The dawn was brittle, a pale and fragile light barely breaking through the thick haze hanging over the plains. Emmet stood at the crest of the hill, his gaze fixed on the enemy camp below. Even from this distance, he could see the precision with which the Crown’s Wrath operated. Black-and-gold banners fluttered in the morning breeze, their crowned lion sigil a stark reminder of the empire that once ruled these lands with an iron grip.
Valgamt had brought a force to be reckoned with. Rows of soldiers in polished armor stood in perfect formation, their spears catching the light of the rising sun. War machines—siege engines crafted from scavenged materials—loomed ominously at the rear, their twisted frames ready to unleash destruction.
Beside Emmet, his serpent summon stirred, its sleek body uncoiling with a low hiss. Its eyes, like molten gold, reflected the enemy below, as if weighing the scale of the challenge ahead.
“They’re more than disciplined,” Tabitha said, stepping up beside him. Her tone carried no panic, only a cold, calculating edge. “This isn’t just an army. This is a statement.”
Emmet nodded, his hand tightening around his spear. “And we’re the response.”
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As the sun climbed higher, the enemy began their approach. Drums thundered in the distance, their rhythmic pounding a harbinger of doom. The soldiers of the Crown’s Wrath moved as one, their march measured and unrelenting.
At their head rode Valgamt, his presence commanding and cruel. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, his black armor crafted with sharp edges and intricate designs that seemed to drink in the sunlight. A crimson cape billowed behind him as he guided his warhorse with effortless control.
When they were close enough to speak, Valgamt raised a gauntleted hand, and the army stopped in unison. Silence fell, broken only by the whisper of the wind through the tall grass.
“You must be Emmet Fischer,” Valgamt called out, his voice carrying effortlessly across the field. It was a voice that brooked no argument, the voice of a man accustomed to obedience.
Emmet stepped forward, his serpent slithering beside him. “And you must be Valgamt. The man who thinks an empire’s ashes can rule the living.”
A faint smile touched Valgamt’s lips. “Ashes are fertile ground, boy. From them, we rebuild. You and your squatters have defiled what is ours, but I am a merciful man. Surrender now, and I will allow your people to leave these lands unharmed.”
Emmet’s grip on his spear tightened, his knuckles white. “You abandoned these lands. We claimed them, and we’ll fight for them.”
Valgamt’s smile vanished, replaced by a hard, unyielding glare. “So be it,” he said coldly. “You’ve chosen defiance. Now you’ll see what it costs.”
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As Valgamt’s forces withdrew to prepare for their assault, Emmet’s group retreated to their makeshift camp. The tension was palpable as they gathered around a crude wooden table, a map of the area spread across its surface.
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“We’re outnumbered three to one,” Tabitha said, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the gathered warriors. “Their formation is tight, their discipline unmatched. A direct attack would be suicide.”
Emmet leaned over the map, tracing potential paths with his finger. “We don’t need to beat them outright. We just need to throw them off balance.”
Tabitha nodded, her mind already racing. “Their formation gives them strength, but it also makes them predictable. If we can create chaos, disrupt their lines, we might stand a chance.”
Doramm, who had been silent until now, spoke in his deep, echoing voice. “I will hold the center. Let them break themselves against me.” His skeletal hands flexed around the hilt of his massive sword, the faint glow of necrotic energy radiating from his armor.
“And I’ll take the vanguard,” Emmet said. He glanced at Tabitha. “We’ll need barriers to funnel them, to keep them from surrounding us.”
“I can do that,” she replied, her calm tone belying the storm of magic she carried within her.
The rest of the group nodded, their faces grim but resolute. Each of them had faced impossible odds before. This was just another battle—another fight for survival in a world that had taken so much from them.
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As night fell, the camp quieted. Warriors checked their weapons, adjusted their armor, and whispered prayers to gods that might no longer listen. The flickering light of their campfires cast long shadows, making the scene feel both intimate and ephemeral.
Emmet sat apart from the others, sharpening his spear with slow, deliberate strokes. The rhythmic scrape of stone on metal was a grounding sound, a ritual he had performed countless times.
Tabitha approached, her footsteps soft. She knelt beside him, her gaze steady. “You’ve been quiet,” she said.
Emmet paused, the whetstone hovering over his blade. “Just thinking.”
“About them?”
He didn’t need to ask who she meant. “Always,” he said simply.
Tabitha rested a hand on his shoulder, her touch light but grounding. “They’d be proud of what you’ve done. Of what you’ve built.”
Emmet swallowed hard but said nothing. After a moment, Tabitha stood and returned to the others, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
Nearby, Doramm stood like a silent sentinel, his skeletal form silhouetted against the firelight. Emmet glanced at him and nodded. The death knight inclined his head slightly, his presence both a comfort and a reminder of the power they wielded.
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The first sound of the drums came just before dawn. A low, steady thrum that seemed to echo in the chest. The Crown’s Wrath was moving.
Emmet stood at the forefront of his group, his serpent coiled at his side. Its tongue flicked in and out, tasting the tension in the air.
“Here they come,” Tabitha said, stepping up beside him. Her hands glowed faintly, the beginnings of a spell forming at her fingertips.
The torches of the enemy forces bobbed like a sea of fireflies in the pre-dawn gloom. As they drew closer, their formation became clear—a phalanx of shields and spears, advancing with the precision of a well-oiled machine.
Valgamt rode at their head, his crimson cape billowing behind him. He raised a hand, and the soldiers halted. The silence that followed was deafening.
Emmet’s heart pounded in his chest, but he forced himself to remain calm. He turned to his group, his voice steady. “Remember the plan. Stick to your roles, and we’ll get through this.”
The warriors nodded, their faces set with determination.
“For Haven,” Emmet said, raising his spear.
“For Haven!” they echoed, their voices ringing out in defiance.
The Crown’s Wrath began their advance, their drums pounding a relentless rhythm. The battle for the lost lands had begun.