The sun had long dipped behind the horizon, casting the surroundings in a creeping darkness. The quiet was broken only by the unsettling noises of the Necropolis, its eerie hum vibrating through the earth, as if the ground itself was alive, aware of the danger that approached.
Inside the mansion, things were far from peaceful.
The acolytes, tired and barely able to stand, continued their rituals, their exhaustion showing in the sagging shoulders and the subtle shakes of their hands. Dorothy, though she pushed through, could feel her energy draining by the minute, the dark magic taking its toll on her fragile body. Every time she summoned dark energy, she could feel her skin decay, her body deteriorating piece by piece. But she didn't dare stop; there was no time for rest. They had to hold the line.
Ishlar, his wounds still fresh, moved with a limp, barely managing to stay on his feet. His body ached from the previous battle, but he knew that every second they delayed was a second closer to the inevitable death that awaited them. Despite the exhaustion and the near-impossibility of it all, there was something about the moment that kept him going—something primal and unyielding that refused to let him give up.
The children, though hidden away in the mansion, were safe for now, but that safety felt fragile, like a thin sheet of ice. Ishlar had seen the murlocs' relentless assault, their primal hunger, and he could not shake the vision of them running, leaping toward them like a pack of ravenous wolves. The fire they had started had held them at bay for a while, but it wasn't enough to stop them entirely.
And in the distance, Milark stood, his silhouette barely visible under the dim moonlight. The slight shimmer of his scales reflected what little light there was, and his piercing yellow eyes glowed with an almost predatory light. He watched them, a sickening grin on his face as he observed their struggles, his every movement calculating, like a hunter savoring the moment before striking.
Every time someone glanced over their shoulder, they could feel his presence, a chill running down their spines as if his eyes were watching them from every angle. It wasn't just the danger of the battle—it was his gaze that made it worse. His mocking smile, his ever-watchful eyes, made every second feel like an eternity. They could feel him studying them, waiting for them to make a mistake.
The weight of his gaze made everything feel more oppressive. Each movement, each action, felt like it was being judged, and the fear it instilled in their hearts made everything harder. The fight had already drained them, but the knowledge that Milark was watching, waiting for them to falter, added another layer of pressure that gnawed at their resolve.
Haben, ever the calm one, wasn't immune to the feeling. He could feel the weight of Milark's eyes, pressing down on him like a heavy stone. He was better at handling the strain than most, but even he could feel the tension rising with every passing second. His mind was constantly on edge, his instincts screaming that the murlocs were closing in. He needed to be ready—but how could he focus when that terrible presence lingered just beyond their sight?
"Stay focused," he muttered to himself, though it did little to ease the gnawing anxiety in his chest. The murlocs were relentless, and they were coming closer with every moment.
Dorothy's face was pale, a faint sheen of sweat coating her forehead. She tried to steady her breath, pushing the pain and exhaustion aside, but it wasn't working. The dark energy she drew on was taking its toll, eating away at her, both physically and mentally. Every chant she uttered, every incantation she summoned, seemed to drain a little more of her life away, yet she could not stop.
The thought of the children—those innocent faces—kept her going. She couldn't fail them. She wouldn't let them be eaten alive.
Suddenly, the sound of another battle cry cut through the air, followed by the unmistakable sound of murlocs charging forward, their gurgling growls echoing through the clearing. The sound of claws scraping against stone reverberated, and the acrid stench of the creatures wafted in the air.
The fire, though still burning brightly, was losing its grip on the oncoming waves of murlocs. They seemed to ignore the flames now, driven by hunger and rage. Milark knew this—he was letting them come. He wasn't in a rush; he was enjoying the moment.
"We can't let them get to the children," Dorothy whispered, barely audible. Her hands were trembling as she readied herself to summon more energy, but it was clear she was running on fumes.
"We'll hold them off," Haben said with more conviction than he felt. His voice was steady, though his eyes betrayed his worry. He could feel it too. The murlocs were getting closer. The fire wouldn't last much longer.
Ishlar glanced at the battlefield again, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He could see the murlocs charging forward in waves, their twisted forms indistinguishable in the chaos. There were too many of them.
And Milark? He was still watching, smiling as if he had all the time in the world.
"Get ready," Ishlar ordered, his voice low. "We fight until the end."
Each of them steeled themselves for what was coming next.
But no matter how hard they tried to push back, the pressure of Milark's presence, that ever-watchful gaze, hung over them like a dark cloud. The longer they fought, the more they realized—he was toying with them. He wasn't trying to win; he was waiting for them to break.
And as they fought, each blow they struck, each life they tried to defend, felt less like a battle for survival and more like a test. Milark was watching, studying them, learning everything about their weaknesses.
With every strike of their weapons, every chant from Dorothy, every move they made, it felt like Milark was savoring their struggle, as if waiting for the moment they would finally collapse under the pressure.
And that moment? It was coming.