The wind carried the scent of ash and rain as a quiet procession wound through the heart of Elwynd Camp. A light drizzle misted the mourning crowd, softening the hard lines of steel and armor.
At the camp's edge, beneath a lone white tree bent by time and wind, a fresh grave had been dug. The soil was dark, the earth still raw.
Malric Drosen
General of the Royal Vanguard
A Father Remembered
Roric stood over the grave, his expression unreadable, save for the twitch in his jaw and the faint trembling of his fingers. His father's sword—an ornate blade etched with Drosen sigils—was now his to carry.
Yet it felt heavier than any weapon he'd held.
King Edward Stoneheart stood beside him, his royal cloak soaked and his eyes tired. "Though his flesh was stolen… the man you remember was real. We honor that man today."
Roric gave a solemn nod. But no words came. Only silence.
---
Two Days Later
A heavy storm rolled through the mountains the night before. The wind tore at the tents, and guards whispered of ill omens in the sky—strange flickers of crimson lightning.
By dawn, a cloaked figure burst into the main gates, leaping from a black steed frothing with sweat.
"Open the command tent! It's Silas!"
Inside, King Edward and his high-ranking officers awaited grim news. Maps of the southern reaches lay spread across the war table, marked with glowing red runes.
Silas entered without ceremony, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.
"I found them," he said, breathless. "A legion. No—a swarm."
The tent stilled.
"Millions of Lucifer's underlings," Silas continued. "Moving in formation from the Hollow Chasm to the Blackridge Pass. They'll be here in two days, maybe sooner."
A stunned silence filled the space before a general choked out, "That's… impossible."
King Edward slowly turned toward the horizon, his jaw tightening.
"No," he whispered. "This is war."
---
The Camp: That Evening
The transformation was swift. The once-silent camp roared to life like a waking giant. Blacksmiths hammered through the night under enchanted forges. Squadrons ran drills across muddy fields. Mages carved glowing sigils into the soil, forming layered wards across the terrain.
The scent of sweat, steel, and magic filled the air.
Scribes ran scrolls between command posts, and banners of various kingdoms fluttered over the battlements. But their forces were few—only two thousand knights in total, scattered and outnumbered.
In the heart of the healing tower, Rael lay motionless on a silken cot, sustained by magical threads. His chest rose and fell in shallow rhythm, as though his soul were lost in another realm.
Seraphina knelt at his side, wiping his forehead gently. Her silver armor lay beside her, polished but untouched. Her hands trembled.
"I don't know if you can hear me," she whispered. "But I need you to fight, too. Even now… your presence keeps us grounded."
She brushed his Black hair aside and leaned down, pressing her lips gently to his brow.
"I'll come back," she said, voice barely a whisper. "So you better wake up."
She left reluctantly, her figure bathed in golden torchlight as she descended the tower steps. Behind her, two elite knights stood at Rael's door, joined by three maids sworn to his protection.
---
Dawn Before the Battle
The camp stretched across the valley like a final line between the world of men and the abyss beyond. Defensive walls shimmered with barrier enchantments. Archer towers had been erected overnight. Spiked trenches cut through the earth.
On the main ridge, King Edward climbed the speaking platform, draped in a fur-lined mantle. His breastplate bore the Lion Crest of House Stoneheart, glowing faintly in the morning mist.
Before him, thousands of soldiers gathered. Knights in full plate. Mages clutching glowing staves. Scouts, priests, rangers. And among them, the remaining Heroes—champions from across Eldoria, waiting for orders.
King Edward raised his sword to the wind, and the camp fell silent.
"Soldiers of Eldoria," his voice rang, magnified by arcane resonance. "Before us marches ruin. A tide of evil that seeks not just conquest, but the end of all we hold dear."
"We are two thousand."
A pause.
"They are a million."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"But we stand not as sheep awaiting slaughter. We stand as lions!"
A cheer erupted, brief but defiant.
"We are the wall between light and shadow! The flame that will not be snuffed out! Today, we fight not for glory—but for the world that waits behind us. For our homes. For our fallen. For the hope that Rael, our Comrade, gave us!"
He raised his blade high, voice thundering, "This is not the end. This is where legends are born!"
The roar that answered him shook the valley.
Among the crowd, Seraphina looked toward the tower where Rael lay.
"I'll protect your dream," she whispered. "Until you can carry it again."