An eerie silence falls upon the walls stretching far across, blocking the way further into the Lower Stratum where the Nightscale took up residence. So hard, one could bite on it. Vro-Ghahk tightens his grip around his axe’s handle, with such strength that if it would be common, it would break like a twig. His heart pounded with such velocity and strength that his chest was ready to burst, the world of the Middle Stratum started getting blurry, while the dread stroking him kept his body cool.

Ever since they arrived last week, his nightmares started to intensify. At first he dreamt of a dark figure suffocating him with their cold hands. The next one, a shadowy blade pierced through his chest, spreading an indescribable pain that followed him into the waking world. Then he dreamt of the battle, how his friends, rivals died one by one in hundreds of ways, each more gruesome and crueler than the other.

Through his years, he heard many tales of tactics being used by mages, altering the dreams of defenders or the assaulting force to lower their moral. He understood that the enemy wanted to send a message. But in the end, while fear possessed him, there was still some semblance of courage left in him. Even if he dies this day, he will make sure that he Nightmare is sent back whence it lived before, if these beings are alive at all.

As he looks around, in the vastness of the army he spots Morogh standly fearlessly, with dark eyes. For a moment he sees his father in him, standing proudly as they faced against charging Imperial forces sent to hunt them down once upon a time. “Are you sure you won’t need a bit of calmness?” Gha-Rhol asks once more. Since this morning, and the past three days, she has been asking this very same question, wishing to use a bit of her mind magic to grant serene mind to him.

“I’ll be fine.” He smiles back at her, trying to easy her worries. “If you say so Chief.” She sighs than their attention falls to the north whence a darkness gradually hardens. Then they slowly make out figures approaching. They notice undead clad in myriad armors, each more sinister appearing than the other. In some they recognize the Dhau-Issz, in others they wonder and dread seeing the Dhaugrian’s design while questioning if there are demons amongst the enemy seeing the dark elven designs.

“LIGHTS!” A voice reaches down from the walls, the mages of the Horde stand together in circles, their chanting unifying into a hymn as they launch small spheres into the ceiling as the darkness snuffs out the luminous lights. “Prepare yourselves my brothers and sisters. Glory awaits us!” Vro-Ghahk screams, as his fear eases by his excitement for the coming battle overcoming it.

As the enemy stops in their march, silence falls on the battlefield. One warrior amongst the Horde starts thrumming, beating his Warhammer onto his shield, then another joins in and so on until they all start singing together, from the depth of their throats. The ground starts shaking as they trample one leg down, then the other in a unified rhythm.

In an eerie silence, the undead take the first steps, rapidly charging at the forces of the Horde, with a calmness unprecedented. Arrows fly, and flames ragingly engulf the oncoming charge as the final battle begins.

**

“Rielk!” Gha-Rhol screams from the top of her lunges as she watches her friend being incinerated from the inside. He screams over the sounds of the battle as the flames bite and consume his intestines, his bones into ash. His charred remains fall with a gruesome grimace frozen on his barely discernable ape like face emitting a nose corroding smell.

“May have miscalculated things.” Cacmieh adds as his runic scar tattoos glow with an infernal light while coldly staring at the burnt cadaver. “Well, no reason to mull over it.” He turns to Gha-Rhol who senses a discomfortable hotness spreading within her body. Her voice echoes as cold light engulfs her body in the shape of an aura.

Cacmieh clicks his tongue while changing tactics. Earth sprouts around her feet, keeping her tight in place while a raging sphere of green flames appear above his right palm. At his command, the sphere as if possessing a mind of its own, tears through the air heading straight to Gha-Rhol. She counters it before reaching her, ice shaped into a large sphere appears out of thin air, with adding a hurtful coldness to the surroundings.

The infernal sphere impacts it, the two change into a suffocating mist that neither can see through. Using what uncertain time, she has left, mana pours into the paint coating her legs, the rigid earth binding her legs shatter to hundred pieces as she steps away from a second infernal sphere that lands on the two fighting behind her.

Then the earth starts shaking under her feet, the world spin in her vision as she loses her balance. Cacmieh slowly approaches her as an infernal light possesses his eyes, holding his right hand towards her where a third sphere starts forming. As he completely focuses on Gha-Rhol, he doesn’t notice Vhar-Thurg leaping over the shoulders of a dark elven warrior, his axe landing in his bald head.

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He seems to try to say something as green veins appear on his dark body. A glow gradually intensifies within his belly before his whole body burst into green flames, engulfing Vhar-Thurg and several around them. Gha-Rhol watches as the burning ear he kept as a bauble falls down to the ground, the flames seeping into it until it becomes abyssal obsidian.

**

Bjartur groans as the flames engulfing Zoklaeth’s blade scorch his face as their blades join together in a metallic rhythm. A wide grin plastered across his face as he tries to push the burning blade onto the demonic helmet. Then he lets out a short scream as the Zoklaeth’s knee violently caresses his gut. He tumbles back a few step before parrying the next swing aimed at his neck.

The two jump back, with Zoklaeth swinging his claymore aimed at his waist. They once more clash emanating an ear piercing metallic sound, a shockwave that feels like needless piercing their muscles going through their arms. Their teeth push on each other in sync before Zoklaeth charges at him. Bjartur raises his shield, the burning blade stuck in its top half, worryingly too close to his arm.

The two take a break in their long duel, circling around the wide space littered with corpses, some still moving and in a strange way giving them space. Their muscles relax for a moment as they stare into each other’s eyes. For a moment Bjartur contemplates taking down Zoklaeth by first countering his next swing, to sweep his leg and sever his head from his body. But then his opponent charges at him, and in the heat of the moment, he decides to end this with one strike at the neck.

The blade sweeps into the opening, scraping Zoklaeth as Bjartur tries his best to evade the burning blade. For a moment as he turns around facing Zoklaeth, the pain seems minor before he falls to the ground with a grunt. He drops his weapon and puts his hands on his wound. His body is in heat before a tender coldness wraps its arm around his body as the world fades in his vision. His eyes eternally focused in one direction, where Zoklaeth stands victoriously before rushing further into the battle.

**

“Damn it!” Morogh curses as the Arnyak heavy strike breaks his balance. He falls to the ground, rolling away in time to evade the shadowy blade aimed at his heart. While rolling, he grabs his spear and jumps up, gracefully landing into a battle stance with one leg situated closer to the Arnyak.

It slowly turns its cloaked head towards Morogh, walking without a care in the world while rising its blade, both of its hands tightening around the grip. Two brave, and foolish warriors charge at him, their necks snapping in a mere moment before they raise up from their early grave. Mororgh slowly steps away, then he feels a cold sensation grappling his forearm before yanking him closer to the pointed blade of the Arnyak.

Then the Arnyak moves its blade away as Vro-Ghahk appears from the crowd surrounding them. His axe aimed at it, scraping the jagged, murky armor with its blade. The Arnyak is assaulted by heavy, consecutive strikes as he tumbles backwards. Then when the killing blow reaches within a few centimeters of its cloaked head, Vro-Ghahk’s arm stops.

It remains still while shaking as he exerts all his muffles to get free from the unseen grip of the Arnyak. From the right edge of his vision, he sees Morogh charging at the Arnyak who gracefully tilts to the back, locking the spear between its side and right arm. On the left side he spots the tender, tainted figure of the Nameless, recognizing the face of the moon elf he chased weeks ago.

The dread rears its fangs once more as he focuses on the Nameless. The scream of Morogh being thrown to the ground after his spear is splintered in two drags him back to reality. His arms starts shaking even harder, then his blade finally moves lodging into the Arnyak. For a moment, relief overcomes him before the swirling, shadowy blade goes right through his heart. His chest plate, crude yet hard with white fur tainted now by his blood pouring from his mortal wound.

As he crumbles to the ground, the last thing he sees is Morogh rushing at him, screaming his name. Then darkness veils his vision before seeing Ologh at the end of the cold light.

**

The Nameless glides between the undead and the warriors, both oblivious to his presence. For a moment he stops, looking at Vro-Ghahk laying in his own pool of blood. “What a shame.” He mumbles before turning back at the gate protected by numerous warriors baring their spears forward. Their muscles tensed up, aching to rake up glory in the name of their Draconic God.

Just like the rest, he passes between them. His cold, dark hands touch the obsidian hewn gates, negative matter coursing through them into the walls. For a moment there is only the hymn of the battle, then the crumbling of the gates joins in. Each piece falls around him, crushing the few who haven’t fled yet. Each piece seemingly possessing a mind of its own as non grazes his slender form.

Then he continues on, the defenders inside staring at his direction with confused looks. He ignores them while making his way at the far end where the enormous hole remains after the Nightscale made his way down.

The hymn of the battle becomes distant with each step he takes. The next few steps of the Nameless slow down for a few moments before his pace becomes normal as he counters the wards of the Nightscale.

His wet footsteps echo through the vast darkness of the Lower Stratum as he walks to the end of the platform. For a moment he remains still, his focus pointed in the murky distance before the pristine surface of the dark lake became restless as the enormous Nightscale slithered towards.

His head raised halfway out, towering over the alabaster figure of the Nameless, draped in darkness. His form highlighted by the glow of his eyes as they stare at each other, at first anger gleaming from his draconic eyes, before they mellow as he recognizes him…