Above, the High Lord convulsed as the connection was severed. His body, once a shifting fusion of mortal flesh and eldritch void, shattered. Black veins ruptured across his skin, his form unraveling.
Striga staggered back, shielding her eyes as the High Lord let out a raw, inhuman shriek.
Elenion's voice rang out. "She did it!"
But something was wrong.
The rift did not close. It writhed, pulsing violently, as if fighting against its own destruction.
Then—
Voss emerged.
She rose from the abyss, her body wreathed in black fire, her eyes burning with an unnatural glow. Shadow magic radiated from her in waves, but there was something more.
The power of the void had not simply been severed.
She had absorbed it.
For a moment, the battlefield was silent. The armies of the High Lord, the resistance, even the undead—all frozen in place, watching.
Voss landed, the ground cracking beneath her.
She lifted a single hand.
The High Lord, once an unstoppable force, a tyrant who had ruled with fear and power, collapsed. His body twisted, his own magic betraying him as the void consumed him from within.
His final scream was lost to the wind as his form imploded, vanishing into the abyss from which it came.
The High Lord was no more.
But the war was not over.
Voss stood amidst the wreckage, the whispers of the abyss still clinging to her, still calling. The rift behind her had not disappeared—only changed.
And deep in its depths, Xal'Zirith still watched.
The Shadow War Begins
Streaks of silver and deep violet painted the sky; remnants of elven magic still lingered in the air. Voss stood at the edge of the forest, her gaze fixed on the towering spires of the High Lord's citadel in the distance. The alliance had been forged, but the war was far from over.
Beside her, Drakonix shifted, its massive form coiling as it exhaled dark mist. The elves had granted Voss their wisdom, their magic, and their warriors—but it would not be enough. She knew the High Lord, knew his cunning.
And she knew Negar was not truly gone.
"You look troubled," Striga said, stepping beside her. The former general's crimson cloak fluttered in the wind, her hand resting on the hilt of her blade.
"He's still out there," Voss muttered. "And he's watching."
Striga's expression darkened. "Then we make the first move."
Voss nodded. The time for waiting was over. The elves had given them their strength, but war was coming.
And she would meet it head-on.
Voss stood at the center of the ancient Elven war chamber, the glow of enchanted lanterns casting long shadows against the stone walls. Around her, the leaders of the resistance and their newfound Elven allies gathered, their expressions grim.
A massive table lay before them, carved from a single slab of obsidian. An enchanted map flickered atop it, displaying the shifting battle lines of the war. The High Lord's dominion stretched across nearly every kingdom; his forces marked in cold blue light. The resistance, a mere fraction of his power, burned in deep crimson.
Striga leaned over the map, her fingers tracing the latest reports from scouts. "The High Lord is consolidating his forces near the Obsidian Keep. If we move now, we might disrupt his reinforcements before they reach his stronghold."
An elven commander, clad in silver and emerald, folded his arms. "Risky. If he anticipates our attack, he will crush us before we gain a foothold."
Voss narrowed her eyes. "We don't have the luxury of waiting. The longer we delay, the stronger he becomes."
A deep voice rumbled from the corner of the chamber. It belonged to an elder elf, his presence commanding. "If you seek to fight the High Lord head-on, you will lose. His power is not bound by the limits of mortal magic."
Silence settled over the room.
Striga's eyes flickered to Voss. "Then we even the playing field."
Voss's gaze never wavered. "We strike before he is ready. The Shadowforged Blade—it's the only weapon that can sever his power."
Murmurs spread among the council. The legendary blade, forged from pure shadow magic and infused with divine elven power, was nothing more than myth to some. To others, it was the only hope.
An elven mage raised an eyebrow. "That blade has been lost for centuries. Even if it exists, it is locked away in a forgotten temple, guarded by spirits bound to destroy any who seek it."
Voss exhaled, her mind already made up. "Then we find it."
The chamber fell silent once more.
Striga smirked. "I was hoping you'd say that."
The war was about to take a new turn.
------------------------------------------------
The war council had been brief. The plan was set. Voss and a small force would leave under the cover of night, making their way toward the lost temple where the Shadowforged Blade was said to be hidden. The rest of the resistance would continue to draw the High Lord's attention elsewhere, waging smaller battles to keep his forces occupied.
But the High Lord was always watching.
--------------
Voss soared through the night sky on Drakonix's back, the hydra's six heads scanning the landscape below. Behind her, Striga rode with a unit of elite warriors, their steeds kicking up dust as they raced toward the distant mountains. The air was thick with the scent of rain, the storm clouds gathering above like an omen.
Striga rode up beside an elven scout, her voice sharp. "We should be close to the river crossing. Keep your eyes open."
The scout nodded, but his face was tense. Something felt off. The night was too quiet.
Voss's grip tightened on Drakonix's reins. She felt it too.
Then—
The valley erupted in blue fire.
The ground beneath the riders cracked open as pillars of ice surged from below, impaling horses and throwing warriors into the air. Shadows twisted and writhed at the edges of the battlefield, forming into monstrous figures—warlocks of the High Lord, their eyes glowing with unnatural power.
From the ridge above, an army of the mutated orcs and goblins poured down like an avalanche, their weapons gleaming in the moonlight. They moved with terrifying speed, their bodies reinforced with dark sorcery, their eyes void of pain or hesitation.
Striga barely had time to react before an explosion rocked the battlefield, sending warriors sprawling. "It's a trap!" she shouted, flames roaring to life in her hands.
Voss yanked Drakonix into a steep dive, shadows swirling around her as she raised her arm. "Burn them."
Drakonix roared, unleashing a torrent of black fire, consuming the warlocks in an instant. But more kept coming.
A monstrous screech echoed through the night.
Above them, a massive figure emerged from the storm clouds. Silver wings unfurled, ice trailing from its talons as Negar, the High Lord's dragon, descended.
Voss's heart pounded.
The High Lord had been waiting for her.