Beneath the rotting canopy of the dark woods, a shadow loomed. Its amphibian eyes glistened in the faint light, wide and gleaming as it licked its slick lips with a forked tongue. Its muscular, scaled frame hunched low as it watched the distant shape of the necropolis—alien and foreboding in the forest clearing.
"So this is where they hide…" the creature muttered with a voice like wet gravel. Milark, the murloc king and heir to Slark's legacy, crouched on the bough of a blackened tree. He saw the smooth-skinned younglings darting between the skeletal towers, and his stomach twisted with hunger. They were pink, soft, and weak—like prey born for his kind to devour.
He raised one clawed hand high, then roared:
"Raaarrroouuugh!!"
A deafening battle cry erupted across the woods. From every shadow, from every pool and trench, the murlocs burst into motion. Dozens… hundreds… thousands surged forward like a blue-green wave of death. They howled and screeched, leaping and tumbling, eyes glinting with bloodlust.
From atop the Necropolis, Vanthelis Blackthorn saw the charge unfold.
His eyes widened—but fear was a fleeting feeling. He gritted his teeth, grabbed the roughly-carved wooden spear he'd crafted earlier, and shouted to those beside him.
"Stand your ground! Kill every single one that crosses the line!"
Haben and Dorothy were already channeling their power. From their outstretched hands, tendrils of dark energy lashed outward, coiling around the murlocs and leeching their life essence. The murlocs screeched and convulsed, their skin shriveling as their souls were drained by necrotic magic.
The three older children beside them—barely into their teens—stood with spears clenched tightly in trembling fists. Despite their youth, they thrust their weapons forward, striking out at the first wave that reached them. Blood sprayed across the ground, thick and pungent, as the first murlocs fell.
Yet there were too many.
One of the murlocs, cunning and swift, darted past the melee and lunged toward the youngest child among them—a girl too frozen with fear to run.
Her brother screamed.
"Anna!!"
His voice cracked as he watched the creature claw into her, tearing through her frail form. Blood splattered across his face. Her body crumpled like cloth soaked in red.
His scream became a roar of anguish. Rage took him. With a cry that shook the clearing, he charged recklessly, slamming his spear through the nearest murloc and again—and again—driven by nothing but grief.
Vanthelis's eyes flicked to the boy, burning with fury of his own. He turned toward Ishlar, who stood breathing hard with his side bleeding through the bandage.
"Ishlar! Start the fire!"
Without a word, the retainer limped toward the wooden trap they had hastily prepared earlier—straw soaked in pitch and oil gathered from ruined barrels. He struck flint and steel together—once, twice—until a spark caught.
The fire exploded.
Flames surged through the trench, igniting the oil. A curtain of fire roared to life, engulfing dozens of the oncoming murlocs. Their screams pierced the sky, shrill and awful, as they burned alive. Some of the children looked away; others stood frozen.
But it still wasn't enough.
Even as flames devoured the front lines, the swarm pushed forward. The fire slowed them, but didn't stop them. Murlocs trampled their burning kin, leaping over the charred trenches. More and more were coming.
Ishlar's breath came in ragged gasps. He stumbled, one leg barely supporting him now. Sweat beaded across his pale face. Still, he refused to fall.
Dorothy, too, was reaching her limit. Despite the ziggurat's dark energy pulsing through her, keeping her standing, her skin was beginning to gray—flaking in some places. A slow decay crept across her limbs, unnoticed by all but the shadows. She was giving more than her magic should allow.
Haben, strangely, remained eerily calm. His chants were fluid, his posture composed. Perhaps, Vanthelis thought, there was something more in him—something dormant but compatible with this dark power.
Vanthelis's arms ached from the repetitive thrusts of his spear. Blood covered his clothes. A line had been drawn, and he swore no more would pass.
He glanced toward the woods—at the origin of this nightmare.
Milark stood watching, his body untouched by battle. The murloc king tilted his head, his crooked teeth gleaming in the firelight. His massive form rippled with strength. He leaned back, savoring the moment, and smiled.
He could see it clearly—this group was breaking.
Their energy was depleting. Their wounds were stacking. The smell of blood was overwhelming. He could taste their fear—even those who masked it with rage and defiance.
Victory was inevitable.
Milark grinned wider, baring every jagged tooth.