The Dominion had arrived.
The air was thick with the scent of steel and blood, the distant thrum of war drums echoing through the ruined streets. Beneath the shadowed sky, thousands of armored soldiers marched in flawless formation, their movements precise, their discipline unshaken. These were no mere conscripts or mercenaries—they were Dominion war veterans, men and women forged in battle, tempered by conquest.
At the head of the vanguard, standing atop a raised hill overlooking the battlefield, was Kaelric Thorne—the Dominion's Blade.
He did not speak. He did not shout orders. He only watched.
Zareth stood upon the battlements, his piercing gaze fixed upon the approaching army. His presence alone sent a shiver through his gathered forces, though they dared not falter. Around him, his warlords awaited his command. Draven stood with his axes resting on his shoulders, Veyron at his side, ever calculating.
"This isn't a mindless horde," Veyron murmured. "They're moving with intent, testing us before committing to the real battle."
Zareth remained silent for a moment, then exhaled. "Then let them learn their lesson early."
He turned to his warlords.
"Strike first. Strike hard. And break them."
The Dominion's vanguard had barely begun to establish their forward positions when hell descended upon them.
From the shadows of ruined buildings, Draven's ambush teams struck. With savage precision, they cut down scouts and supply runners, severing the Dominion's reinforcements before they could settle. Choking gas grenades erupted amidst their ranks, forcing them into unfavorable positions, where waiting blades ended them.
From the city walls, Veyron's defense formations activated.
Heavy barricades funneled the Dominion's forces into tight choke points, where hidden spear traps skewered their forward units. Ranged attackers rained down bolts of Aetherbrand-charged arrows, while alchemists ignited rivers of fire along the battlefield's edges, creating deadly no-man's lands.
Then, the true terror arrived.
Zareth descended upon the battlefield like a force of nature.
He moved through the enemy ranks without hesitation, without pause—an unrelenting executioner. Blades shattered against his armor, their wielders crushed in his grasp. Aetherbrand Essence swirled around him, siphoning the strength of his enemies, twisting their own power into his own.
For a moment, the Dominion's vanguard wavered.
Their rigid formations began to break.
Kaelric Thorne had seen enough.
A sound like a dying wind swept across the battlefield.
The soldiers of the Dominion stiffened, then steadied.
The air shifted, the oppressive weight of battle giving way to something sharper, colder, heavier.
Kaelric stepped forward.
His armor gleamed in the dim light, engraved with sigils of authority and bloodshed. He carried no shield—only a single curved blade, dark as the void, humming with suppressed devastation.
His voice was calm. Unshaken. "Enough."
Then he moved.
The battlefield collapsed around him.
Where Zareth was a storm, Kaelric was a scalpel. He did not waste motion—every step, every cut, was purposeful, precise, and absolute. His Aetherbrand Aspect activated, a silent force that severed the strength of his enemies, disrupting their Wells of power. Warriors crumpled, their Essence vanishing as if stolen from their very souls.
Then, he turned to face Zareth.
The world narrowed.
Two forces of destruction, two warriors beyond the grasp of normal men—one an immovable tyrant, the other an unyielding blade.
Their first clash shook the battlefield.
Zareth's blade struck like a warhammer, crashing down with enough force to shatter the earth beneath them. But Kaelric did not block—he sidestepped, his movements so impossibly precise that the attack missed by mere inches. In a single breath, his blade was already moving, aimed directly at Zareth's exposed flank.
Zareth turned just in time, his hand catching the strike, though the force of it sent him sliding back.
This man is fast.
Kaelric was already on the offensive, moving with a relentless efficiency that no brute force could overwhelm. His blade blurred, forcing Zareth to parry, dodge, and retaliate in ways he hadn't been forced to in centuries. The two warriors exchanged blow after blow, their raw power splitting the ground beneath them.
And yet, despite the flurry of steel, Kaelric remained calm.
This was no ordinary warrior.
This was a predator.
The battle raged.
Zareth's forces fought with ruthless aggression, his warlords pushing deeper into the Dominion's ranks. The Dominion did not break—they adapted. Their formations shifted, countering Zareth's strategies, matching his forces with their own brutal efficiency.
Kaelric fought like a shadow given form, striking with surgical precision, cutting through Zareth's most elite warriors as if they were nothing.
And yet—Zareth refused to falter.
Even as Kaelric's blade sliced against his armor, even as his own Aetherbrand Essence was disrupted, he fought through sheer unyielding will.
This battle would not be decided by a single clash.
It would be decided by who fell first.