Kael'Zarath loomed over the battlefield, his presence a shadow against the crimson-streaked sky. As Vicky charged, he sneered down at her with utter contempt. With a casual motion, he kicked Malisya’s lifeless body aside, sending her broken form tumbling through the gore-soaked earth. A cruel, fanged grin split his face as he turned his gaze back to Vicky. His voice, rich with mockery, thundered across the battlefield so all could hear.
“Come, warrior queen,” he taunted, his deep, guttural laugh sending an icy shiver down her spine. “Let us see if you can succeed where your general failed. She had fire in her, I’ll grant her that—feisty to the last.” He chuckled darkly, the sound twisting through the chaos of war.
Vicky clenched her teeth, her fury igniting like an inferno. She crouched low and then exploded forward, leaping over a squad of Veinforged that stood between her and her enemy. As she landed, ice erupted from her core, cascading outward in a wave of glacial devastation. Her skin frosted over, glowing with an ethereal sapphire hue, and her eyes blazed like twin frozen stars.
Veinforged soldiers froze solid where they stood, their monstrous forms turned into brittle sculptures of jagged ice. Without breaking stride, Vicky strode through them, her presence alone shattering their frozen husks. The battlefield became a crescendo of breaking ice and splintering bone, black ichor spraying across the frost-covered ground. Steam rose in wispy tendrils as the heat of battle clashed with the deadly chill she brought. The stench of death thickened, acrid and foul.
Vicky halted just a few strides from Kael'Zarath, her breath misting in the freezing air. Around them, the battle raged on—shouts of war, the clang of steel, the dying screams of both ally and enemy filled the air. But in this moment, in this place, it was only the two of them.
Through the bond, Vicky sent a command to Brynn, her mental voice sharp and urgent. "The time is now, Brynn. Send the army through immediately. When Kaelen, Jorven, and Dravyn arrive, they need to form up and push the flank without hesitation. We need them pressing forward the second their boots hit the ground."
She severed the connection and turned her full attention to Kael’Zarath.
“You will pay for that, monster,” she hissed, her voice like a blade honed to a razor’s edge. She pointed at Malisya’s crumpled form, her fury rolling off her in palpable waves. “And I will take my payment from your flesh.”
As she spoke, the frost around her swirled violently, interwoven now with ribbons of flame. Her aura pulsed with raw power—fire and ice entwining in a chaotic dance, the opposing elements refusing to extinguish one another, feeding off her wrath instead. The golden runes etched into her skin flared to life, no longer pulsing but illuminating the battlefield with a constant, blinding radiance. The glow was so intense it became difficult to look directly at her.
Kael’Zarath cocked his head, amused by the spectacle. His massive scythe gleamed darkly in his grip, its runes flickering with malevolent energy. “I look forward to your attempt, warrior queen,” he said, his voice like distant thunder. He lifted his chin, spreading his arms wide. “Come. Let this be between you and me. None of my men will interfere.”
Vicky let out a dry chuckle. “You’re arrogant, I’ll give you that,” she said, rolling her shoulders. “Do you really think you can take me alone?”
Before she could react, he was suddenly beside her, his speed defying logic. The whisper of his breath brushed against her ear.
“We will have to see, won’t we?”
Vicky spun on her heel, her instincts screaming danger. She struck out with three lightning-fast stabs, targeting the vulnerable points in his armor—elbow, armpits, eyes. He parried each effortlessly, his scythe moving with deadly precision, returning strikes of his own.
She barely managed to launch herself backward, dodging a blow that would have split her in half. With a snarl, she flung out her hands, summoning jagged pillars of ice to erupt from the ground around him. She poured her Aetheric will into them, willing them to cage him, to crush him.
Kael’Zarath’s laugh was deep and cruel. He swept his massive sword through the ice, shattering the pillars with terrifying ease. Shards of frozen crystal flew in all directions, embedding themselves into the corpses and soil.
“Is this all you have?” he mocked, not even breathing hard. His glowing red eyes narrowed in disappointment. “Your general put up a better fight than this. You’re not even worth corrupting.”
Vicky’s rage surged.
She crouched, shifting all her weight onto her front leg. Then, in a single instant, she exploded forward, fire and ice bursting from behind her in a spiraling vortex. The sheer force of her acceleration vaporized an entire squad of Veinforged in her wake. She shot toward Kael’Zarath like a missile, her blade aimed straight for his heart.
Just as she closed the distance, time seemed to slow.
Kael’Zarath’s lips curled into a knowing smile.
“Too slow, little queen.”
His massive hand shot out, clamping around her throat with impossible strength.
Vicky’s breath vanished in an instant as he lifted her effortlessly off the ground. Then, with a brutal motion, he slammed her into the frozen battlefield. The impact sent tremors through the ice, splintering it into a web of cracks. Blood poured from her wounds, soaking into the fractured ground beneath her.
Kael’Zarath raised his sword high, the dark runes along the blade writhing like living things. He prepared to drive it down for the killing blow—
A shadow flickered behind him.
Elara struck with lethal precision, her form blinking in and out of existence as she moved. At the last moment, she appeared above Kael’Zarath, descending like a specter of death. Both of her daggers plunged toward the vulnerable slits in his helmet.
One found its mark.
Steel sank deep into his left eye.
Kael’Zarath roared, a sound so loud and full of fury that it rattled the very air. He thrashed violently, sending Elara flying off of him. She twisted mid-air, landing in a crouch beside Vicky.
She was breathing hard, but her voice was steady. “Are you alive, my queen?” she asked, her tone sharp with urgency. “You’re bleeding everywhere—I need to stop it.”
Elara pressed her hands against Vicky’s wounds, her fingers trembling.
“I’m fine,” Vicky rasped, forcing herself upright. She staggered, then caught herself. Straightening, she pressed her hands together before her chest and took a deep breath.
She reached deep, searching for the purified Aetheric vein that extended from Aetherhold. She had seen Asher do this before. She mimicked his actions.
The earth rumbled.
A massive limb of raw Aether burst from the ground with a deafening crash, its energy luminous and untamed. It drove itself into the base of Vicky’s neck, connecting with her like a conduit.
Power surged through her, pure and overwhelming. Her wounds closed rapidly, the torn flesh knitting together in mere moments. The blood that had once poured freely now stilled, absorbed into the raw energy coursing through her.
As her strength returned, she turned her gaze toward Kael’Zarath.
He stood at a distance, his breath ragged as he wrenched the dagger from his ruined eye and hurled it to the ground. His fury was incandescent, his entire body shaking with rage.
“You wretched cunt!” he bellowed, his voice filled with seething hatred. “I will kill you both for this. But it will not be quick.” His lips curled into a twisted grin. “No… I will savor every moment.”
Vicky exhaled, the Aether within her pulsing like a war drum.
She lifted her sword, her expression set in stone.
The time for words had passed.
Vicky surged forward, her blade a streak of burning frost as it met Kael'Zarath’s scythe in a deafening clash. Their battle was a storm given form—blinding flashes of blue and red colliding against arcs of seething purple. The force of each impact sent ripples through the battlefield, concussive blasts of raw power tearing through the air. Soldiers paused mid-combat, drawn to the spectacle, their eyes widening as shockwaves radiated outward from each collision.
Every strike rang like a war drum, a thunderous report of steel and sorcery. Wind howled from the force of their blows, sweeping across the battlefield like a phantom tempest. Neither warrior relented, neither yielding an inch. Sparks rained like dying stars, and still, neither gained the upper hand.
Then, like the first golden light of dawn breaking through a storm-laden sky, a horn split the chaos.
Then another.
And another.
The sound carried over the battlefield, distant yet undeniable. Vicky heard them before she saw them, her instincts flaring to life. She and Kael'Zarath froze in place, their weapons locked, their gazes snapping toward the source.
From behind the distant ridge, a force emerged.
Towering at the front, Jorven rode his massive snow cat, the beast’s fur streaked with frost, its paws leaving ice-crusted prints with every step. At his flanks, the Frostborn warriors advanced in disciplined ranks, their weapons crackling with frozen aether. The air itself seemed to drop in temperature, their presence a creeping winter rolling across the field.
At the army’s heart, Kaelen stood tall, his golden armor gleaming like a beacon in the ash-choked sky. Behind him, the full might of Aetherhold’s elite surged forward—warriors clad in radiant white, their breastplates emblazoned with the sigil of their homeland. Staggered banners of Aetherhold whipped in the wind, heralding their arrival with defiant splendor.
To the right, leading another brutal contingent, rode Dravyn. Yet it was not just Azure Fang Legions that sent a tremor through the battlefield—it was what marched beside them.
Towering golems, each standing nearly eight feet tall, moved in perfect synchronization. Their forms were composed of intricately carved stone and coursing veins of aether, their limbs pulsing with raw energy. They carried weapons not forged by mortal hands—glowing greatswords, gleaming pikes, and rifles that crackled with controlled storms. Thousands of them advanced, their heavy steps shaking the earth like the march of an unyielding titan.
And then, like an avalanche unleashed, the army crested the ridge and charged.
Their war cries thundered through the battlefield, rolling over the land like a living beast. The ground itself seemed to tremble beneath their fury. The sound ignited a spark in the allied forces already engaged—a battle cry of triumph erupted from their throats, voices raised in defiant unison.
The tide had turned.
Vicky raised her sword high, its blade wreathed in fire and frost, burning so brightly it seemed to tear through the darkness itself. Power surged through her veins, an unrelenting force that demanded nothing less than annihilation.
Her voice boomed across the battlefield, echoing above the roar of war.
“BURN THEM! FREEZE THEM! BREAK THEM! LEAVE NOTHING BUT ASH AND BONE!”
The order was answered instantly.
The battlefield descended into carnage.
Vicky’s order had been the spark, and now the fire of war raged uncontested. The allied forces, once locked in bitter, grinding combat, now surged with renewed fury, their strength redoubled by the arrival of reinforcements. The Veinforged, monstrous and relentless though they were, found themselves caught between the unyielding resolve of Aetherhold’s warriors and the sheer, crushing force of their commanders.
And at the head of the charge, the generals carved a path through the horde.
Jorven and his war cat crashed through the Veinforged ranks like a winter storm given flesh. The massive beast leaped high, its powerful limbs propelling it over the first enemy line, and as its claws struck the ground, a jagged eruption of ice exploded outward. Veinforged caught in the blast howled as their bodies froze mid-motion, their limbs snapping like brittle twigs before shattering into gruesome shards of frozen gore.
Jorven wasted no time. He vaulted from his saddle with brutal grace, his frost-rimed greataxe gripped in both hands. He fell like a hammer from the heavens, his weapon carving downward in a devastating arc. The Veinforged lieutenant beneath him barely had time to shriek before the axe split him from skull to sternum. His body froze instantly, a statue of ice and agony, before it collapsed into a heap of shattered crimson shards.
Jorven turned, his breath fogging in the frozen air around him. His piercing voice cut through the chaos like a war horn.
"TIGHTEN THE LINE! HOLD FORMATION!" he bellowed, his voice raw with command. "NO STRAGGLERS! LEAVE NONE STANDING!"
His warriors answered with a feral battle cry, their frost-imbued weapons carving through the enemy in synchronized slaughter.
Two Veinforged, grotesque birdlike creatures with serrated beaks and elongated talons, lunged for him from opposite flanks. Jorven didn't hesitate.
He pivoted on his heel, his axe whistling through the air in a perfect crescent arc. The first Veinforged’s head left its shoulders in a spray of black ichor, its body collapsing like a severed marionette. The second fared no better—the blade struck low, shearing through its waist, splitting flesh and bone cleanly. The creature screeched as it collapsed, its lower half twitching feebly while the top flopped to the ground, hands clawing at the ice in its final spasms.
Still moving, Jorven raised his axe high and smashed it down on the half-bodied Veinforged, pulverizing its twitching remains into frozen chunks.
His warriors followed his example, ice and steel reaping through the Veinforged ranks like a blizzard of death. The battlefield became a frozen graveyard, the ground slick with black blood and shattered corpses.
Jorven turned toward the next cluster of enemies, his eyes blazing like the heart of a storm. He pointed his axe forward, a warlord in his element.
"PUSH FORWARD! ICE AND IRON! BREAK THEM!"
And his warriors charged, leaving nothing but carnage in their wake.
To the right, Dravyn and the Azure Fang struck like a hurricane of steel and death. Their charge was not wild, not reckless—it was precise, a hammer blow delivered with perfect execution.
Dravyn was at the tip of the spear, his midnight cloak billowing behind him, his twin sabers gleaming in the storm-choked light. His fangs bared in a wolfish snarl as he drove into the Veinforged ranks, his blades carving in brutal, fluid arcs.
The first enemy he met—a hulking brute with jagged bone protrusions jutting from its shoulders—lifted a massive cleaver to strike. It never got the chance.
Dravyn slid low beneath the swing, his sabers flashing. One blade sliced cleanly through the beast’s knee, the other severed its throat in a perfect follow-through. The Veinforged gurgled as it collapsed, black ichor pouring from its sundered flesh.
"FORM RANKS! STAGGERED LINES—NO GAPS!" Dravyn roared over the battlefield.
Behind him, the Azure Fang advanced like a steel curtain. Their ranks moved with mechanical precision, spears and lances stabbing forward in perfect unison. Veinforged shrieked as they were impaled, thick steel puncturing chests, throats, and stomachs, the formations shifting fluidly, closing any gaps before the enemy could exploit them.
Dravyn leaped forward into the chaos, his sabers a whirlwind of death. He struck high, opening a Veinforged’s skull with a vicious downward stroke, then twisted mid-air and drove his second blade through another’s eye socket, the tip bursting out the back of its head. He ripped the weapon free, black ichor spraying across his cloak.
A four-armed Veinforged came at him from the flank, each of its claws crackling with sickly green corruption.
Dravyn met it head-on.
With a flick of his wrist, he spun one saber into a reverse grip and caught the first clawed strike against his bracer, using the force of the attack to pivot around the beast’s massive frame. His second saber whipped across its exposed stomach, and with a brutal, twisting motion, he tore upward—bisecting the Veinforged from gut to sternum.
The creature convulsed, gargling wetly as its organs spilled onto the blood-slicked ground, before Dravyn ended its agony with a single, clean decapitation.
"REPOSITION! KEEP THE MOMENTUM! DON’T LET THEM REGROUP!"
His soldiers responded instantly.
The front line of Azure Fang surged forward, their lances driving into the enemy like a wall of fangs. The second rank followed, seamlessly vaulting over the first line’s shoulders, landing amidst the Veinforged, and slaughtering them in close combat.
They fought like beasts unchained—like wolves tearing through a helpless herd.
Dravyn felt the surge of the battle, the intoxicating rhythm of the kill. He stepped between a lunging Veinforged and drove his saber up through its jaw, the blade erupting from the top of its skull in a shower of gore.
More enemies swarmed, but it didn’t matter.
He was unstoppable, untouchable—death made flesh.
"CUT THEM DOWN! FEED THE EARTH THEIR BLOOD!"
And the Azure Fang obeyed
Elsewhere on the battlefield, From the far left flank, the golems descended upon the battlefield like judgment given form. Towering constructs of intricately carved stone and pulsating veins of raw Aether, they moved with a terrifying, mechanical purpose. Their limbs, wrought of enchanted alloy and ancient runes, hummed with stored energy, their massive frames advancing in perfect, unrelenting synchrony.
Above them, floating platforms hovered like silent overseers, each one manned by a handful of researchers from the College of Aetherhold. Hooded figures clad in scholar’s robes furiously adjusted arcane dials, inscribed fresh runes into glowing tablets, and manipulated the golems’ directives with flicks of their gauntleted fingers. They did not bark orders. They did not scream for blood. They simply guided their weapons of war with the cold efficiency of architects sculpting the battlefield itself.
The first wave of Veinforged had no time to react.
One golem, its broad chest carved with intricate spirals of golden Aether, swung a titanic warhammer downward. The sheer force of the impact turned half a dozen Veinforged into paste, their shattered remains splattering across the battlefield like crushed insects. The ground caved inward where the hammer landed, the force sending shockwaves outward, toppling more enemies like ragdolls.
Another golem raised an arm, its entire forearm shifting and reshaping into a serrated blade of solidified energy. With a single swipe, it cleaved through three Veinforged at once, their bodies bisected with surgical precision, their torsos falling away in opposite directions, spilling their steaming viscera onto the frozen ground.
Further back, a hulking, four-armed golem planted its massive feet and aimed both hands toward an incoming squad of heavily armored Veinforged elites. Its fingers retracted into its palms, revealing the barrels of integrated Aetheric cannons.
A soundless pulse of energy erupted forth.
The first Veinforged commander was instantly vaporized, his body reduced to a fine crimson mist. The second was hurled backward by the blast, crashing into his comrades with enough force to crack armor and snap bone.
The golems marched forward, uncaring, unrelenting.
One tore a Veinforged apart with its bare hands, lifting the screaming creature high before ripping its body in two, showering the battlefield in a fresh torrent of gore. Another trampled over the wounded without hesitation, the crunch of broken bodies lost amidst the chaos of war.
A Veinforged brute, its own body reinforced with jagged plates of corrupted steel, leapt onto a golem’s back, clawing at its Aether-infused core in desperation. The construct did not falter.
Instead, it reached up with a massive stone hand, wrenched the beast free, and crushed its skull with the casual ease of a man snuffing out a candle.
The platforms above remained eerily still, their occupants watching the carnage below with cold, analytical detachment. Their calculations were precise, their adjustments swift. No commands were spoken aloud, no frantic shouts of war—just subtle shifts in runic alignments, minor alterations in trajectory, and death delivered with chilling efficiency.
The battlefield beneath the golems was no longer a place of combat.
It was a slaughterhouse. A factory of annihilation.
And the Veinforged were nothing more than raw material being processed into ruin.
The battlefield was a living nightmare of fire, ice, and blood. The allied forces had turned the tide, their relentless assault shattering the Veinforged ranks, but at the heart of it all, Vicky and Kael’Zarath waged a war of their own.
Their blades clashed in violent arcs, each strike shattering the air with the force of a thunderclap. The ground beneath them cracked and split from the sheer power of their blows. Each time their weapons met, shockwaves pulsed outward, sending soldiers—Veinforged and allied alike—stumbling away from their titanic duel.
Kael’Zarath was fast—unnaturally fast. His massive frame should have hindered him, but he moved like a shadow, his scythe slicing through the air with predatory precision. Vicky, however, was faster.
She ducked under a wild swing that nearly tore her in half, countering with a brutal upwards slash that sent a spray of dark ichor across the battlefield. Her blade bit deep into Kael’Zarath’s side, but he barely flinched, his corrupted flesh already sealing around the wound like a living nightmare.
He grinned, his fanged teeth blackened with Veinforged corruption. “Is that all, little queen?” he taunted, his voice dripping with venom.
Vicky’s lips curled into a snarl. She wasn’t even close to done.
She crouched low, her fingers digging into the frozen, blood-soaked ground. Aether roared through her veins like a living inferno. The air around her became a maelstrom of opposing forces—fire and ice, destruction and preservation, all colliding in a violent storm.
The battlefield itself reacted to her rage. Flames erupted in spiraling tornadoes, consuming Veinforged in columns of burning light. The ice beneath them thickened and sharpened into jagged spikes, impaling anything unlucky enough to step wrong.
She was no longer fighting Kael’Zarath.
She was breaking him.
Vicky shot forward, faster than sound, her sword striking in a flurry of merciless, precision-engineered death. She went for the joints of his armor, the weak points in his corrupted flesh, the gaps in his defenses. Kael’Zarath blocked the first three strikes but missed the fourth—her blade drove into his thigh, cleaving muscle and tendon in a spray of black blood.
He staggered—for the first time.
Vicky didn’t hesitate.
She slammed her palm into his chest, and the moment her skin touched his armor, the fire and ice inside her erupted.
Kael’Zarath screamed as his entire body began to freeze solid—his arms, his legs, his torso— thick, ancient ice spreading over him like a living glacier, locking him in place.
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But Vicky wasn’t done.
She snapped her fingers.
Flames exploded from within the ice, tearing through his body from the inside out. The sudden expansion ripped his frozen flesh apart, his limbs shattering as veins of fire shot through his corrupted form.
His roar of agony shook the battlefield.
But even as he disintegrated, his mouth twisted into a final, mocking smile. His voice—now barely more than a whisper—drifted toward her, chilling despite the fire consuming him.
"You think you've won...?"
Vicky plunged her sword into his throat, cutting off whatever last words he had left.
His body gave one final convulsion, then collapsed into smoldering, ice-ridden ruin.
The corrupted general of the Veinforged was dead.
The battlefield seemed to pause for a heartbeat. Veinforged warriors hesitated as if some unspoken tether between them had snapped. Then the fear set in.
Vicky raised her blade high, its edge drenched in Kael’Zarath’s steaming ichor.
Her voice cut across the battlefield, a command that shook the very souls of those who heard it.
“BURN THEM! FREEZE THEM! BREAK THEM! LEAVE NOTHING BUT ASH AND BONE!”
The battlefield was no longer a battle—it was a massacre.
The Veinforged’s once-imposing lines crumbled, shattered, collapsed. Those who could still run abandoned their weapons, their twisted bodies sprinting for the edges of the battlefield. But there was nowhere left to run.
Jorven’s Frostborn hunted them down, impaling those who fled, leaving their broken corpses frozen upon the field.
Dravyn’s Azure Fang encircled the last desperate remnants of their force, spears thrusting forward in brutal, methodical precision.
The golems marched onward, their enormous weapons rising and falling in unrelenting rhythm, pounding the Veinforged into the dirt.
And then, with one final, desperate scream, the last of Kael’Zarath’s army fell.
The battle was over.
The ground was slick with black ichor, the air thick with the stench of burning flesh and frostbitten death. The Armies of Aetherhold stood victorious, their banners snapping defiantly in the wind, their weapons stained with the blood of their enemies.
And not a single Veinforged remained standing.
The battle had ended, but the echoes of war still lingered in the air. The smell of blood and burning flesh clung to the wind, mixing with the distant sounds of victory—soldiers cheering, weapons clashing in celebratory salutes, the deep roar of war horns signaling triumph. Fires crackled where Veinforged corpses still smoldered, their black ichor hissing against the frozen earth.
Vicky stood amidst the carnage, her blade still dripping with Kael’Zarath’s lifeblood. Her chest rose and fell heavily, each breath slow and measured. Around her, the battlefield was littered with the shattered remains of their enemy. The banners of Aetherhold snapped in the wind, no longer facing resistance. They had won.
Jorven’s Frostborn warriors gathered near the southern ridge, tending to their wounded and securing the perimeter. Dravyn’s Azure Fang moved methodically through the dead, ensuring no Veinforged lingered, no hidden threats remained. The golems, their purpose fulfilled, stood motionless like statues, their once-glowing runes dimming as they awaited new commands.
From the far end of the field, Kaelen strode toward her, his golden armor smeared with Veinforged gore. He wiped his blade clean, his sharp eyes scanning her face. “It’s done,” he said, voice firm but laced with exhaustion. “The last of them are dead.”
Vicky didn’t respond immediately. Her fingers flexed around the hilt of her sword before she finally exhaled, nodding. Without another word, she turned and started toward the command tent. The others followed.
The celebration roared louder as they walked through the encampment. Soldiers laughed and drank from flasks passed between them, their bodies still clad in bloodied armor. Some sat on overturned crates, recounting their kills with exaggerated gestures, while others simply stood in stunned relief, staring at the sky as if they had forgotten what peace felt like. Fires had been stoked high, their warmth fighting against the lingering chill of battle.
But within the great command tent, there was no laughter. No celebration.
Inside, the air was heavy. Maps of the battlefield lay strewn across the central war table, inked with hastily drawn movements and strategies that had now played their part. The war room, once a place of frantic planning, now stood silent.
Vicky entered first, the generals filing in behind her. Jorven ran a hand through his ice-laced hair, his expression grim despite their victory. Dravyn tossed his bloodied cloak over a chair and leaned against a support beam, eyes unreadable. Kaelen set his sword down on the table with a dull thud, his jaw tight.
And at the far end of the tent, standing in quiet radiance, was Aetheros.
The goddess’s form shimmered faintly, her golden eyes taking in each of them in turn. She radiated calm, but there was an undeniable tension in her stance, as if she were waiting for something unsaid to surface.
Vicky barely acknowledged her. She walked to the table and placed her hands against the worn wood, her knuckles turning white.
And then, finally, she spoke.
“Malisya is dead.”
The words were quiet. Cold. Final.
The tent, already silent, seemed to shrink around them. No one spoke. No one moved.
Aetheros bowed her head, her celestial glow dimming ever so slightly. Kaelen’s jaw tightened, his hands clasped behind his back in rigid silence. Jorven exhaled deeply, running a hand over his frost-rimed beard before looking away, his expression unreadable. Dravyn, ever composed, tightened his grip on the hilt of his saber, his knuckles paling, but he remained still.
Vicky swallowed hard, her throat tight, breath uneven. She couldn’t break. Not now. Not in front of them.
“She died fighting for this,” she said, her voice hoarse, raw with grief. “For all of us. For Aetherhold.”
Outside the command tent, the sounds of celebration rang through the night. Soldiers sang raucous victory chants, weapons clashed together in revelry rather than war, and horns blared triumphantly over the flickering torchlight. Fires burned high, their warmth fighting back the bitter cold of the battlefield.
But inside the tent, there was only silence.
Jorven finally spoke, his deep voice steady but edged with quiet sorrow. “My queen, we have won a great victory today, and we all know Malisya would not have wanted to die any other way.” He exhaled, shoulders squared. “She was a warrior.”
Dravyn gave a solemn nod. “I agree. If she were here, she’d be mocking us for sitting in the dark instead of celebrating. To die in service of one’s queen… it’s a high honor.”
Elara remained silent. She had been closest to Malisya. The fresh wound of loss made words unbearable. Her fingers curled against her arms, her lone eye staring at nothing.
Vicky’s rage burned beneath the grief. Maybe it was the remnants of her old-world morality, a world where death didn’t feel so inevitable. Or maybe it was because she simply couldn’t stand another person dying for her. The anger boiled, hot and unrelenting, and before she could stop herself—
SLAM.
Her fist crashed against the war table, sending scattered maps and carved markers tumbling to the ground. The tent fell into stunned silence.
“God damn it!” Vicky’s voice was a snarl, raw with frustration and fury. Her glowing eyes snapped to Aetheros, accusation burning in their depths. “You could have done something. Anything to save her. To help her. But you didn’t even try.”
Aetheros said nothing. She didn’t meet Vicky’s gaze, her golden eyes instead lowering to the ground, her glow dimming even further.
Vicky scoffed, her grief and rage mixing into something cold, bitter. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” she muttered, her voice hollow. “All that matters now is getting to Asher.”
The shift in the room was immediate.
Kaelen’s eyes sharpened. Jorven straightened. Dravyn stilled.
“You have word of him?” Kaelen asked, cutting straight to the point.
Vicky took a slow breath, steadying herself. “The good news? Asher is alive. He’s already in the process of escaping Nyxhold.”
Aetheros lifted her head, her voice quiet but firm. “The bad news? He’s not alone. Sylthara is with him.”
Jorven’s face darkened. “Sylthara?” He folded his arms. “The Veinforged traitor?”
Dravyn exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “She has a reputation for deception. We’d be fools to trust her motives.”
Kaelen, ever the tactician, was already thinking ahead. “Regardless of why, Asher is still inside Nyxhold, and we need to get him out. Do we have a way to communicate with him?”
Vicky didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, she closed her eyes, reaching inward. The threads of the Aetheric bond stretched before her, invisible yet real—a delicate web of connection between her and those bound to her through war and blood.
First, she reached for Brynn.
The moment she called, she felt Brynn’s presence pushing against hers.
"Vicky? Is it done?" Brynn’s voice came through the bond, her tone taut with anticipation.
"It’s done." Vicky confirmed, forcing herself to focus. "Kael’Zarath is dead. The Veinforged are broken. Aetherhold stands victorious."
A surge of relief, mixed with exhaustion, flooded through the link.
"Thank the gods," Brynn breathed. A pause. "And Malisya?"
Vicky clenched her jaw.
"She’s gone."
The bond wavered, a silent tremor of shared grief. Then, after a long, heavy pause—Brynn’s response came, steel woven into sorrow.
"She died a warrior’s death. We will honor her."
"We will," Vicky agreed. But she couldn’t linger on grief. Not yet. There was still one more thing she had to do.
"Listen to me, Brynn. Asher is alive, but he's not safe."
Brynn's presence in the bond sharpened instantly. "What? Where is he?"
"Escaping Nyxhold as we speak. And he’s not alone."
"Who is with him?"
Vicky hesitated, knowing the name would not sit well.
"Sylthara."
There was a brief silence. Then Brynn’s voice, low and measured: "The goddess of shadow?"
"Yes. She’s the one helping him escape."
"Why the hell would she do that?"
"I don’t know. And frankly, I don’t care. Right now, he needs help."
Brynn didn’t argue. Instead, she responded with unwavering certainty. "What do you need from me?"
"Stand ready. We need to pull him out as soon as we get a location. Sylthara will need a safe zone to teleport to."
"Understood. I’ll coordinate with Kaelen and Dravyn. We’ll be ready to mobilize the second you have a position."
"Good." Vicky pulled away from Brynn and reached for the second thread.
The bond connected to Asher.
For a moment, there was silence—then she felt it.
It was faint, strained—but still there.
She latched onto it, sending her voice through the connection, urgency sharpening every word.
"Asher!? Do you need help? What’s your status!?"
The battle raged around him.
Asher twisted, his golden arm flashing in the dim torchlight as he drove his fist into the skull of a Veinforged soldier. The creature’s head exploded on impact, black ichor spraying across the broken stone. Another lunged from the side, jagged claws swiping for his ribs. He ducked under the attack, twisting his body, and slammed his knee into its gut. As it doubled over, he grabbed its throat and ripped it out with his bare hand.
"Keep moving!" Sylthara barked from ahead, her twin daggers a blur of shadow and steel as she gutted two Veinforged in rapid succession. "We’re almost at the battlements!"
The little girl clung to Sylthara’s cloak, her terrified eyes darting between the corpses littering their path.
But the enemy was relentless.
Vorlath’s forces surged through the ruined halls of Nyxhold, closing in on them like a tide of writhing flesh and metal. The warlord himself was not far behind—the weight of his presence pressed against Asher’s soul like a creeping sickness, a festering malice that set his teeth on edge.
Sylthara cursed under her breath. “We’re running out of time!”
The wards surrounding Nyxhold still pulsed with dark energy, preventing Sylthara from teleporting them away. They had to get beyond the outer wall—only then would they be clear of the interference.
Asher felt a familiar pull in his mind—a voice cutting through the chaos.
"Asher!? Do you need help? What’s your status!?"
Vicky.
His vision swam for half a second as the bond snapped into place. He had no time to explain.
"We’re at the outer halls—fighting through heavy resistance. We need a teleport location NOW!"
Vicky’s voice was immediate, unshaken.
"Sending you one now—get outside the wards and Sylthara can lock onto it."
The bond surged, and Asher suddenly knew exactly where to go.
The battlements.
One last push. One last fight.
And then they were free.
"Asher!" Sylthara’s voice cut through his thoughts. "Move your ass!"
He gritted his teeth, slammed his golden fist into the nearest Veinforged, and surged forward.
The final sprint had begun.
Asher and Sylthara crested the spiral staircase on the right side of a towering anti-siege structure, its jagged obsidian architecture looming over them like the ribs of some ancient, long-dead beast. The wind howled through the battlements, carrying with it the stench of rot and something far fouler—the raw, putrid essence of corruption.
As they reached the top, Asher saw it.
The full Veinforged army.
A seething mass of decay and ruin, their monstrous forms writhing, slithering, breathing with unnatural hunger. Beyond them, just outside the massive black walls of Nyxhold, the endless tide of the enemy stretched into the horizon. The ground beneath them seemed alive, pulsating with corruption, each ripple sending waves of filth oozing across the battlefield like a festering wound.
The stench nearly made him vomit.
Sylthara yanked him back to reality. “Move, Asher! We have to go—NOW!”
His body snapped into action, instinct overriding dread. He scooped the little girl into his arms, her frail frame trembling against him, and together he and Sylthara bounded across the battlements, void Aether igniting around them. Gravity bent beneath their will, the fabric of space itself warping as they propelled forward—
Then the world exploded.
A massive form slammed into the stonework ahead of them, the sheer impact splintering the battlements, sending fractures racing across the obsidian surface. The force sent a shockwave rolling outward, hurling loose rubble into the void below. As the dust settled, Asher’s stomach dropped.
Vorlath.
He rose from the impact, his presence an abyssal void in the world itself. Humanoid in shape, but in no way human. His body, if it could still be called that, was a swirling mass of shadows and writhing tendrils, pulsating with a sickly violet glow. The air around him seemed wrong, heavier—infested.
The Veinforged behind them—the very creatures bred for death—stopped dead in their tracks.
And then, one by one, they bowed.
Even they feared him.
Sylthara’s voice was barely a whisper. “You need to hold him until I can get the portal open. I need at least two minutes.”
Vorlath laughed.
A horrible sound.
Not a voice, not even a thing that should exist in this world—more akin to metal scraping against bone, the shriek of something twisting inside flesh that no longer belonged to it.
“No need to whisper, dear sister.” His voice echoed unnaturally, his words bleeding into the very air itself. “If this mortal survives two minutes with me… I will allow him to leave. Even with you, my traitorous kin.”
Sylthara’s hands clenched into fists. “You are the traitor.”
For the first time, there was genuine hatred in her voice.
“You tricked me. Corrupted me.” Her crimson eyes burned with fury. “I helped attempt to murder my own sister!....Aetheros, I helped bring this blight upon our world! I loved you, brother—but you are no longer my brother. So drop the charade. Stop calling me sister.”
For a moment, Vorlath didn’t respond.
Something flickered in his abyssal form—a hesitation, a fracture in the shifting mass of darkness that composed his being. His inhuman features twisted, as though struggling against something unseen. His form distorted, flickering between the monster he had become and something else—something older. His shoulders tensed, his stance wavered ever so slightly.
Then, his eyes—those unnatural void-lit pits—shifted. And for a fleeting second, something behind them screamed.
Pain.
Recognition.
Memory.
It was gone just as quickly. Like a wretched thing being strangled in its crib.
Then, his voice—warped, dissolving into something entirely other. Something ancient. Something eternal.
“Fine.”
The air seemed to rot around them, thickening with a presence that did not belong in this world.
“No need for lies anymore.”
The final remnants of whatever had once been Vorlath vanished.
The Corruption had fully taken hold.
Asher exhaled sharply, lowering his voice. “Sylthara. Take the girl and start the portal. When it’s ready, grab me with your shadows and pull me through. I’ll hold him off.”
Sylthara’s jaw tightened. “Your best bet is to take the girl and jump. Run. I’ll hold Vorlath off. You might not make it, but if you stay and fight? You won’t survive.”
Asher turned, grabbed her face firmly, forcing her to look at him. His voice was iron.
“This is not a suggestion.”
Sylthara’s breath caught.
“You are bound to me. That means, until we get to my queen and my army, I am your master. You will do as I say. Do you understand?”
For the first time, Sylthara hesitated.
Then, finally, she nodded.
She tore her gaze from his, gathered the girl into her arms, and began.
Dark shadows slithered from her fingertips, spilling into the air like living ink. Her voice, heavy with incantations, wove through the battlefield, every syllable laced with ancient power. Symbols—forbidden, intricate, pulsing with deep violet light—began carving themselves into the air before her. The first speck of a portal flickered to life, unstable, but growing.
Asher turned back to Vorlath.
And didn’t give him another second to speak.
He attacked.
He unleashed the full force of his Black Ice, an eruption of shards and spears bursting outward in a wide arc. The battlefield froze in an instant, ice lancing across the stone, engulfing the Veinforged bowing behind Vorlath. Their bodies locked in jagged prisons, frozen in mid-motion, their mouths still open in silent reverence.
Vorlath did not move.
The ice pummeled his form, colliding against his shifting mass—and then shattered.
Asher stared.
Vorlath chuckled.
A hideous, mocking sound.
“You truly believed that a power born of our own corruption could harm us?” His head tilted, the movement unnatural, like a marionette being pulled by unseen strings. “You are more ignorant than I had imagined.”
Then—he was on him.
Vorlath moved like a shadow, a blur of darkness, and the next thing Asher knew—
Pain.
Tendrils lashed out, dozens of them, writhing and erratic. They struck his arms, his legs, his chest, each impact carrying a sickening, wet crunch as they tore into his flesh. The force sent him skidding backward across the battlements, his feet barely catching the stone before he could be hurled clean over the edge.
He tasted blood.
Vorlath stood where he had been just a moment ago, his abyssal form undisturbed.
“Two minutes?” Vorlath’s voice slithered into his ears. “I will kill you in one.”
Asher growled, forcing himself upright. His vision blurred, but he wiped the blood from his lips and squared his stance. His golden arm burned, runes flaring along its surface.
He exhaled.
He just had to last.
Asher exploded forward.
The battlements trembled beneath Asher’s charge, every step sending molten cracks spiderwebbing across the obsidian stone. His golden runes flared like miniature suns, the energy pulsing from his arm turning the air into a shimmering inferno. The fire around him roared higher, his hair lifting unnaturally, blazing like a crown of golden flames.
Vorlath’s abyssal form remained still, shadows writhing and shifting, absorbing the flickering light. Then—his lips curled into a jagged, grotesque grin.
“Come, little Champion,” he whispered. “Let me see your fire burn against the void.”
Asher struck first.
He drove his fist forward, a pillar of flame bursting from the impact, so hot that the very air howled in protest. The black ice beneath his feet fractured under the force, shards flying outward like razors. The explosion of heat and force could have torn through fortress walls—
Yet Vorlath was already gone.
A flicker—**a blur of shadows—**and then the monstrous entity was suddenly at Asher’s flank.
Impact.
A void-touched limb slammed into Asher’s ribs, the tendrils digging deep into his flesh, twisting like barbed wire. Pain erupted through his body as he was ripped off his feet, hurled through the air like a broken doll. He smashed into a ruined parapet, stone and ice exploding outward, before rolling back onto his knees.
His vision swam.
Vorlath stood in the ruins of Asher’s attack, untouched. He flexed his shadow-laced fingers, inspecting them as though bored.
“Disappointing,” he mused. “All this power. All this rage. And still—” He tilted his head, eyes smoldering like twin pits of hell. “—you are nothing.”
Asher forced himself to his feet. His breath came in ragged gasps, blood dripping from his lips, but his grip on his power did not waver.
"You talk too much," he snarled.
He clenched his fist—and the battlefield answered.
The very stone beneath them howled as a shockwave ripped outward, a devastating eruption of fire and ice. Torrents of molten rock surged upward, spewing into the sky like volcanic geysers. Jagged spires of black ice burst from the ground, forming a lethal cage around Vorlath.
This time, Vorlath moved to avoid it.
A flicker of shadow, a swirl of nightmares and abyssal power, and he phased through the attack, sliding like liquid darkness between the ice and flame. He emerged beside Asher, striking before he could react.
A tendril wrapped around Asher’s throat.
And squeezed.
Asher choked, his vision darkening as the pressure increased. Runes burned hot along his golden arm, reacting to his desperation, but Vorlath only tightened his grip.
“Die already,” Vorlath whispered.
Flames roared to life.
White-hot fire erupted from Asher’s core, searing through the tendrils wrapped around his throat. The shadows recoiled, hissing like a wounded serpent. Asher sucked in air, and in the same motion, he moved.
His golden fist slammed upward, a blazing uppercut reinforced with pure Aetheric power. The impact was cataclysmic.
Vorlath’s head snapped backward, his form distorting violently as the energy tore through his existence. The shadows around him screamed, twisting unnaturally, his once-perfect form momentarily disrupted.
Asher pressed the advantage.
With a furious battle cry, he drove his knee into Vorlath’s chest, then followed up with a vicious hammer-fist strike, sending the entity skidding backward across the battlements.
And then—Asher changed.
The Aether inside him ignited.
Flames consumed him, but they did not burn. They coiled around his body in great, twisting arcs—living fire, hungry and absolute. His hair lifted unnaturally, flickering like a celestial bonfire, tendrils of golden flame weaving and writhing as though alive. His veins surged with molten energy, glowing beneath his skin, turning his very flesh into something radiant, something divine.
The battlefield reacted.
The obsidian stone beneath his feet fractured, then liquefied, glowing veins of magma spiderwebbing outward with every step. Ice ruptured in violent, unnatural formations, jagged spikes rising and falling like grasping fingers reaching from the abyss. The air itself screamed, vibrating with unrestrained power. The torches along the ruined battlements flickered and snuffed out, as if the very presence of Asher’s transformation was suffocating lesser flames.
Vorlath recoiled. Not in fear. Not yet. But in acknowledgment.
“You… should not exist.”
Asher exhaled slowly, his golden irises burning like miniature suns. The sheer force of his Aetheric presence bent reality around him, distorting the very fabric of space, the edges of his form flickering between fire and flesh.
He met Vorlath’s gaze—and charged.
Aether collided with corruption.
Their blows came faster than thought, each strike warping the space around them. Fists, tendrils, claws, fire, ice—all of it a blur of destruction. Every impact sent ripples of force through the battlefield, shattering what little of the battlements remained.
Asher ducked under a swipe, his flaming golden arm carving through the air like a divine blade. He smashed his fist into Vorlath’s side, a nova of fire and ice detonating on impact. Vorlath reeled, his form flickering violently.
For the first time—he felt it.
Pain.
"You—" Vorlath's voice distorted, his form glitching, flickering between shadow and substance. His eyes burned brighter, his snarl stretching wider. "YOU DARE—"
He retaliated with a dozen tendrils at once, each one screaming toward Asher with enough force to tear mountains apart.
But before they could reach him—
A shadowed hand seized his wrist.
His vision snapped sideways—Sylthara.
She was beside him, her form wreathed in void energy, her fingers digging into his arm with crushing force. Her crimson eyes blazed with raw power, shadows twisting violently around her.
“The portal is ready,” she hissed, her voice strained. The effort of holding it open was immense. “Time’s up.”
Vorlath roared.
The sound was unnatural. Not a voice. Not a scream. A living curse, a raw, seething hatred made manifest. The battlements quaked beneath his fury, obsidian stone cracking, the very air vibrating with the force of his wrath.
A tendril lashed out—
And caught Asher’s ankle.
Cold. Unnatural, writhing, a sensation like rot and hunger sinking into his skin.
Vorlath was pulling him back.
Asher’s entire body snapped downward, his vision whipping toward the abyss below. His golden runes flared violently in response, a desperate surge of heat ripping through the corruption. The limb snapped back—but not before another tendril struck.
It latched onto Sylthara’s waist.
Her eyes widened—just for a second.
Then she snarled.
With a wordless scream, she threw her free hand out—
And shadow detonated outward, a final burst of void energy ripping Asher, the girl, and herself backward—
Into the portal.
The last thing Asher saw was Vorlath’s abyssal form surging forward, a clawed hand reaching—so close—
Then the portal slammed shut.
Silence.
Darkness.
Then—they fell.