our doorstep, shadow-walker."
Voss met his gaze, unshaken. "The war was always coming. You knew that when the High Lord turned to orcs and goblins."
A flicker of emotion passed through the elf's expression. Not anger—recognition.
"The past binds us," he said, voice lower now. "Your ancestor shattered our alliance with betrayal. Why should we fight for you now?"
Voss clenched her jaw. The sins of the past meant nothing to her. Only survival. Only justice.
She stepped forward, shadows curling at her feet. "Because the High Lord isn't just using orcs and goblins anymore. He's creating something worse."
The elves behind Elenion stirred, whispering in their ancient tongue.
"He mutates them," Voss continued. "Twists them into things that feel no pain, that do not fall like ordinary men. And he's searching for more—ways to turn his own men into the same."
Elenion studied her for a long moment. "And you believe we are the only ones who can stop it?"
"No," Voss admitted. "But without you, we'll lose."
The High Warden remained silent. The wind howled through the valley, and the magic in the air pulsed.
Then, at last, he spoke.
"Come," he said. "There is much to discuss."
The elves turned, leading her deeper into their sanctuary. Behind her, Drakonix let out a low growl, the sound echoing in the valley below.
The alliance had begun.
The Forgotten Pact
Voss followed Elenion and his warriors through the towering white stone archways of the elven sanctuary. The city—if it could be called that—was woven into the mountains, its spires rising like frozen waves from the rock, glowing softly with divine magic. Bridges of light connected crystalline towers, and waterfalls shimmered in the moonlight, cascading into pools of silver.
The elves lived as though untouched by time. But time had not spared them.
Voss saw it in their faces. In the way their hands tightened on their weapons. They were not indifferent to the world beyond their borders. They were waiting.
They led her to a chamber carved from a single slab of white marble; its walls bore inscriptions of power runes. A circular table of silver stood at its center, ancient and untouched by dust.
Other elves were already gathered—elders, warriors, mages, their robes gleaming with the sigils of their houses. At the sight of her, some exchanged wary glances. Others openly frowned.
"She bears shadow," one of them said, eyes narrowing. "And you bring her here?"
"She is not our enemy," Elenion replied evenly.
"She is mortal." Another voice, older. "And mortal hands broke the pact before."
Voss had heard enough. She stepped forward, placing her hands flat against the silver table. The elves tensed, but she didn't care.
"The High Lord is growing stronger," she said. "He's raising an army that won't die. Not truly. And if you stand aside again, there will be nothing left of your sanctuary but ruin."
Silence.
Then, Elenion spoke. "And what would you have us do?"
"Fight."
A scoff. "For you?"
"For the world."
The eldest of the elves studied her, the weight of centuries in his gaze. "And if we refuse?"
Voss exhaled slowly. "Then you'll die like the rest."
A long pause. The only sound was the distant rush of waterfalls, the faint crackle of magic in the air.
Then Elenion said, "Perhaps it is time we remind the world of who we once were."
Murmurs rippled through the chamber. Some in agreement, others in hesitation. But the tide had shifted.
Voss straightened. "Then we start now."
The High Warden turned to the others. "Summon the war hosts. The elves ride to war."
The War Hosts Awaken
The call to war spread like wildfire through the elven sanctuary. From the highest towers to the hidden halls beneath the mountain, warriors donned their armor, blades were sharpened, and spells were woven into the very air. The elves, long silent, long watching, had finally chosen to act.
Voss stood at the edge of the great assembly grounds, watching as thousands of warriors gathered, their silver and gold armor reflecting the cold light of the stars. Their banners, embroidered with symbols older than any mortal kingdom, unfurled in the wind.
Elenion approached, clad in dark silver armor that pulsed with divine energy. "We will not move as an open army yet. The High Lord will sense us if we do."
Voss nodded. "Then we strike from the shadows first."
A new voice entered the conversation. "And we will strike together."
Striga,The former general stood at the head of a smaller but equally fierce host—survivors of the Varden, rogue mages, and warriors who had refused to bow to the High Lord's tyranny. They had arrived in the night, slipping past the High Lord's spies and scouts.
Voss smirked. "Took your time."
Striga shrugged, flames dancing at her fingertips. "Had to make sure we weren't walking into a trap."
Elenion regarded her warily but gave a curt nod. "If you stand against the High Lord, then you fight with us."
Striga's eyes flickered to Voss. "I follow her."
The words carried weight. The elves took note.
Voss turned back to the war hosts. "Then we move. The High Lord's armies march on the western front, pressing into the last free kingdom. We strike there first."
Elenion hesitated. "There is another matter."
Voss narrowed her eyes. "What?"
The High Warden gestured toward the far end of the assembly.
There, bound by thick chains of enchanted silver, was a creature unlike any Voss had seen before. It was a monstrous fusion of orc and something darker, its flesh twisted by foul magic, its eyes hollow and black. Even restrained, it exuded raw, unnatural power.
"A creation of the High Lord's warlocks," Elenion said grimly. "One of his new breed."
Voss approached the creature, shadows curling at her feet as she studied it. The sight of it made her magic stir violently—like recognizing something it was meant to destroy.
The creature lifted its head, and its lips twisted into something almost like a grin.
"You are too late," it rasped.
Voss's blood ran cold.
"What do you mean?"
It chuckled, a hollow, broken sound. "He knows you are here."
The ground trembled.
A gust of ice-laced wind swept through the valley.
And then, in the distance, a dragon's roar split the sky.
Negar was coming.
The Storm Breaks
The roar of Negar was not just a sound—it was a force. The very air grew heavy with ice as his cry echoed through the valley, rolling over the elven war camp like an omen of death. The sky darkened unnaturally, clouds swirling in rapid formation, their undersides pulsing with frozen lightning.
Voss turned sharply, her pulse steady, but her grip on Drakonix's reins tightened. Her hydra shifted, its six heads lifting to scan the horizon, tongues flicking as if tasting the storm itself. A deep, rumbling growl emanated from its massive chest.
Striga unsheathed her twin blades, flames igniting along their edges. "How in the abyss did he get here so fast?"
Elenion's expression was grim. "He was already coming."
Voss cursed under her breath. Of course. The creature they had captured—the twisted orc-thing—was never meant to be an informer. It was bait.
Negar's massive form emerged from the storm clouds, his scales reflecting the moonlight in a sheen of deadly silver-blue. His wings were the size of warships, their beats sending shockwaves across the land. The cold that followed in his wake turned the very air brittle.
And he wasn't alone.
A dark tide followed him—an army of mutated orcs and goblins, their forms barely recognizable beneath the High Lord's cruel sorcery. Thousands of them. And leading them, standing atop a beast of twisted bone and shadow, was one of the High Lord's generals.
Voss recognized him immediately.
Kryos the Unyielding. The Frostborn Executioner.
He was clad in spiked armor of enchanted ice, his greatsword gleaming like frozen death. Where he passed, the ground withered, turning to lifeless frost.
He lifted his sword, pointing directly at the elven army. His voice carried across the valley, cold and merciless.
"Your time is over."
And with that, the first wave charged.
The Battle of Frost and Shadow
The clash was instant. Elven arrows rained down, enchanted to pierce even the hardest of hides, but the High Lord's mutants did not fall easily. They moved unnaturally fast, ignoring wounds that would have felled mortal warriors.
Elenion's mages unleashed divine magic, golden runes lighting up the night as pillars of holy fire seared through the ranks of the enemy. Striga led the vanguard, her flames carving a path through the horde, her warriors moving with practiced efficiency.
Voss was already in the air.
Drakonix surged upward, wings beating against the winds, shadow and fire coiling around its colossal form. The hydra's six heads released a devastating barrage of magic—blazing infernos, roaring cyclones, jagged stone spikes, and torrents of crushing water. Where its breath landed, the battlefield shifted—ice shattered, enemies were reduced to cinders, the earth cracked open.
But Negar met them head-on.
The ice dragon spewed a torrent of glacial destruction, colliding mid-air with Drakonix's fire. The clash sent shockwaves rippling through the sky, the heat and cold merging in violent opposition.
Voss raised her hand, shadows gathering in her palm, but before she could strike, Kryos launched himself at her.
The Frostborn Executioner landed atop Drakonix's back, his blade descending like a falling comet.
Voss barely blocked in time.
The force of the impact sent a jolt through her entire body. Kryos was strong—inhumanly strong. His magic seeped into the air around them, freezing everything it touched.
Drakonix twisted, trying to shake him off, but Kryos moved with unnatural grace, his strikes relentless.
"You are an abomination," Kryos snarled, his blade humming with deadly frost. "You should have stayed dead."
Voss gritted her teeth, her own power surging. "Then kill me again."
She lashed out with shadow magic, tendrils of darkness coiling around her blade as she struck.
The true battle had begun.
Duel in the Storm
Kryos met Voss's strike with a powerful parry, the impact sending shockwaves rippling through the sky. Frost clashed against shadow, sparks of black and white energy crackling in the air. The Executioner's strength was monstrous—each swing of his blade carried the weight of a glacier, each strike meant to shatter and break.
But Voss was no ordinary warrior.
She ducked under a wide arc, twisting her body as shadows propelled her forward. Her blade slashed toward his side, but Kryos spun, his icy great sword intercepting her strike at the last second.
A sudden burst of frost erupted from his weapon.
Voss barely managed to react, summoning a shield of darkness around her, but the sheer force of the attack hurled her backward. She landed hard against Drakonix's back, sliding dangerously close to the edge of one of its massive wings.
Kryos advanced, pressing the attack.
Voss exhaled sharply. Enough playing defense.
She let go of restraint.
Dark energy pulsed from her form, the shadows around her deepening. The very air grew heavy, charged with unseen power. Kryos hesitated for half a second—just long enough.
She struck.
With blinding speed, Voss closed the distance, her sword carving through the air in a whirlwind of deadly precision. Her attacks came faster than before, each swing reinforced by the weight of her magic.
Kryos blocked, but the force of her blows drove him back. His armor cracked in places, black tendrils spreading across the ice like veins of decay.
For the first time, the Executioner's face showed something close to concern.
"You fight like a beast unchained," he snarled, trying to regain control.
Voss smirked. "No. I fight like someone who has nothing left to lose."
She lashed out with her free hand, sending a lance of pure shadow straight at his chest.
Kryos barely managed to twist aside, but the attack clipped his shoulder. Ice shattered. Blood—dark and frozen—splattered across Drakonix's scales.
The Executioner growled, his breath misting in the frigid air. His eyes burned with cold fury.
"This isn't over."
Before Voss could press the attack, Kryos leapt off Drakonix's back, plunging into the battlefield below. His form disappeared in a swirl of snow and frost.
Voss exhaled, her grip tightening on her sword. She knew better than to chase him. The real fight was still unfolding.
The Wrath of the Beasts
Drakonix and Negar clashed midair, titans locked in combat. The hydra's many heads snapped at the ice dragon, fire and lightning crashing against frost and shadow.
Negar roared, his wings spreading wide as he dove, slamming into Drakonix with bone-crushing force. The impact sent shockwaves through the battlefield, knocking soldiers off their feet.
Drakonix bellowed in rage, its tail whipping around, catching Negar in the side. The ice dragon tumbled, but righted itself quickly, its silver eyes burning with hatred.
Then, the temperature dropped.
Negar opened his maw, and a storm of absolute frost erupted forth. A blizzard so intense, so unnatural, that it froze entire sections of the battlefield solid. Warriors—both enemy and ally—were encased in ice where they stood, their weapons mid-swing.
Drakonix roared in defiance, its wings flaring as it absorbed the brunt of the attack. But even the mighty hydra could not fully resist Negar's power. Ice formed along its scales, slowing its movements.
Voss clenched her jaw. She needed to turn the tide—now.
She raised a hand. Shadows swirled around her.
And then she spoke the words of power.
The language of the Eldar, the spell-casting tongue of the elves.
A dark wind rushed across the battlefield. The ice that covered Drakonix's wings cracked, then shattered. The hydra reared back, its eyes glowing with renewed fury.
Then, Voss gave the command.
"BURN IT DOWN."
Drakonix unleashed its full might. Fire, wind, earth, and water erupted in perfect harmony, a storm of destruction that met Negar's ice head-on.
The very sky split apart.
Negar shrieked, his frost attack faltering under the sheer force of the hydra's assault. For the first time, the ice dragon was pushed back.
And below, on the battlefield, Striga led the charge.
Striga's Reckoning
The former general carved through the High Lord's forces, her flames turning ice-born abominations to ash. She fought like a woman possessed—driven by vengeance, by survival, by the ghosts of her fallen family.
Beside her, the elves pushed forward, their divine magic cutting through the High Lord's monstrosities.
Elenion's voice rang out like a war drum. "Hold the line! Do not falter!"
But even as they fought, more of the High Lord's forces poured in. The mutated orcs did not fall easily. They were stronger, faster—unfeeling.
And then the sky turned black.
A portal ripped open above the battlefield, swirling with unnatural energy.
And from its depths… something came through.
Something not of this world.
Voss's eyes widened.
The High Lord was unleashing horrors from the eldritch realm.
She had to end this. Fast.
Her gaze snapped to the sky, to Negar.
She whispered another spell in the language of the Eldar.
Drakonix lunged.
The hunt was not over yet.
The Risen Nightmare
The portal swirled violently, an abyss of shifting shadows and writhing tendrils. The ground trembled as something vast and unfathomable clawed its way through the rift.
A monstrous form emerged—a towering abomination, neither beast nor man, its flesh a mass of twisting limbs and hollow, glowing eyes. Its very presence warped the air around it, turning the battlefield into a realm of nightmares.
The High Lord stood atop a distant rise, his cloak billowing in the unnatural wind. His voice, cold and triumphant, echoed across the battlefield.
"Behold, the children of the void!"
A second abomination followed, then a third. The eldritch horrors moved with unnatural grace, their forms constantly shifting, impossible to fully comprehend.
Even the elves faltered. Divine magic flickered uncertainly, struggling against the sheer wrongness of the creatures.
Striga tightened her grip on her sword, flames dancing along its length. "What in all the hells is that?"
Elenion's voice was grim. "Something not meant for our world."
The battlefield erupted into chaos. Warriors who had fought tirelessly against the High Lord's forces now screamed in terror as the voidspawn tore through their ranks. Blades passed through the creatures like mist, and those who struck too close found their bodies unraveling, as if reality itself refused to hold them together.
Voss knew she had to act.
She urged Drakonix forward, the hydra's wings beating furiously against the storm-ridden sky. Shadow magic crackled in her hands, surging through her veins like wildfire.
The void-born creatures had no place in this world.
She would send them back to the abyss.
A Duel of Wills
Above the battlefield, Negar struck again, his frost breath seeping into Drakonix's scales, but the hydra refused to falter. Six heads roared in unison, unleashing torrents of flame and lightning.
Voss stood atop Drakonix's back, her gaze locked on the High Lord.
He stood watching, unmoving. He had summoned the horrors, but he had not yet joined the battle.
That meant he was waiting.
For her.
Fine.
Voss raised her sword and pointed it directly at him.
The High Lord smirked.
In the next breath, he vanished.
Voss barely had time to react before he appeared before her, stepping out of the shadows as if the air itself had parted to make way for him. His black armor shimmered with arcane energy, and his crimson eyes burned with cruel amusement.
"Still alive, I see," he said. "Impressive."
Voss didn't waste words. She struck.
Their swords clashed, shadow against shadow. The force of the impact sent shockwaves across the sky, causing even Drakonix to shift beneath them.
The High Lord met her attacks with ease, his movements fluid, precise.
Faster than before.
Stronger than before.
Voss gritted her teeth. He had grown in power.
But so had she.
She twisted, shadows lashing from her blade like living tendrils, forcing him to dodge. A second later, she unleashed a pulse of raw shadow magic.
The High Lord merely raised a hand.
The energy dissipated instantly.
"You'll have to do better than that."
Voss barely caught his next strike. The force sent her sliding backward.
Then, his voice turned colder.
"You should have stayed dead."
Breaking the Cycle
Below, the battlefield teetered on the brink. The voidspawn continued their rampage, elves and warriors alike struggling to hold the line.
Striga fought furiously, flames dancing around her as she incinerated any foe that dared approach. But even she could see it—this battle could not be won through brute force alone.
They had to break the summoning.
She turned to Elenion. "The portal. Can you close it?"
The Elven warrior's face was tense. "Not alone."
Striga smirked. "Good thing you're not alone, then."
Together, they charged toward the rift, divine fire and Elven magic blazing in unison.
Voss saw them move, but she had no time to act.
The High Lord advanced.
Faster. More relentless. His strikes were no longer measured—they were meant to kill.
Voss felt herself being pushed back. For the first time in a long while… doubt crept into her mind.
She could not fall here.
She refused to.
And then, she heard it.
A whisper in the darkness.
Not the High Lord's voice.
Something older.
Something waiting.
A choice lay before her.
And Voss had never been one to hesitate.
She let go.
The shadows surged, answering her call.
And the true battle began.
The Abyss Unleashed
Voss let the shadows consume her.
Darkness coiled around her limbs, sinking into her skin like ink bleeding through parchment. Power surged in her veins, vast and unrelenting. The battlefield below faded, the High Lord's blade nothing more than a glimmer against the void swallowing the sky.
The High Lord hesitated for the first time.
A mistake.
Voss struck.
Shadows tore through the air, black tendrils lashing out like vipers. The High Lord barely raised his defenses in time, his arcane barriers cracking under the force of her assault. He countered with a surge of frost and raw energy, but Voss was no longer bound by the limits of flesh.
She moved like a storm—formless, unstoppable.
Drakonix roared beneath her, its six heads releasing torrents of fire, lightning, and sheer force. Negar answered with a blast of frost, but the hydra was faster. One of Drakonix's heads struck, its fangs sinking into Negar's wing. The dragon screeched, twisting violently to shake it off.
The sky turned into a battleground of titans, and below, the ground fared no better.
Striga and Elenion reached the portal, their magic cutting through the waves of mutated orcs and voidspawn. The elves fought beside them, divine light clashing against the abominations of the High Lord's creation.
Elenion raised his hands, golden energy crackling around his fingertips. "We must sever its anchor to this world!"
Striga gritted her teeth. "Then do it!"
She turned, fire erupting from her blade as she cut down another wave of advancing horrors. The portal pulsed, deep violet energy swirling like a living entity.
They didn't have much time.
Above, Voss and the High Lord clashed once more.
He was stronger than before, but so was she. And she wasn't done yet.
She called upon the dead.
Shadows seeped into the battlefield as spectral warriors rose from the ground—fallen elves, slain resistance fighters, and even the High Lord's own soldiers. Their eyes glowed with an eerie silver light, their forms flickering like candle flames.
The High Lord's expression darkened.
"You would mock me with my own dead?"
Voss tilted her head. "They were never yours to begin with."
With a flick of her wrist, the spirits descended upon his forces, cutting through them with merciless precision.
The battlefield turned.
The voidspawn faltered as the portal shuddered. Elenion's magic intensified, Striga pouring her own fire into the ritual.
The rift began to close.
The High Lord snarled, his patience unraveling. He lunged at Voss, his blade humming with raw, devastating power. She met his strike, their swords locking once more.
But this time, she smiled.
"You're afraid."
For the first time, the High Lord's grip faltered.
The shadows surged again, and Voss whispered a single word in the language of the Eldar.
The world shattered.
The battlefield, the sky, the very fabric of reality twisted around them as the High Lord was thrown back, his armor cracking, his body slammed into the ground below.
Voss landed atop Drakonix, shadows curling around her feet.
The portal collapsed behind her.
The voidspawn screamed as they were pulled back into the abyss. The High Lord's mutated warriors fell with them, their forms dissolving into nothing.
Silence fell over the battlefield.
The war was not over.
But tonight, they had won.
Voss turned to the High Lord's fallen form. He was still breathing, still moving.
Good.
She wasn't finished with him yet.
The High Lord's Reckoning
Voss dismounted Drakonix with effortless grace, shadows curling around her as she stepped forward. The battlefield was eerily silent now—only the crackle of dying flames and the groans of the wounded remained. The once-mighty armies of the High Lord were in ruin, his void spawn dragged back into the abyss, and the portal was no more.
Yet he still lived.
The High Lord stirred, blood trickling from the cracks in his armor. His once-imposing form now seemed… smaller, diminished. But his eyes still burned with fury.
Voss stopped a few feet away. "Not so untouchable now, are you?"
The High Lord coughed, forcing himself up onto one knee. "You think this is victory?" His voice, though weakened, still carried the weight of command. "You think you've won?"
Drakonix loomed behind Voss, six heads watching like judges at an execution. Around them, the elves, the Varden, and the remaining resistance fighters gathered, forming a loose circle. Striga stood beside Elenion, her sword still glowing with residual fire.
Voss tilted her head. "Your armies are gone, your magic is spent, and you are broken." What else do you have?"
The High Lord smirked. Blood stained his teeth. "You still don't understand, do you?" He looked up at her, and for the first time, Voss saw something beneath his arrogance—something deeper. "I was never meant to win this war."
The words sent a chill through her, but she didn't let it show. "Then why fight?"
The High Lord let out a hoarse chuckle. "Because you've already lost."
The ground trembled beneath them.
The air grew heavy, thick with something unnatural. The shadows around Voss, once her allies, recoiled, twisting unnaturally.
Drakonix let out a warning growl.
Elenion's face darkened. "Something is wrong."
Voss took a step back. "What did you do?"
The High Lord exhaled, his breath misting in the cold. "You were so focused on winning the battle, you never questioned why I let you."
A pulse of energy erupted from the ground beneath him.
A sigil—one not of mortal magic, nor elven, nor even of shadow—burned itself into the earth. It was something older, something that did not belong in this world.
Elenion's voice turned to ice. "Voss—step back!"
Too late.
The High Lord slammed his fist into the sigil, and the world screamed.
A fissure tore through the battlefield, black and endless. From within, something began to rise. Not an army. Not a beast.
Something worse.
The sky darkened, as if the stars themselves recoiled.
The High Lord grinned. "You thought this was about me?" His voice twisted, something ancient and malevolent speaking through him. His body trembled, his form distorting. "You never understood."
Voss felt the pull of magic, deeper and more powerful than anything she had ever known. It made her shadow magic feel small.
A terrible truth settled in her chest.
This was never just about power.
This was never just about rule.
The High Lord was only the beginning.
And now, something much older was waking.
The Unmaking
Voss braced herself as the ground split wider, the black abyss swallowing the corpses of the fallen. A cold unlike any she had ever felt seeped into the air—not the icy bite of winter, nor the unnatural frost of Negar's breath, but something far worse.
It was the chill of nothingness.
Drakonix roared, his six heads snapping toward the growing void. Shadows lashed wildly around Voss, no longer hers to command. They recoiled, twisting, as if trying to escape.
Elenion raised his staff, golden elven runes flaring to life. "This is forbidden magic," he whispered, voice tight with dread. "A power that predates even the First Wars."
Striga swore under her breath. "Tell me how to kill it."
The High Lord—or what was left of him—laughed. His body was breaking apart, his flesh stretching like melting wax, twisting into something unrecognizable. His once-magnificent armor warped, the sigils on it burning with a sickly green light.
"You still don't see, do you?" His voice was a whisper and a roar all at once. "This world is built on lies. The gods. The elements. Your magic." His eyes—if they could still be called that—locked onto Voss. "You were meant to be my heir, but you were weak."
Voss took a step forward, her hands tightening into fists. "And you were a fool."
The High Lord's form twisted violently. A second mouth opened along his jaw, splitting his face apart. "Then kneel before the truth."
The fissure exploded.
From the abyss, something emerged.
It had no true shape—only a writhing mass of shadows and void, a form that the eye refused to hold. It was not a beast, nor a man. It was hunger.
And it was endless.
The air shattered like glass.
The sky turned a color that had no name.
Voss felt a force pulling at her soul—dragging, tearing—like it meant to unmake her.
A single name burned itself into her mind. Not one spoken, not one written, but one felt.
Xal'Zirith.
The First Shadow.
The God-Killer.