The Lyshar territory stood as one of the kingdom's proud secondary fortresses, a bulwark against invading threats.
It was well-manned, its walls reinforced, and its soldiers battle-hardened.
The Count of Lyshar, a fierce and fearless warrior known for his unyielding nature, took great pride in his forces.
When word came of Movok’s approach, the Count did not hesitate.
Retreat or defensive tactics were not in his nature.
"We will face them head-on!" he bellowed, rallying his troops with fiery determination.
"Let them taste the steel of Lyshar!"
Movok, the towering lizardman general, marched toward the fortress with an army of terrifying diversity—gnolls with their bloodthirsty grins, goblins wielding crude but deadly weapons, and other lizardmen clad in makeshift armor.
The sight of their disciplined march and guttural roars was enough to unnerve even seasoned soldiers, but the Count’s men stood firm, trusting in their leader’s unwavering confidence.
As the battle began, the air was thick with the clash of steel and the guttural cries of combatants.
Arrows rained down from the walls of Lyshar, finding their marks in the ranks of Movok’s army.
Goblins fell in clusters, their high-pitched shrieks piercing the chaos.
Yet, the enemy pressed on, undeterred.
Movok himself led the charge, a behemoth of muscle and scales wielding a massive greatsword that seemed to cleave the air itself.
The Count, mounted on his warhorse, shouted commands as his soldiers surged forward to meet the oncoming horde.
The clash was brutal.
Soldiers from Lyshar swung their swords, axes, and spears with all their might, cutting down goblins and gnolls, but for every enemy they felled, two more seemed to take their place.
Blood splattered the ground, the metallic tang of it filling the air.
Movok was a force of nature.
With each swing of his greatsword, he cleaved through multiple soldiers, their screams cutting short as they crumpled to the ground.
Arrows and spears aimed at him glanced off his scaled hide, his roars shaking the resolve of even the bravest warriors.
The Count charged directly at Movok, his lance aimed at the lizardman’s chest.
The blow struck true, the tip piercing Movok’s armor, but the beast barely flinched.
With a guttural growl, Movok grabbed the lance, snapping it like a twig, and swung his sword in a wide arc.
The Count’s horse reared, its cries of pain mingling with the shouts of the dying.
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Meanwhile, the gnolls wreaked havoc in the melee, their feral grins never fading as they tore through soldiers with their claws and jagged weapons.
The goblins, though smaller and weaker, overwhelmed the flanks with sheer numbers, swarming the soldiers like a tide of death.
The gates of Lyshar became a scene of desperate last stands as lizardmen scaled them with clawed hands, dragging defenders into bloody brawls.
Soldiers who had trained for years fell like wheat before the scythe, their cries swallowed by the chaos.
By the time the battle reached its climax, the ground was slick with blood and littered with bodies.
The once-proud soldiers of Lyshar were broken, their lines shattered, their spirit crushed.
The Count, bloodied but unbroken, faced Movok one last time. "You’ll pay for this, beast," he snarled, gripping a fallen soldier’s sword.
Movok tilted his head, a cruel grin splitting his reptilian features.
The duel was short and brutal. Movok’s strength was overwhelming.
The Count managed a few fierce strikes, but Movok’s counterattacks were devastating.
With one final swing, Movok’s greatsword severed the Count’s head, his lifeless body collapsing to the blood-soaked earth.
The soldiers of Lyshar who survived dropped their weapons, their will to fight extinguished.
Movok roared in triumph, lifting the Count’s severed head high for all to see.
His army echoed his roar, a cacophony of victory and terror.
The fortress of Lyshar was razed to the ground.
Flames consumed the wooden structures, and the stone walls crumbled under the force of Movok’s army.
The once-thriving territory was reduced to ash and rubble, a grim testament to the Demon King’s growing power.
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The territory of Kreyas, one of the kingdom’s proud secondary fortresses, stood tall with its formidable walls.
Renowned for their thickness and height, these defenses had withstood countless sieges.
Unlike Lyshar, the Count of Kreyas chose a different approach when news of the Demon King’s forces reached them.
"Hold the gates and stay within the walls. Reinforcements will arrive soon," the Count commanded.
His voice carried confidence, and his soldiers trusted the strategy.
Behind the towering walls, they believed themselves untouchable.
For days, the walls held firm.
Movok’s monstrous horde bypassed Kreyas, leaving the territory seemingly untouched.
However, the real danger didn’t come from the outside—it came from within.
A few days before, strange occurrences began to unsettle the citizens of Kreyas.
It started with whispers—faint voices no one could locate.
Shadows moved where none should, and fleeting glimpses of figures haunted the periphery of vision.
Then came the melody.
A haunting flute played faintly in the night, its tune soft but chilling.
Citizens reported hearing it in their dreams, and soon it bled into their waking hours.
The melody was enchanting yet oppressive, creeping into their minds like a disease.
At first, the illusions were dismissed as paranoia, but the symptoms spread like wildfire.
Entire families claimed to see horrors: their loved ones turning into monsters, the walls crumbling to reveal endless darkness, and unseen entities clawing at their doors.
Panic set in. Citizens barricaded themselves in their homes, clutching makeshift weapons.
Then, the voices began.
"Kill them," they whispered, "save yourself."
Chaos erupted.
The citizens turned on one another, believing themselves cursed.
They saw enemies in every face, monsters in every shadow.
The soldiers of Kreyas, sworn to protect their people, were thrust into an impossible situation.
"Stand down! Cease this madness!" the Count bellowed as his men tried to quell the riots.
But the citizens were relentless, their eyes glazed with madness, their movements erratic and violent.
The soldiers hesitated, unwilling to harm those they had sworn to protect.
"They’re just frightened," one soldier muttered, only to be stabbed by a frantic citizen moments later.
The fortress devolved into chaos.
Soldiers subdued rioters where they could, but every skirmish left them more battered and exhausted.
The once-unified defenders of Kreyas were now fractured and weary.
Then came the final blow. In the dead of night, a sudden gust of wind blew through the fortress, extinguishing torches and plunging the territory into darkness.
The gates, thought to be impenetrable, creaked open.
A lone figure stepped through—Tores, the Demon King’s general, cloaked in shadow.
His bony fingers clutched a wooden flute, the source of the cursed melody.
His pale, hollow eyes swept over the chaos with satisfaction.
Without a word, Tores lifted the flute to his lips and began to play.
The melody was sharper this time, more menacing, carrying a malevolent energy that seeped into the air like poison.
The citizens, already on the brink of insanity, succumbed entirely.
Their screams filled the fortress as they turned into frenzied attackers, clawing and biting at the soldiers.
"Hold the line!" the Count cried, but it was futile. His men, injured and exhausted, could barely defend themselves.
They fell one by one, overwhelmed by the sheer numbers and the madness infecting their own people.
Tores walked calmly through the carnage, the melody guiding the chaos like a conductor leading an orchestra of despair.
Blood stained the stone streets, and the air was thick with cries of agony and despair.
The Count, refusing to abandon his post, confronted Tores.
"You won’t take Kreyas without a fight!" he roared, brandishing his sword.
Tores paused, lowering his flute.
He regarded the Count with a cold smile.
The Count lunged, but before his blade could reach its mark, Tores raised a hand.
Vines erupted from the ground, sending the Count crashing into the stone wall.
The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was the flute in Tores’ hand, still dripping with malice.
By dawn, Kreyas was no more.
Its proud walls stood unbreached, but inside, the fortress was a graveyard.
Bodies littered the streets, and the survivors—citizens and soldiers alike—were nothing more than hollow shells, their minds lost to the cursed melody.
Tores stood atop the fortress’s central tower, his flute silent for now.
The setting sun painted the ruins in hues of red and orange, a grim reminder of the destruction wrought not by brute force, but by the insidious power of dark magic.
Kreyas had fallen, not to an army, but to madness itself.