A dawn twisted into agony bled over Thistleveil. The sky, once a canvas for the Sun Order's light, was bruised purple and blood orange, choked by the dust churned by fallen walls and the unnatural energies that clawed at the air. Rivers of molten stone, still hissing, traced scorching paths down the cracked battlements, remnants of the Starflame Arbiter's fury. Below, Seraphelle Malakar's host surged forward, a tide of shadow and corrupted steel against the city's broken teeth.
Beneath the Sunspire Relic, its golden light now a desperate ember against the encroaching gloom, Commander Borin Sunguard stood. His armor was dented, streaked with ash and blood, but his posture remained a defiance. Around him clustered the last remnants of the Knights of the Thistle Crown, their faces grim, their numbers few. Sun Order warriors, their robes torn, clutched broken staves and swords, their faith a shield where stone had failed. Borin's voice, raw and hoarse, cut through the din of chaos.
"Hold the line!" Borin roared, his gaze sweeping across the embattled defenders. "For Thistleveil! For the King!"
Astrael, the warped Herald of Dawn, a towering figure of distorted starlight and molten gold, stepped through the largest breach in the main gate. Vor'kesh, a vortex of light-consuming shadow, glided beside it. Thal'yris, wreathed in searing celestial fire, stalked at their heels. They were impossible nightmares, solidifying into ruin.
Ten figures of pure golden light, the spectral Sunspire Knights, rose from the earth before the breach. Called by the Relic, they met the corrupted Celestials head-on. Ancient magic clashed with twisted cosmic power. Golden lances, forged from prayer and light, struck molten gauntlets and shimmering void-hides in a cascade of searing, unnatural sparks that blinded mortal eyes and tore at the fabric of the air. It was a battle of summoned legends, fought on the ruin of a city.
On the eastern flank, where the wall had crumbled into a ramp of rubble, General Malvorn led the abyssal infantry. Creatures of shadow and rage poured into the city, their dark armor clanking like chains on stone, their eyes burning with hellish light. This flank was a direct thrust towards the city's heart, bypassing the central legendary clash.
Borin Sunguard had seen the threat. Saw the stream of horrors pouring in, unchecked. He broke from the desperate defense at the main breach, leaving the spectral knights to their impossible task. His boots hammered against the rubble-strewn ground, his sword held ready.
"Malvorn!" Borin bellowed, his voice echoing across the chaos, a challenge thrown at the face of damnation. "Face me, demon!"
Malvorn, a figure of dread in corrupted plate, turned. His helmet was a snarling beast's face, his eyes pinpricks of malevolent red light. He grinned, the sound a scraping of bone. "The old lion of Thistleveil," Malvorn sneered, his voice a guttural rasp that scraped against Borin's ears. "Come to die on crumbling stone? Your king folds. Your gods hide. Why do you fight?"
"For the people you tread on, demon!" Borin lunged, his blade a blur of steel against corrupted metal. Sparks flew. The air shrieked with the sound of their duel, a single point of focused fury in a sea of surrounding chaos. Malvorn was strong, brutal, his blows heavy with dark power. But Borin fought with the desperate strength of a cornered animal, fueled by a lifetime of duty and a burning rage at the desecration of his home.
Borin parried a crushing blow, twisting his blade with all his might. Steel met corrupted metal with a sickening crunch. Malvorn's blade, dark and jagged, shrieked, then shattered into a thousand cursed shards. Borin pressed the advantage, driving the dread knight back, a flicker of desperate hope igniting in the eyes of nearby defenders who saw the impossible – their commander winning.
Malvorn stumbled, his helm cracking. But the grin remained, wider now, a horror. He clawed at his chest, pulling free a jagged shard of his shattered blade, wreathed in the void magic he commanded even in defeat. His good eye blazed.
"Then perish for them!" Malvorn screamed, his voice raw with dying power. He lunged one last time, a dying thrust.
Borin raised his shield, but the shard was too fast, too small, a concentrated point of void energy aimed true. It punched through a gap in his armor, sinking deep into his chest. Borin gasped, his own war cry dying in his throat. Malvorn's life bled out onto the stone.
As Malvorn collapsed, his body shuddered, unleashing a torrent of void magic. It wasn't a spell, but a final, uncontrolled burst of negative energy. The air around his fallen form warped, twisting. The dark pulse slammed into the already weakened structures of the eastern quarter. Timber shrieked. Stone crumbled. Buildings groaned like dying beasts. Walls folded inward. Roofs collapsed. Seventy percent of the eastern quarter dissolved into a mountain of rubble and dust, burying defenders, citizens, and demons alike in a cataclysm of stone and void.
Throughout the city, fires raged. Rooftop infernos consumed everything. Flames licked at the sky. Near the Temple district, the Sun Temple, a symbol of peace in this Sun-dominated city, became a pyre. Ancient pillars toppled with thunderous crashes, shaking the very foundations of the city, signaling the death of sanctity and sanctuary.
Near the southern wall, breached by a smaller force, the last of the Sunspire Knights made a final, desperate stand. Ten spectral forms, fading in the morning light, threw themselves against the ceaseless tide of abyssal infantry pouring into the city. Golden lances met shadow. They fought not for victory, but for moments. Moments for the few survivors to flee, to hide, to perhaps draw another ragged breath. One by one, their golden light flickered, then vanished, overwhelmed by the sheer, dark weight of numbers.
The Colossal giants Astrael, Vor'kesh were injured by the relentless assault, their forms flickering with instability as if reality itself resisted their presence.
"Regroup!" Borin's injured voice cut through the chaos. "We hold this ground, or Thistleveil falls today!"
His fire reignited, rallying the beleaguered defenders around him once more. The high priests of Sun Order saw the Colossal approaching near the city, the high priest raised the Sunpyre artifact again with chanting a spell cast, there hands shiver and suddenly a ray of light reflected upon the glistening walls, refracting into a spectrum of golden brilliance.
"Sunspire Knights, rise to defend us!" Alatar commanded, his voice a hope amidst the chaos.
The remaining five spectral figures surged into form, lances gleaming, ready to push back the encroaching darkness.
The Colossal vs the Spectral Knights one final clash, a clash of light and shadow that echoed across the battlefield.
As the two forces collided, golden lances met with the chaos of celestial shadows, sending shockwaves through the ground.
Astrael roared, its voice a guttural echo of lost light, each step shaking the earth beneath as it surged forward, eager to extinguish the flicker of hope.
"Hold the line!" Borin barley shouted, gripping his sword tighter with pierced chest as he faced the advancing horror.
With a determination echoing in their hearts, the remaining Sunspire Knights rallied, matching the colossal beings' ferocity with unyielding resolve. Each golden lance met the shadowed terror of Astrael with a resounding clash, bursts of light flickering like dying stars. Until one Colossal Astrael, Herald of Dawn fall on the ground and vanished in to particles of light, leaving a swirling mist of shadow that hung heavy in the air.
The Three remaining Knights took over the second Colossal Vor'kesh, Warden of the Void. Suddenly the third Colossal Thal'yris, Starflame Arbiter slammed his hands on the ground with full might and the ground disintegrated beneath the weight of its fury.
"Fall back! Fall back!" Borin shouted, urgency lacing his deep voice as cracks snaked underfoot, splitting the very foundation they fought to protect. The defenders surged away, their resolve shattering like the walls around them. Borin mounted the crumbling battlement, voice rising above the chaos.
"Knights, regroup at the inner sanctum! We'll hold this city together—no matter the cost!"
Together, they rallied, their backs against lingering hope as the storm of darkness advanced once more. Boring could barely stand on his feets, suddenly he fall of his knees to the ground, as he took his last breathe and said, "I leave my people to you Eldoria and Ashward". A whisper of wind rustled through the wreckage, carrying Borin's words like a pledge on the breath of fallen heroes. In that bleak moment, a flicker of resolve ignited in the defenders, their spirits bound by his sacrifice, ready to rally.
High above the carnage, serene and terrible, Seraphelle Malakar hovered. Her platform of obsidian swirled beneath her, a mobile throne. She was a figure of cold, calculating power, weaving shadow-fire into the air, her hands moving with subtle, deadly intent, directing the flow of battle like a symphony of destruction.
Her single crimson wing beat once, a powerful, final movement against the apocalyptic sky. It was a signal, a final, brutal emphasis on the inevitable. And on the ground, amidst the rubble of the eastern quarter, Commander Borin Sunguard's war cry – the last sound of defiance from the core of the city's defense – was silenced forever.
Thistleveil lay broken. Its formidable defenses were smoldering ruin. Its golden spires, blackened and broken, clawed at the choked sky. Its defenders were decimated, scattered, buried. The city was no longer a bastion of light, but a conquered ruin, draped in the shadow of Seraphelle Malakar's dominion.
***
Dusk bled across the shattered horizon of Thistleveil. The sky, heavy with the memory of torn reality, sagged like a bruise, reflecting the ruin below in hues of ash, violet, and the lingering red glow of distant fires. A profound silence had settled over the city, broken only by the groan of settling rubble and the mournful whisper of wind through broken structures. Smoke hung thick, a shroud smelling of burnt stone, scorched earth, and something metallic and wrong – the residue of celestial power. In the pockets of surviving alleyways and beneath collapsed arches, the few remaining defenders and huddled citizens were ghosts in the gloom, their faces streaked with dust and despair, hope a distant, impossible memory.
Then, it came. A sound. Faint at first, easily dismissed as the wind or the settling of stones. But it grew, clear and true, cutting through the heavy silence like a blade. The distinct call of trumpets, carried on the evening wind from the west. One, then two, then three, their notes resolute, a stark contrast to the city's quiet death rattle. Heads turned amongst the rubble, eyes lifting to the horizon, a flicker of something fragile stirring in their depths.
Against the twilight sky, silhouettes appeared. Approaching armies. Not the chaotic, nightmarish forms of Seraphelle's legions, but ordered ranks, growing larger, clearer, drawing closer. The distant glint of armor caught the last light, a steady, rhythmic shimmer that offered the first visual promise of aid. A promise that seemed impossible moments before.
From the western road, solid and relentless, marched the Eldorian legions. Commander Darian Frostholm rode at their head, a figure of iron discipline even in the fading light. Mage-Knight battalions moved with disciplined precision, arcane shields shimmering with soft blue light, frost-forged pikes held at the ready. They didn't hesitate. They flowed around the city's perimeter, immediately engaging lingering Aethercrown skirmishers – scavengers picking through the fallen, rear-guard units consolidating control. The clang of steel, the crackle of controlled arcane energy replaced the silence, a sound of organized resistance. The Eldorians secured ground near the main breaches, their presence a tangible boundary pushed against the tide of darkness.
From a different direction, emerging not from a road but from the shadows of the southern foothills, came another force. Less uniformed, more disparate, but no less determined. The Ashward rebels. Kael Draven moved at their front, his rugged profile grim as he surveyed the devastation. Beside him walked Ilyana Starfire, her fiery hair a stark contrast to the muted landscape, and Fenric Ashen, a figure of shadow even in the growing darkness, his red eyes scanning the ruins. And with them, moving with a quiet, focused intensity, was Helios Vance, returning to the broken place he had once called home. They weren't an army, not like the Eldorians, but a force of outcasts answering a desperate call, guided by knowledge of hidden paths, of routes only an exile would know.
Both forces converged on the shattered gates of Thistleveil. Eldorian steel and Ashward grit pushed through the remaining pockets of enemy resistance – disoriented abyssal infantry, lurking shadow-constructs – navigating the chaos of destruction. They witnessed firsthand the scale of ruin left by Seraphelle Malakar's summoned Celestials: collapsed buildings, charred earth, the sickening residue of void magic hanging in the air, the sheer, impossible size of the footprints left by the fallen giants. The air thickened with the horror of it all, but the sight fueled determination more than fear.
Kael's jaw was set, his green eyes hard as he surveyed the devastation at the main gate, the gaping breach where the wall had once stood proud. Commander Borin Sunguard's body lay somewhere in that rubble. King Emeric's city, broken. The grim reality struck deep.
"They think they won," Kael's voice was low, raw, yet carried an edge of fierce resolve. He turned to the Draven Guard, to the Ashward fighters behind him. "They think they broke this city. Broke its people." His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. "They're wrong."
He didn't shout commands, he embodied them. With a sudden, decisive movement, Kael charged into the breach. The Draven Guard and the Ashward fighters surged behind him, a wave of raw fury and desperate hope. They met scattered remnants of corrupted siege engines – twisted metal frames fused with dark energy – and Aethercrown infantry attempting to consolidate their hold. Kael's blade cleaved a path, his movements fluid and lethal, a storm of steel against shadow. The Ashward rebels fought with the ferocity of those who had nothing left to lose, clearing the breach, securing a foothold in the ruined city.
Nearby, Ilyana Starfire paused amidst the chaos, her bowstring humming. Lingering shadowy constructs, born of Vor'kesh's passing, flickered in the ruins, their forms indistinct and menacing. Remnants of Thal'yris's fire pulsed in the air. Ilyana raised her bow. Star-forged arrows, shimmering with faint blue light, arced through the gloom, striking the shadowy remnants. They didn't pierce, they unraveled, the corrupted energy dissipating like mist under a sudden sun.
"Clear the rot!" Ilyana's voice rang out, sharp and clear, guiding her archers. Her luminous magic, a vibrant contrast to the surrounding darkness and decay, scattered the enemy's lingering shadows, clearing paths for the ground forces, lighting the way through the rubble.
Helios Vance stepped onto the ravaged soil of his former home, the ground uneven beneath his worn boots, littered with debris that held twisted echoes of familiar streets. The air here was thick with residual dark energy, clinging like miasma. His eyes, usually warm, were fixed on the ruins, seeing not just stone, but the desecration of sacred places, the suffering of his people. He knelt, his hand touching the scarred earth near what was left of a smaller temple. He didn't speak, but began to murmur ancient words, channeling the Sun Order knowledge that flowed in his veins. Protective wards, faint golden outlines shimmering for a moment, spread outward, pushing back the clinging dark energy, creating small pockets of clean air, sanctuaries amidst the ruin.
"There are still people," Helios murmured, his voice tight with sorrow but underscored by purpose, pointing towards a groaning archway where a few bloodied figures huddled. "Survivors. They need healing. They need protection from… this." He moved towards them, his hands glowing faintly with a warm, regenerative light, a quiet act of redemption on the broken ground of his exile.
Fenric Ashen moved through the chaos like a whisper, his glowing red eyes scanning the scene with a dark understanding. He didn't engage in the frontal assault, but faded towards the flanks of the clearing. Where retreating enemy forces attempted to regroup, where corrupted structures pulsed with unstable energy, Fenric wove his own brand of darker magic. Shadows coalesced, entangling fleeing figures, holding them in place for Eldorian blades or Ashward arrows. A crumbling archway, vibrating with dark energy, shuddered under his touch, the void magic within it weakening, dissipating. He created diversions, drew fire, using his knowledge of shadow and void to complement the light and steel of his allies, a necessary darkness in service of the fragile dawn.
For a fleeting hour, amidst the rubble and despair, hope flared. The forces converged – Eldorians securing the perimeter, Ashwards clearing the breaches, Helios tending to the wounded, Fenric weaving his shadow-play. Banners, tattered and smoke-stained, rose above the chaos. The golden thistle of Thistleveil, the shining double-eagle of Eldoria, the fierce ashen symbol of the Ashward rebels. They stood together, a brief, powerful alliance forged in the crucible of shared loss, pushing back the tide of destruction, offering a fragile respite to the city's remaining people.
Then, the ground beneath their feet began to tremble. Not the sharp impact of a siege engine, but a low, resonant vibration, deep and unsettling, that seemed to hum in their bones. It grew, a steady cadence, like a giant, unnatural heartbeat. And accompanying it, echoing from the direction of the Shadowfen – a cursed, mist-laden swamp miles to the south – came the sound of drums. Not the drums of war they knew, but a deep, slow, unholy rhythm, ancient and terrible. It shattered the brief dawn of hope, a sound that promised not relief, but the imminent arrival of an even greater darkness. Ares and his legion. They had walked into a trap.
***
The low tremor deep beneath the ravaged plains deepened, a guttural pulse that resonated in the bones of the exhausted allied forces. It was no longer the aftermath of a siege, but a prelude. The air, thick with the scent of burnt stone and void magic, grew heavier, stagnant, cloying. From the direction of the Shadowfen, miles distant but drawing closer with terrifying speed, came the sound of drums. A deep, resonant, unholy rhythm, unlike any war march known to man or beast. It hammered against the fragile hope that had blossomed moments ago with the sight of Eldoria's banners and Ashward's defiant standard. Defenders who had just found purchase amidst the rubble turned towards the sound, their faces, streaked with dust and blood, etched with a dawning dread more profound than the terror Seraphelle's summoned giants had inspired. This felt… primal. Older.
Then they appeared. Not a disciplined advance, but a surging, chaotic tide boiling out of the desolate landscape beyond the ruined walls. A nightmare made manifest. Hulking beasts, eyes like burning coals set in scarred hides, manes like molten metal flowing down powerful necks, surged forward, their hooves tearing at the blood-soaked earth. Behind them, in jarring contrast to the raw bestiality, clanked legions of undead knights. Warped, skeletal plate armor encased animated bone, their swords wreathed in soul-forging flame, an unholy mockery of the chivalry they once embodied. This was Ares's host, vomited forth from the Abyss, a force that defied comprehension.
The initial charge of the demon-cavalry vanguard slammed into the remnants of the Sun Knights, who had somehow survived the earlier onslaught, and the edge of the newly arrived Eldorian flank. The beasts moved with brutal, unrestrained speed and force, their blazing manes casting dancing, demonic shadows as they tore into the weary defenders. Steel met corrupted hide, holy light met infernal fire. Ranks that had just moments ago held firm dissolved into terrified rout. The last vestiges of the golden light radiating from the few remaining Sun Order priests flickered, then dimmed under the overwhelming onslaught.
Amidst the churning chaos of his emerging army, a figure solidified. Ares. He rose from a churning storm of black ash, a vortex of corrupted power that swirled around him. His form was a nightmare of muscle and raw force, impossibly large, silhouetted against the unnatural phenomena he commanded. All noise seemed to momentarily falter, replaced by a sickening pressure in the air, as his terrifying presence settled over the battlefield. It was colder, heavier, suffocating.
Ares raised his head, scanning the field of slaughter. His crimson red, baleful eyes, set deep within the scarred ruin of his face, burned with malevolent power. The eyes ignited with infernal light, casting a sickening red glow across his grotesque features, and a pulse of dark energy rippled through his legions, a silent, absolute command. The drums from the Shadowfen beat faster, more urgent, responding to their master's will.
With a roar that shook the very foundations of the ruined city, echoing off the shattered spires and crumbling walls, a sound of pure, untamed malice, Ares unleashed the full might of his hidden legions. The demon-cavalry charged with renewed ferocity, screaming their brutal war cries. The undead knights advanced with a relentless, soul-draining purpose, their skeletal jaws locked in eternal grimaces. And unseen horrors, scuttling things born of the Abyss, poured from the shadows, tearing into the allied lines with razor claws and poisoned fangs.
The allied flank, particularly the Mage-Knight battalions led by Commander Darian Frostholm, bore the brutal brunt of Ares's initial assault. They were the disciplined steel of Eldoria, trained to face legions, but not this. Their arcane shields, shimmering with soft blue light, buckled and shattered under the force of the demonic impact. Frost-forged pikes splintered against corrupted bone and hide. Formations that had held against dragons and giants dissolved. Disciplined Eldorian soldiers were scattered like leaves in a hurricane, their ranks decimated, their valiant commander lost somewhere in the maelstrom, his tactical brilliance useless against this mindless, overwhelming tide.
Caught in the maelstrom of skeletal spears and shrieking demons was Helios Vance. He had been kneeling near the base of the ruined Sunspire Relic, his hands glowing faintly with a warm, regenerative light as he tended to a few huddled survivors, a small comfort in the overwhelming darkness. The sound of the drums, Ares's roar, the charge – it happened too fast. He looked up, eyes wide with horror, as a wave of skeletal knights washed over his position.
He fumbled for a protective ward, murmuring ancient words, but the corrupted forms were upon him before the magic could fully coalesce. Skeletal hands, gripping spears wreathed in soul-fire, seized him. His wards flickered, a desperate, dying golden light against the encroaching darkness. Overwhelmed, dragged down, pinned by the relentless horde, Helios Vance cried out. It was a raw, desperate sound, ripped from his throat, a plea for mercy. But it was thrown to the burning eyes of demons and the empty sockets of the undead – forces that knew no mercy, forces whose very existence mocked the Order of the Sun that had exiled him, and whose undead forms were now incapable of granting the very thing he had once sought from them.
Ares, having shattered the main Eldorian line, strode forward with horrifying purpose. He moved through the carnage like a god of war, immense and terrifying. He surveyed the battlefield with his burning eye, fixing upon scattered pockets of resistance still attempting to rally their forces. He spotted Fenric Ashen, a figure dark and defiant, attempting to hold a pocket of Ashward rebels together with his shield and his own brand of shadow magic. A knot of rebels, their faces grim, clustered behind the sorcerer, finding a fragile anchor in his presence. Ares moved towards the cursed sorcerer, a clear demonstration of his intent to break the strongest wills, to extinguish any ember of defiance.
Fenric Ashen felt the immense presence bearing down on him. His glowing red eyes met the single, burning inferno of Ares's eye. He braced himself, channeling energy into his fire-hardened shield, a bulwark against the encroaching darkness, the metal glowing faintly with contained power. Ares reached him, not with a weapon, but with a single, devastating blow from his massive, clawed fist. The impact was colossal, a sound like thunder meeting stone, like a mountain being cleaved in two. Fenric's shield, which had withstood the blows of countless demons and corrupted warriors, groaned in protest. Metal shrieked against supernatural force. Then, with a blinding flash of sparks and erupting dark energy, the shield shattered into a thousand pieces, useless fragments scattering across the ruined ground.
With Fenric Ashen's shield broken and his gaunt form reeling from the impossible impact, the pocket of Ashward rebels around him lost its anchor. Ares's terrifying presence, his devastating power, the raw, unadulterated evil he radiated, scattered their already strained lines. Suddenly Kael appeared from the shadows with Sword and shield in hands striking Ares with a preemptive strike attack with a blinding light emerged from his sword, Kael's blade met Ares with a brilliant flash, a searing arc of hope against the encroaching darkness.
"Get back! Hold your ground!" he shouted at the scattered rebels, rallying them with a fierce determination.
His voice cut through the chaos like a sword through shadow, urging them to reclaim their purpose. Kael took a look at Fenric wounded, and his heart tightened at the sight.
"Fenric, hold on!" he shouted, weaving through the chaos to reach his ally. "We need your magic!"
Fenric gritted his teeth, fighting against the pain, his will flaring like a dying ember amidst the storm. He gathered all of the remaining strength and raised his hands above chanting with a devastating spell, suddenly a hole opened up in the skies and a torrent of fireballs poured forth, colliding with the darkness that Ares commanded. The ethereal energy surged, bending the shadows, and sending Ares staggering back, dazed by the unexpected force that filled the battlefield with hope once more.
Kael shouted with gritted teeth, "Hold your ground". Helios, fueled by urgency, rallied the wounded around him.
"Focus your energies! We are not just defenders; we are the heart of Eldoria!"
Ares smiled keenly and vanished from the scene with a whispered voice, "We will meet again Eldorian warrior".
The fighters broke, their defiance crumbling into desperate panic. They fled from the unstoppable force that had just arrived, leaving behind the fallen, the overwhelmed, the brief moment of unity dissolving into chaotic, desperate flight. The field was no longer a battlefield, but a slaughterhouse.
Through the terror, amidst the sound of clashing steel, demonic roars, and dying screams, a whisper began to spread among the scattered, fleeing survivors. Passed from soldier to soldier, from citizen hiding beneath the ruins, the chilling truth spread like a contagion, chilling the blood in their veins. "Ares has come from the Abyss," they murmured, their voices thick with fear, barely audible above the din of their defeat. "The Beast… the shadows themselves march against us." The revelation confirmed the impossible scale of the threat, stripping away all but the most desperate hope, and leaving only the profound, echoing depth of their despair.
Kael and Fenric along with few Ashward rebels took a stronghold, Kael Shouted, "Hold the line! We still have strength left!"
He brandished his sword, its edge glinting in the chaos, rallying the dazed fighters.
"Together, we push back!"
Fenric grabbed Kael's shoulder, voice laced in sorrow, "We can't win, it's over... It's over now.", Kael we must retreat for now", Ilyana shouted nearby, engaged in battle against horde of demons with her fellow comrades. "Regroup! We push toward the eastern barricades!" Ilyana's voice pierced through the chaos, rallying the scattered fighters. She notched another arrow, her aim steady, striking down a charging beast with uncanny precision. "We have to stand together or fall apart!"
Ilyana's words rang through the confusion, igniting a spark in the weary fighters. Kael tightened his grip on his sword, adrenaline surging as he rallied the rebels, pushing toward a beleaguered barricade, their only hope against the abyssal tide. Kael took a deep breath and shouted, "Make way for for the civilians to escape, raly at the Sable River, we will retreat for now".
***
Midnight choked Thistleveil. The air hung still and heavy, thick with the sickening sweetness of burnt flesh and the metallic tang of blood. Dust motes, swirling in the faint, unnatural glow cast by distant hellish fires, danced over the ruins like tormented souls. The sky above, a bruised canvas of purples and greys, offered no moon, no stars, only the lingering, angry tear where reality had fractured hours before. Silence wasn't an absence of sound; it was a presence, vast and terrible, broken only by the groan of settling rubble and the wet drip, drip of some unseen, dark ichor. The city, once a hope of sunlit stone and vibrant life, was a corpse.
From the west, gliding over the shattered battlements like a dark queen claiming her throne, descended Seraphelle Malakar. Her throne-ship, a construct of shimmering obsidian and captured sorrow, lowered her gently to the scorched earth. Her single black wing, a vast, terrible fan of night against the ruined skyline, was unfurled, its ragged edge catching the faint, hellish light. She stepped onto the ground that had been Thistleveil, her boots crunching on pulverized stone and shards of what had once been homes. Her face, pale and sharp, held no discernible emotion, only a cold, absolute victory that settled over the landscape like a second shroud. She scanned the devastation she had wrought – the levelled eastern quarter, the gaping breaches, the felled spires – and her presence seemed to drain the last vestiges of warmth from the air.
Across the ruined plain, emerging from the chaos of his scattered legions, strode Ares. His immense form was a silhouette against the burning heart of the city, a mountain of corrupted muscle and ancient evil. The air around him crackled with raw, untamed power. His crimson red eyes the infernal beacon in the ruin of his face, burned with a terrible, triumphant light. He walked with the heavy, inexorable tread of a force of nature, wading through the debris of mortal defiance. He reached the foot of the shattered palace steps, climbing over fallen statues and broken symbols of a kingship now ended. With a powerful, brutal gesture, he planted his standard atop the highest step – a black banner, not of woven cloth, but of shifting shadow, dripping with spectral ichor that seeped into the stone, marking the palace as claimed, owned.
The city lay in ruins, a graveyard of stone and steel. Seventy percent was leveled, swallowed by the void surge and the rampaging Celestials. The streets, where merchants once haggled and children played, were choked with rubble, twisted metal, and the shattered remains of those who had defended them. Fires, though dying now, still pulsed in the distance, painting the edges of the destruction in hues of hell. The formidable city, built to withstand siege, had crumbled not just from external force, but from power that tore at its very essence, leaving only a hollowed-out shell.
Seraphelle turned from surveying the western breaches. Ares stood before the ruined palace, his black banner a stark, impossible silhouette against the bruised sky. Their gazes met across the battlefield. There was no need for words, no triumphant cries. The silence between them was heavy with understanding, a shared vision that flowed like dark currents across the devastated land. Thistleveil falls. The destruction was not just an end, but a beginning. From these ashes, a new dominion. Their dominion. Darkness, absolute and unquestioned.
The air was thick, suffocating, filled with the stench of burnt stone, the metallic tang of spilled blood, and a sickening, sweet odor of decay and corrupted magic. In pockets of surviving alleys, beneath the precarious shelter of ruined arches, huddled forms stirred. The survivors. Their faces, smeared with dust and tears, were masks of utter despair, their eyes hollow, reflecting the horror they had witnessed. They watched with a terrible, resigned stillness as the victors walked freely through the wreckage of their lives, powerless, invisible, silent in their grief and fear.
Miles to the west, laboring through the uneven ground towards the banks of the River Sable, moved the remnants of the allied forces. Kael Draven stumbled forward, one arm clutched tight against his ribs, his face a mask of pain and grim exhaustion, but his green eyes burned with a fierce, unwavering defiance. He led the retreat, the ragged line of Ashward rebels and Eldoria's battered legions straggling behind him. They carried their dead, makeshift stretchers borne by weary hands, honoring the fallen in the only way they could – by denying the enemy the final desecration of their bodies. Each step was a struggle, boots sliding on mud and wet earth, the weight of their loss a physical burden.
Ilyana Starfire walked beside Kael, her fiery hair dull with dust, her face streaked with sweat and grim resolve. She cast wary glances back towards the distant, smoldering horizon where Thistleveil lay. The drums from the Shadowfen had silenced, but the memory of Ares's arrival, the sheer, crushing force of his legions, was burned into her mind.
"They weren't just an army," Ilyana said, her voice low, raw. "That was… something else. From the Abyss. Like the old stories."
Kael nodded, the movement sharp, painful. "Ares. Malakar's pet. He showed us what real power looks like. Tasted defeat today." He spat dust onto the ground, the gesture sharp with bitterness. "Tasted the ashes of an entire city."
Fenric Ashen limped slightly, his face paler than usual, but his red eyes glowed with cold fury. He carried his shattered shield, the remnants a testament to Ares's impossible strength. "Gods save us, Kael. We barely scratched them. The Celestials… Ares… Seraphelle commands forces we don't understand. Forces that break the world."
"We understand one thing," Kael said, his voice hardening, though each word was a labor. "They bleed. We made them bleed. We lost Thistleveil. But we didn't break." He looked at the weary faces of the rebels around him, their exhaustion a heavy cloak. "We got people out. As many as we could carry."
Helios Vance knelt amidst the rubble, his hands glowing faintly with a warm, regenerative light as he tended to a soldier's grievous wound. The air around him pulsed with a soft, golden energy, pushing back the clinging dark residue left by the battle. He was near what remained of the Sunspire Relic, its structure cracked, blackened, but its core still held a faint, pulsing light, a desperate ember in the overwhelming darkness. Helios dipped his fingers into the Relic's light, drawing strength and solace from its ancient presence.
"We failed them," Helios murmured, his voice thick with sorrow, looking out at the devastated city. "The Order… my home… Grandpa?" He looked up, seeing the few survivors he was helping, their faces etched with profound shock and loss. "But the light still finds a way. Even in ruin." He pressed his glowing hands to a gaping wound, his focus absolute. The Sunspire Relic pulsed faintly in response, its dimmed light a quiet beacon of hope in the city's long night. He carried the last relic of the Sun Order, its remnants flickering like silvered memory against the shadows.
"Helios," Kael called, urgency seeping into his tone, "we need everyone we can save. Are they…"
"The wounded are weak, but they live," Helios replied, focus unwavering.
"And we'll carry them—together," Kael affirmed, eyes burning with determination. "Make way!" Kael shouted as he pushed through the throng, rallying his allies.
"Protect the wounded!" Ilyana added, her voice sharp amid the chaos.
They moved as one unit, determination propelling them forward even as shadows loomed closer behind.
The line of retreating soldiers reached the city escape gates, now hanging ajar, warped and charred remnants of once-mighty barriers. The ground beyond was flooded with swirling embers, carried on the wind from distant fires, a haunting reminder of the destruction they left behind. They passed through the ruins, past the silent, huddled forms of the few survivors who had been too injured or too broken to flee, their hollow eyes following the retreating shapes.
Seraphelle and Ares moved through the city, their footsteps echoing on the broken ground, the sound jarringly loud in the unnatural silence. They passed by piles of rubble, shattered buildings that groaned in the wind, and the scattered remains of defenders, their forms sprawled in poses of agony or defiance. Seraphelle's face remained impassive, a cold, distant triumph in her eyes. Ares's burning eyes scanned the destruction, missing nothing, his posture radiating possessive dominance over the ruined landscape.
Few surviving citizens watched from their hiding places, silent, trembling. Their city was gone, replaced by a nightmare. They saw the two dark figures, the Princess of Darkness and the Beast from the Abyss, walking among the ruins, their power palpable, their dark plans already taking shape on the ground where their lives had been shattered.
Kael's group along with the Thistleveil's survivors reached the swift-flowing waters of the River Sable, Its dark surface reflected the bruised sky, an indifferent mirror to the tragedy unfolding upstream. The Thistleveil's King and Queen along with few royal servants and Sun Order priests were among the survivors. They began to ford the river, the cold water a shock against their weary bodies. Halfway across, Kael paused, turning back. The city was a dark mass against the horizon, punctuated by the glow of residual fires and the faint, impossible height of Ares's standard atop the ruined palace steps. A black banner dripping shadow, a stark, unyielding symbol of their defeat.
"Thistleveil is fallen," Kael said, his voice carried on the wind across the water, a declaration of loss, but also a vow. He looked at Ilyana, at Fenric, at the faces of the survivors they carried, the weary, beaten fighters. "They took the city. They broke the walls. They unleashed hell itself." He turned back to face the direction they were heading, towards the uncertain future. "But the war isn't over. Not while one of us still draws breath."
As midnight settled its heavy cloak over the ravaged land, bringing an eerie calm to the battlefield, the news of Thistleveil's fall spread like wildfire. Messengers, fleeing through the night, carried the grim tidings across the realm. From village to village, from outpost to city, the word spread – Thistleveil has fallen. The age of celestial hope, of Sun Order light and Thistle Crown defiance, was broken. Aethercrown's shadow, vast and unchecked, stretched across Eldoria, plunging the land into a darkness more profound than any had feared. The war had just begun, and the first major battle had been a crushing, absolute defeat.