Elenion staggered backward, his golden runes flickering. "We need to close the rift. Now."
Drakonix slammed his claws into the ground, wings unfurling wide as he bared his fangs at the thing in the abyss. His deep, rumbling voice echoed in Voss's mind.
We end this now, or we lose everything.
Voss clenched her jaw. There was no time for doubt.
She turned to the elves. "Can you seal it?"
Elenion's face was grim. "Only if we sever its anchor." He pointed to the High Lord—now little more than a vessel, his form barely human.
Striga drew her blade, fire crackling along its edge. "Then we cut the bastard down."
Voss reached for her magic—all of it. Shadows, fire, wind, stone, water—every element at her command roared to life.
The Abyss Stirs
The battlefield was chaos. The air reeked of burning magic, scorched earth, and something far worse—the scent of unmaking. The High Lord, or what remained of him, stood at the edge of the rift, his form unraveling into tendrils of shifting void. The thing beyond, Xal'Zirith, pulsed with unnatural hunger, a presence that defied existence itself.
Voss felt her body strain under the weight of so much power. Her veins burned as fire and shadow warred within her, her mind barely holding it together. Drakonix loomed above, his wings darkening the sky as he prepared to strike.
"Striga! Now!"
Striga moved like a flame given life, cutting through the twisted remnants of the High Lord's army. Her blade ignited, burning blue-hot as she charged.
The High Lord lifted one grotesquely elongated hand. His voice came from everywhere and nowhere.
"You cannot stop this."
A wave of eldritch energy surged from him, dark tendrils seeking Striga, but Elenion raised his staff, golden runes flaring. A barrier of divine light shattered the darkness before it could reach her.
Striga lunged.
Her blade struck true, cutting deep into the High Lord's form. He let out an inhuman shriek as his body spasmed, tendrils of void writhing.
But he did not fall.
Instead, he laughed.
The wound did not bleed. It devoured, pulling Striga's magic into him. She gasped as the fire in her blade dimmed.
"He's feeding on it!" she shouted, staggering back.
Voss's mind raced. If they couldn't kill him with raw power—
Elenion's voice cut through the madness. "The anchor must be severed!"
Voss turned to the rift. It pulsed, its edges unstable. If it was feeding off the High Lord, then…
She knew what had to be done.
She leapt onto Drakonix's back. "Take us to the rift."
Drakonix did not hesitate. His massive wings beat against the storm-ridden sky, propelling them toward the abyss.
"Elenion! Striga! Keep him occupied!"
Below, Striga gritted her teeth. "You owe me for this, Voss!"
Voss barely heard her. The closer they came to the rift, the more she felt it—Xal'Zirith knew she was coming.
It wanted her.
It whispered in her mind.
Come, child of shadow. I have been waiting.
Voss clenched her jaw, gripping Drakonix's scales as they dove. Shadow magic burned around her hands, coiling like living darkness.
The High Lord turned his fractured face upward, realization dawning.
"NO!"
But it was too late.
Voss hurled herself from Drakonix's back, plummeting toward the heart of the rift.
If she couldn't sever the anchor, then she would do the next best thing.
She would consume it first.
The Descent Into Darkness
The world became silence.
Voss fell, her body weightless, her magic straining against the pull of the abyss. The rift loomed beneath her, a swirling chasm of endless void, hungry and eternal. The whispers of Xal'Zirith grew deafening, no longer a distant murmur but a chorus of countless voices.
You cannot resist.
Shadow lashed out from the abyss, seeking to claim her.
But Voss was no ordinary mortal.
She turned her fall into a dive, summoning her magic. The shadows that sought to consume her recoiled as her power flared—pure, untamed darkness meeting its own reflection.
She reached deep, pulling at the raw essence of her own shadow magic, bending it to her will. The rift shuddered around her, the void resisting, fighting her.
Then, she spoke.
The words of the Eldar tongue rang out, ancient and powerful. The language of creation, of the first spellcasters. The same magic the elves had once wielded to bind demons, to hold the darkness at bay.
The abyss screamed.
Tendrils of void lashed at her, but she twisted through them, her body a streak of shadow and fire. Above, Drakonix roared, his six heads unleashing torrents of elemental fury, battling the forces spilling from the rift.
Voss reached the core.
A writhing mass of blackened energy pulsed, feeding into the High Lord, tethering him to Xal'Zirith. It was not just a portal—it was a conduit, a vein connecting two worlds. Destroying it would not be enough.
She had to take its power for herself.
She reached out, fingers closing around the core of the rift.
Pain. Agony unlike anything she had ever known.
The void fought back. It clawed into her mind, pulling at her soul, trying to unravel her from existence.
You are nothing. You are already mine.
She gritted her teeth, forcing her will against the darkness.
"I am Voss," she snarled. "And I do not belong to you."
With a final cry, she ripped the core from the rift.
The world detonated in blinding darkness.
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