The night was a choking miasma of rot and blood. Smoke hung thick in the air, greasy tendrils of it worming into Daine’s nostrils as she strode through the dead and dying. The remnants of the mountain men’s camp lay in ruin around her, the dying embers of campfires casting erratic shadows over a landscape of butchered bodies. The ground was a sodden mess of mud and gore, slick beneath her boots as she moved with the predatory grace of a reaper.

Her greatsword dripped with the blood of the fallen, each crimson droplet hissing as it hit the ground, as though the earth itself recoiled from the filth it had been fed. The blade was a living extension of her rage, cleaving through the twisted forms of her enemies with a brutal, unflinching efficiency. Flesh parted like overripe fruit, bones cracked like splintered wood, and the air was alive with the wet, meaty sounds of slaughter.

The mountain men, if they could even still be called that, had been grotesque parodies of humanity. Their bodies were a patchwork of disease and deformity, skin stretched tight over bulging veins and knotted muscle, twisted by the Dark God's foul touch. They moved with jerky, spasmodic motions, limbs flailing as though controlled by some sadistic puppet master. Eyes that once held life now glared out, empty and glassy, from skulls barely recognisable as human. They attacked not with strategy but with feral desperation, their clawed hands tearing at the air, driven by an all-consuming hunger that had no place in this world.

Daine had cut through them with methodical brutality. Each swing of her sword was a calculated dismemberment, a surgical strike that left bodies in pieces, their blood painting the air in thick, arterial sprays. She felt no triumph, no grim satisfaction—only a deep, gnawing sorrow. These were not enemies; they were victims, lost souls twisted beyond redemption, and each death she dealt was a mercy wrapped in violence. But mercy was growing heavy on her soul, the weight of it pressing down like the blood-soaked earth beneath her feet.

Beside her, Donal was a whirlwind of destruction, his twin war axes carving through the horde with savage grace. His blows landed with bone-shattering force, each swing accompanied by a sickening crunch as steel met flesh. He moved with an almost inhuman ferocity, his strength terrifying in its intensity. Where Daine felt sorrow, Donal seemed to revel in the violence, his every strike fueled by a dark power that pulsed just beneath the surface of his skin.

The ground around him was a mosaic of ruin. Limbs lay scattered like broken dolls; heads were cleaved from torsos, their faces frozen in expressions of horror, mouths agape in silent screams. And through it all, the darkness around Donal grew thicker, a black aura that seemed to feed on the carnage, growing more oppressive with each kill. Daine noticed but pushed the thought away—there was no time to consider the implications, not while the slaughter continued.

The mountain men's death throes were a discordant symphony, their howls of agony mingling with the gurgling of those too far gone to scream. But there was no salvation to be found in their cries, no release from the torment that had twisted them into these monstrous forms. Daine stepped over a corpse, her boot sinking into the blood-soaked earth with a nauseating squelch. Her sword drew a brutal arc through the next man, slicing him from shoulder to hip with a single blow. The body fell away in two ragged halves, internal organs spilling onto the ground, steam rising from the fresh kill in the cold night air. Blood sprayed across her face, warm and dense, but she did not flinch—only wiped it away with the back of her hand, leaving a smear across her cheek.

The next attacker came at her with wild eyes and a mouth full of broken teeth, but Daine sidestepped his lunge, her sword flashing in the dim light, catching him in the neck and severing his head in a clean motion. The decapitated body staggered for a moment, blood fountaining from the severed arteries before collapsing in a twitching heap at her feet. She watched the life drain from the eyes in the severed head, the last vestiges of life fading into the abyss, and felt a pang of sadness she had no time to dwell on. This was not a role she could continue to play.

Then Donal was at her side, his axes a blur of steel as he hacked through the remaining mountain men. He fought with a savagery that rivalled that of the beasts they faced, his blows landing with the precision of a butcher carving meat. There was no wasted movement, no hesitation—only the relentless, driving force of killing. Each strike was accompanied by a soft yielding sound, as though the air was tearing apart under his fury.

But even as they dispatched their final targets, Daine felt a shift in the atmosphere, a creeping cold that seeped into her bones and made her breath fog. The mountain men, those few still alive, suddenly froze in their tracks, their wild eyes widening with a new kind of terror. Daine felt it, too—a deep dread that clawed at the edges of her mind, threatening to unravel the thin thread of sanity she clung to.

Then, from the shadows at the edge of the camp, they emerged.

MyrkrÞræll.

The two figures moved with a wholly unnatural fluidity, their forms barely human, more like living shadows than flesh and blood. Their skin was a sickly, mottled grey, slick with a sheen that caught the flickering light of the dying fires. Their eyes were voids of darkness, swallowing the light, and their mouths twisted into grotesque, predatory grins that promised nothing but pain. These were not men—they were abominations, twisted by the Skuggaseiðr's foul magic into weapons of flesh and shadow.

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Daine’s grip tightened on her greatsword as she locked eyes with the closest MyrkrÞræll. It moved with a speed that defied her comprehension, a smear of shadow and sinew that seemed to flicker in and out of existence. She swung her sword in a wide arc, aiming to bisect the creature, but it was like striking at a ghost. The blade whistled through empty air, the momentum nearly unbalancing her as the MyrkrÞræll reappeared at her side, a tendril of shadow lashing out with serpentine precision.

The blow hit her with the force of a sledgehammer, driving the air from her lungs. Cold agony seared across her chest, the chill of the creature’s touch burning like ice against her flesh. Daine staggered back, boots slipping in the blood-slick mud, but somehow forced herself to stay upright, to remain in the fight. The MyrkrÞræll closed in, its void-like eyes reflecting her pain, feeding off it.

Donal was a whirlwind beside her, his axes arcing through the air with terrifying force. He hurled himself at the second MyrkrÞræll, both weapons coming down in a double strike that would have cleaved a normal foe in two. But this thing was anything but normal. It dissolved into shadow at the last possible second, the axes passing harmlessly through its mist-like form. It reformed behind him instantly, claws of dark energy raking across his back in a blur of motion.

Donal grunted in pain but spun around, his movements free despite the injury. This time, his axes connected with the creature’s arm, slicing through its slick, grey flesh with a satisfying crunch. But instead of blood, a thick, tar-like ooze bubbled from the wound, the substance clinging to his blades like molten pitch. The MyrkrÞræll hissed, a sound like the scraping of nails on bone, and the shadows around it convulsed, writhing like a nest of vipers as they lashed out at Donal from all sides.

The twin fights were a scene of utter chaos, the once-organised, precise slaughter devolving into a frantic struggle for survival. Daine was barely holding her own, each swing of her sword met with the MyrkrÞræll’s infuriating ability to phase in and out of reality. It was toying with her, she realised, each feint and parry designed to wear her down, to drain her of strength until she was nothing but a ragged, desperate mess.

It was working.

Then, with a sudden, vicious swipe, the MyrkrÞræll knocked her sword from her hands, sending it skidding across the ground with a metallic clang. Her heart lurched in her chest as the creature’s shadowy claws wrapped around her throat, the cold seeping into her very bones as it began to squeeze. The world narrowed to a pinprick, her vision dimming as spots danced before her eyes. The grip tightened, and she felt the jagged edge of panic slice through her resolve. She kicked out with all her strength, desperate to break free, but it was like fighting against a force of nature—implacable, unyielding.

Donal’s voice cut through the haze of impending unconsciousness, a raw, desperate shout. He was fighting like a man possessed, his axes almost an invisible haze of steel as he hacked and slashed at the other MyrkrÞræll. But the creature was relentless, countering his every move with effortless grace, shadowy vines draining his strength with every strike. The battle was turning against them, the tide of darkness threatening to engulf them both.

Daine was on the brink, the darkness closing in, when a last surge of energy surged through her. With a cry of defiance, she wrenched the dagger from her belt and drove it into the creature’s side with all the strength she could muster. The blade sank deep into the MyrkrÞræll’s flesh, the impact jarring her arm as the creature let out a hiss of pain. Its grip faltered, just enough for Daine to tear herself free and scramble across the slick ground towards her sword.

Her fingers closed around the hilt just as the MyrkrÞræll recovered, the wound she had inflicted already sealing itself with that same revolting black ooze. She forced herself to her feet, the sword heavy in her hands, her body screaming in protest. But she could not, would not, back down. These things were an abomination, a blight on the world, and she would see them destroyed, even if it cost her everything.

It was clear they couldn’t win this by brute force alone. These creatures were beyond mortal combat. She had only one option left—a desperate, last-ditch effort that might just turn the tide. Drawing on the deepest reserves of her will, she triggered .

The world around them drained of colour, a monochrome void that consumed all within its reach. The MyrkrÞræll faltered, their forms shuddering as the power of the Skuggaseiðr was ripped from them. They collapsed to the ground, writhing as their connection to the dark magic was severed, their once-fluid movements now jerky and disjointed.

However, Daine and Donal barely had a moment to breathe, to even begin to comprehend the brief respite, when the very fabric of reality itself tore open with a deafening roar. A portal of pure shadow erupted in the centre of Daine's Domain, a swirling vortex of dark energy that sucked in everything around it with terrifying force.

The wind howled like a living thing, a monstrous gale that tore through the camp, whipping the flames of dying fires into a frenzy. Trees bent and splintered, the ground trembling as the portal’s pull intensified. Daine felt herself dragged towards it, her boots skidding as she fought to resist the overwhelming force. But it was like holding back a hurricane with her bare hands.

“Donal!” she screamed, her voice lost in the storm's roar. He was reaching for her, his face a mask of determination and fear, but he was too far away. The distance between them grew as the portal’s pull became an unstoppable force. She could see the terror in his eyes and feel the same terror rising in her chest as the darkness loomed ever closer.

With a final, desperate cry, Daine was ripped from the ground, her body hurled through the air as the portal swallowed her whole. The world spun in a nauseating spiral, the sheer power of the portal tearing at her, threatening to pull her apart at the seams. She caught one last glimpse of Donal, his body tumbling through the air beside her before the darkness consumed them both.

The portal snapped shut with a thunderous boom, the shockwave flattening what remained of the camp. For a moment, all was still. The night held its breath, the once-vibrant chaos replaced by an eerie, oppressive silence.

Nothing remained. Only the echo of their last, desperate struggle lingered in the air, fading into the cold, uncaring night.