The Lich, Doril Magefont, former Archmage of the Kirin Tor, and early disciple of Kel’Thuzad watched on in awe as the Darkfallen known as General Nightsong practically took the gatehouse singlehandedly.

The defenders were forced to book a hasty retreat as the ancient Highborn Hero called upon the roots of the earth to eat away at the wall's foundations.

Initially, he felt snubbed when his employer, Tenris, had left him behind to continue the siege. Furthermore, the so-called King took with him Doril's most prized meat puppets.

All he was left with were some ghouls, and a handful of abominations to fill up the ranks.

Posted on guarding the rear, he found himself idle, surrounded by tens of thousands of cannon fodder, and mindless automata roughly adding up to 60,000 Common tier Undead.

How disappointing.

The one saving grace was that the remaining 3 Hero tier gargoyles were left under his command.

Any regret at his current situation swiftly disappeared as he played witness to Nightsong's mastery of magic.

A deep seated hunger took ahold of him when he watched her. If only he could set up a trap, then pick her brain for knowledge.

Doril was deep in his thoughts, when a bright light pierced the clouds. The rain in his area stopped, and the constant chill of Death magic permeating the air melted as it basked in the warmth of the sun.

‘That’s odd.’ Doril thought to himself, and looked up as he sensed a change in the currents of mana around him.

If he could blink, he would.

That was no sun. It was a giant orb of fire! And it was descending right on top of him!

Doril quickly composed himself, and tried to Blink away, however, he found himself gripped in a telekinetic hold.

He was immobile!

Doril erupted with an AOE circle of frost, hoping to destabilize the magic binding him in place.

‘Success!’ Doril thought to himself as he felt the sweet release of freedom.

However, whichever mage was working against him was observant, and had established their hold upon him once more!

‘Blast it all!’

Doril realized he wouldn't be able to escape, and that the only way out of this was to meet the attack head on.

Chanting a spell, Doril launched a twisting cone of frost towards the center of the giant flaming orb with the intent of penetrating its core, and detonating it early.

Frost met fire, and when Doril felt that his plan would come to fruition, his body was telekinetically hurled into the path of the impending collision.

Doril felt his bones ache, and for the first time in his unlife, terror gripped him.

Grinding his teeth together in anger, Doril pulled upon the essence animating the nearby Scourge forces, and snapped it like a twig.

Suddenly, 10,000 Undead dropped to the ground, like a puppet with its strings cut.

Foul green necrotic energy flowed upward, and infused the Lich with incredible power.

Feeling his body threatening to come apart from the sudden surge of energy, Doril cast the spell Anti-Magic Shell. Encased in a green barrier, he prayed to the Lich King that this would work.

As soon as he pulled the barrier up, the cyclone of ice he had sent skyward, and the giant flaming ball of fire collided.

Due to the enemy mage’s telekinesis, Doril was within 20ft when an eruption of magical energy rocked the air.

Bright white light, and a flash of heat pressed over him in a flash, significantly draining the power of his Anti-Magic Shield, however, he was still alive!

Pulling upon his necromancy, Doril searched through the eyes of the Undead in hopes of finding the perpetrator. Whoever had ambushed him would be in for a rude awakening!

‘There!’ Doril thought to himself as his ghouls spotted a row of broken limbs and bodies at their rear.

What he saw made Doril pause.

In a space that should be a clearing, stood an 8 story tall tower. All along the structure, massive Mana Crystals poked out from the sides.

Standing at the very top was a regal looking Highborn in a red robe.

‘This must be the mage troubling me!’ Doril solemnly thought to himself.

The mage had noticed him, and made to attack, his hands lit up with a bright blue-white energy.

‘Ah, lightning. Well two can play that game!’

Doril pulled upon the energy of 10,000 more Undead, then at the same time, chanted as spell drawing upon the power held in the clouds above.

Merging the two, a rainstorm of pale green, necrotic lightning bolts shuddered downward right atop the enemy mage.

Doril looked on in anticipation, eager to see this fool's demise. However, he wasn't taking any chances, and mentally ordered the massive gargoyles to fly close, in case his opponent Blinked away.

As the green lightning storm collided with the tower, the barrage of bolts seemed to scatter away from the Elf at the top, and snaked down towards the Mana Crystals lodged into the structure!

Doril had no saliva, or flesh to speak of, but he felt his throat go dry at that moment.

“What sorcery is this?” Doril shouted in disbelief.

Unbelievably, the regal looking Elf responded.

“I call it the Tower of Jenga!” His voice bore down upon Doril like a storm.

‘Even his voice is a weapon!’ Doril found himself recoiling as some invisible tendrils gripped at his psyche.

Shaking his head, and snapping down upon his mind like a trap closing shut, Doril commanded the gargoyles to make a move.

It was then that the Elf completed his spell, and a bright beam made of pure electricity spilled from his hands.

The beam was as wide as two carriages were long, and produced a deafening thunder clap as it came towards him.

‘Stone form!’ Doril desperately commanded one of his gargoyles.

One massive beast bared its fangs, and interposed itself between Doril and the beam. Its flesh became like brick, and took on a magically resistant, imobile state.

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The gargoyle acting as his shield groaned as it was constantly chipped away by the awe inspiring power, yet it held firm.

Doril felt relief as the 4-story tall beast made it just in time. Once he slayed this mage, he simply had to add him to his collection. The knowledge he possessed would prove most entertaining!

He excitedly looked on in anticipation as the two other gargoyles swooped down upon the mage, and were mere moments away from turning his hopes into a reality.

It was then, in his moment of triumph, that he felt that hope drain away.

The Mana Stones embedded on the side of the tower flashed, and a pulse of Death magic spread out of them towards the gargoyles.

‘The fool doesn't know that the Undead heal when coming into contact with Death magic, does he? Unless, no, could he be a fellow cult member?!’ Doril went through several emotions as he realized that the necrotic energy released from the Mana Stones overwhelmed the imprint he had on the gargoyles, and cut his connection with them.

The two gargoyles he had been banking on collapsed to the ground with a mighty thud.

Doril had no time to process this sudden turn of events, as the 4-story gargoyle that was acting as his shield had become a smoldering ruin, and was on the verge of collapse!

At that moment, the thought to flee entered Doril's mind.

He wanted to open a portal, but he felt like he was low on mana. Pulling upon 10,000 more Undead, Doril intended to strengthen his Anti-Magic Shield, and then escape.

However, when he tried to do so, something was wrong. There was nothing to pull upon!

Twirling around, Doril discovered that the army that had been surrounding him a moment ago were nothing more than burnt out husks, and scraps of ash.

“Who are you!” Doril screeched shrilly towards the heavens.

He had not known such fear for another wizard since he had witnessed the power and devastation of his master, Kel’Thuzad.

“Vandercross!” The magnetic voice atop the tower boomed.

‘Vandercross, huh? Master will forgive my failure if I take word of you to him. You may be a typical smug Elf, so sure of your victory, but my soul will be safe once it returns to the phylactery by His side!’ Doril thought to himself as he glared murder towards his impending doom.

Yet the beam never came.

“What is this, some kind of joke? Are you truly a brother? Did the Lich King send you to test me?” Doril looked upward in confusion.

“Me, a servant of the Lich King? How pathetic do you think I am? No, I'm merely being considerate.” The mage smirked, and crossed his arms.

Doril looked around in a hurry, worried that whatever had silently eliminated his army was lurking nearby.

“Hello, Lich, we know all about your type, and your phy-lacteries.” A soft, angelic voice whispered from Doril's blindspot.

A shiver ran down Doril's spine, and fear gripped his being when a pair of golden violet hands gently squeezed his bony wrists, turning them into mush.

‘Not possible. I am Undead, this reaction is simply not possible!’ Doril rationalized to himself in an effort to forestall the inevitable.

Rainwater relentlessly bounced off his skull, and mud clung to his robes as the demoness clad in beauty shoved him to the ground.

“I am the spawn of darkness, His Majesty's Hero. A warder of death and decay-” Doril said in prayer, fearful that if his foe could disrupt the flow of Death magic in the gargoyles, perhaps he was adept in soul magic too?!

“Augh!” Doril unconsciously yelled in pain as an unfamiliar combination of Light and Void slowly entered his system.

“How, how are you causing me-a being without nerves-pain!” Doril begged. Even though he was on the verge of demise, the scholar in him was pushing him to seek answers.

“It's magic.” Vandercross said with a mocking smile as he came near.

Doril glared with an overwhelming sense of loathing at the Elf. Never before had he hated someone so much.

“That's good, I'll have to use that one the next time a mage asks a stupid question.” The demoness laughed at Vandercross's crass joke.

“Right? As if we would tell an enemy our secrets when he's on the verge of death.” Vandercross chuckled, and smiled down at Doril.

‘That’s right, keep talking.’ Doril thought to himself.

A contingent of ghouls was investigating the scene of the battle. If they came a little closer, they would be in range for Doril to absorb.

With that boosted mana, he could kill them in surprise!

“Preposterous, I am a student of Kel’Thuzad! The leader and progenitor of the Cult of the Damned taught me well, and I am a scholar more interested in studying the pursuits of magic, then some mundane conflict.” Doril said naughtily.

Vandercross had a look of interest when Doril had mentioned his master's name.

‘That’s it, take the bait.’ Doril internally smirked.

“You seem to be under the impression that I don't know who Kel’Thuzad is. Or that I am unaware of those ghouls edging closer from the side.” Vandercross laughed once more.

“Surely you are interested in my knowledge! I can share with you-” Doril got out before he was interrupted by a glowing fist.

The last thing he saw before his demise was a pair of smug grins, and incredulously raised eyebrows.

“Monsters.” Doril gasped before he turned into a pile of ash.

~~~~~~~

Varrus clucked his tongue when he looked down at the ashes. What an idiot.

Stalling by talking was such a classic maneuver.

Sure, Varrus was interested in Kel’Thuzad, but it was unlikely a Lich of all things would turn traitor. The cultists who worshiped the Lich King were certifiably bonkers, and could not be trusted.

Fortunately, Varrus had his Soul Cloak ability running this entire time, and the Grand Soul Gem in his inventory suggested that the Lich would not be reviving via phylactery.

While the Skyrim soul gems didn't 100% take a person's soul, they took away the essence of the deceased. After observing the Undead, Varrus discovered that this essence included whatever forces were binding a soul to the mortal plane. In effect, his soul gems forced any lingering spirits to move on to the afterlife.

Whilst Varrus marveled at his newest acquisition, Syra was posing in victory, like some sort of video game character after they had won a match.

“I win!” Syra ran into Varrus's arms, and snuggled up to him.

“No arguments here. Although, technically, I took out both the gargoyles, which are kind of like a pseudo-Hero if you think about it. So really, I might have more points than you~” Varrus teased.

“I. Won.” Syra glared up at him, and tightly embraced his ribs.

Varrus weakly smiled in return. It was easy to forget sometimes how obsessed Syra was with victory.

“Yes, yes, my lovable wife has won.” Varrus patted her on the head.

“Mhm! That means you can't be mad at me for splitting up earlier!” Syra merrily declared.

Varrus held up a finger to disagree, then slowly lowered it.

‘That crafty minx! She was the one who suggested this little game of theirs in the first place! Was this her goal all along?!’ Varrus thought to himself.

He was about to respond, when he got a message on his scrying orb. It came from Rho'dan, and was marked urgent.

[Highlord, the gatehouse, and three city walls have been breached. We are holding out in the keep.]

Varrus raised his eyebrows in shocked surprise. This development was worrisome.

[Status report, who is the enemy leader, how many men do you still have?]

A picture of a beautiful, Undead Night Elf came across the screen with a name.

General Nightsong.

[Casualties are minimal. The General has taken half the garrison prisoner, and only a few dozen have perished. Sir, you'll need to hurry, we are on the verge of defeat.]

[I'm on my way.]

Varrus was about to put away his scrying orb, when Syra stopped him.

“I read her journal. General Natalia Nightsong. Her journey was my inspiration during the Orc War. I wouldn't have learned about the Void if it weren't for her notes!” Syra said in excitement.

“Well, I'm sorry that she was your Hero, but we have to take her down.” Varrus slowly replied, worried that Syra might take it the wrong way.

Syra flashed Varrus a…nervous smile?!

“Yeah. We've got this.” Syra said in a quiet voice, then suddenly hugged Varrus from behind.

Varrus stood still, and let Syra nuzzle her head into his backside.

“We're a team, Syra. Nothing can stand against House Vandercross!” Varrus raised his fist, and shouted in an attempt to cheer Syra up.

“Let's win.” Syra said, regaining some of her energy.

Varrus clunked his forehead into hers, and silently stared her in the eyes. He held her close for another 20 seconds, then pulled away after a quick peck on her cheek.

Syra tightly gripped his hand, and they began running towards the siegeline.

The final battle for Tranquillien was swiftly approaching.