The stillness of the night was not to last.
When the moon rode high in the sky, the veil of silence that had descended over Blackspire Fortress was torn asunder. The hunt was on.
Draegor Nyx leaned against the balcony railing of the war chamber, his crimson eyes narrowed in intensity as he stared out at the distant flickering lights of the enemy camps under the mountain ridge. Their forces had not yet advanced, still caught in the web of uncertainty that Zaelith had so carefully woven.
But Draegor had waited long enough.
With measured, slow turn, he addressed the gathered commanders standing behind him. Zaelith. Velistra. Seraphis. Varek. All of them stood patiently for the signal.
He raised his clawed hand, the mana surrounding him shuddering.
"Begin."
The Opening Strike
Zaelith took the first step.
The moment Draegor gave the order, he vanished from the war room, reappearing in the biting blackness outside the fortress walls. He had already mapped out their enemies' locations—ghostly figures moving, fire burning against the cold, guards prepared with arms held but without eagerness.
They were waiting for something.
They were waiting for an attack.
But not in this manner.
With a flicker of motion, Zaelith surged forward, his form near invisible in blackness. He leapt from the first ridge, slid behind two enemy scouts as quiet as a phantom. They never so much as guessed. They hadn't even a second to breathe before his blade flashed out—single, flowing motion, two bodies collapsing dead on the earth.
No cry was raised.
Zaelith moved methodically, dispatching three more before any of them could wake.
And before the enemy knew that something was out of place, it was already too late.
The Veil Falls
On the other flank, Seraphis dispelled the shadows enveloping the fortress.
For days, she kept the darkness veiled around Blackspire, hiding prying eyes from grasping its defenses in full. But now?
Now, she showed them.
The veil rolled back like mist, and the looming fortress was visible, its towers reaching up into the air like splintered fangs. The enemy camps, once serene, erupted into chaos.
Shouts. Scrambling activity. The frantic clashing of blades being drawn.
But Seraphis did not give them time to react in freedom.
She raised her hand, and from the darkness, forms coalesced—the Wraithguard, spectral warriors bound to her command. They flowed forward like a wave of darkness, moving between shadows, engulfing the front ranks of enemy soldiers before they could even scream.
And then the first flames started.
Varek's Descent
The earth trembled.
There was a moment of silence before Varek came down upon the battlefield like a falling comet.
His massive frame tore through the ground as he came hurtling down in the center of the enemy camp, men and supplies scattered aside by the force of impact alone. Two soldiers had not even a second to gather themselves before his gauntlet-wrapped fists crashed into them, propelling their broken bodies into the tents behind them.
A war cry rose from the enemy lines as they charged forward to battle him.
Varek smiled.
He enjoyed the trial.
His fists became a storm, punching into armor bodies with lethal power. A sword was thrust at his throat—he captured the blade in his open hand and crushed it. A spear was thrust at his chest—he parried, using the shaft to impale the man who had thrown it.
Dozens were shattered at his feet in the space of seconds.
And this was only the beginning.
The Tyrant Walks Among Them
Draegor Nyx moved last.
He emerged onto the battlefield not as a sneaky assassin or a berserker charging into the fray, but as a manifestation of sheer, unadulterated power.
As he descended from the fortress, the air itself grew thick with power. His presence stilled the battlefield, soldiers turning wide-eyed terror as he approached.
They knew.
They knew exactly who he was.
And still, fear did not deter them from charging.
The first wave of attackers charged at him, a tide of swordmen, archers, and sorcerers. A common enough strategy—overwhelm the victim before they might be able to retaliate.
It failed.
Draegor cocked an eyebrow, and the battlefield flared.
A bead of condensation of Abyssal Flame burst forth from his hand, so dense and hot it made the earth beneath one's feet shatter and melt. He hurled it in a high trajectory—and the front line ceased to be.
They were engulfed in fire, armor and flesh both reduced to naught but ash.
Arrows had been released by archers. He did not stir.
The moment those arrows entered his range, they disintegrated.
Mages unleashed elemental magic. He raised a clawed hand, and their magic was devoured by the swirling black mist around him.
And then he said something.
It was not a scream, not a mere threat. It was the voice of a Tyrant.
"Run. Or bow. There is no third option."
There was a moment of doubt.
Then chaos erupted.
Some tried to flee, but Zaelith had already lain in wait in the shadows.
Some tried to surrender, but Seraphis's Wraithguard would not allow it.
Some resisted, but Varek was present to put an end to it.
No escape.
Only domination.
The Aftermath
With the coming of dawn, the battlefield was still.
The remaining forces of the enemy had been broken, scattered, or destroyed. Some had been taken prisoner and returned to the fortress to await questioning.
And Draegor Nyx stood at the top of the highest ridge, gazing down upon what was once an enemy encampment.
Now, it was his.
A smile creased at his lips.
This was only the start.
There was fighting to be done. Kingdoms to be shattered. Thrones to be shattered.
And he would take them all.
With fire.
With shadow.
With Tyranny.