The darkness has arrived, slowly consuming everything and casting shadowed bounds over the city. Soldiers of the dark move like a tide of iron—breaking and destroying everything in their path. Catapults heave enormous rocks that pulverize walls and homes; the thunder of impact drowns out cries as lives are crushed beneath rubble. The dark soldiers march in ordered cruelty, and every life within the city's boundaries trembles under their advance.
Lyoth stands like a carved statue among his commanders, watching the ruin with an expression as cold and still as midnight. He speaks with a low seriousness that cuts through the din.
"They have already gone from here, just as Zeiris had planned," Lyoth says. His words fall like a verdict.
Above them, the sky shudders. A terrible shadow blots the light; the air itself seems to tear. From the clouds the black reaper descends, his wings fanning the wind into a hurricane. He lands with a thud that ripples through the army, a sound felt in bones and blood. Lyoth steps forward and stands before him, eyes fixed on the monstrous figure.
There is a hollow cadence to the reaper's voice. "There was no one," he intones. "But I sense something powerful. Soldiers were dead."
"Leave it," Lyoth replies, sharp and unyielding. "Even if he is alone, he will not dare cross us. Now—engulf this land with fire."
The black reaper kneels as if in obedience, and Lyoth mounts his bowed back like a sovereign claiming a throne. From that high vantage the reaper rises again and sweeps the sky, angrily unleashing hell. Buildings flare, roofs collapse into showers of embers, and rivers that once glittered like braided silver steam at their edges as heat scorches the banks. Green fields blacken into ash; the world beneath becomes a mosaic of smoke and flame. Lyoth watches with a smile of satisfaction as the land sears beneath him—the rivers, the fields, the lives that once thrived there—all consumed into ruin.
Far from that burning horizon, in an enchanted valley untouched by the shadow's hunger, Aron walks with Carlos. Here the air is gentler; sunlight spills warm over rows of crops and the simple joy of living still thrives. Carlos bears a prize in his hands—bags of grain, shining like a small fortune to those who toil the earth.
"Look," Carlos says, pride bright on his face. "My crops weren't just large—they were pure. The judges said they were the best. They gave me ten bags of rice and wheat as a prize."
"Ten bags?" Aron exclaims, astonishment in his voice. "That's incredible, Carlos. You must be the youngest winner ever."
Carlos laughs, nudging Aron with an easy familiarity. "I couldn't have done it without you helping me. You tended them for a few weeks."
Aron waves it away modestly. "I only helped a little."
"Even a little counts," Carlos insists. He claps Aron on the shoulder. "Now help me get these home."
Aron throws the sacks onto the handcart and together they push it along the winding path. The work is sweaty and slow; the cart creaks, the road throws up dust. As they toil, Lily appears from the trees—an unexpected, welcome figure on the horizon.
"Lily!" they call, surprised and pleased. "Why are you here?"
"I came for a walk," she says with a smile. "Maybe I can help."
Aron protests—the work is done, he says—but Carlos has other plans. He points to a distant mountain crowned with a solitary tree, visible as a dark pinprick against the sky.
"Let's play a game," Carlos says suddenly. "Whoever reaches that tree first wins."
With a laugh, Carlos takes off. Lily follows, light and fleet. Aron watches them run and feels something spark inside him; he charges after them with steady, measured stride. The climb is brutal. Sweat stings eyes; breath comes ragged. Carlos and Lily push hard, and Aron, seeing them struggle, slows and feigns exhaustion—allowing them to race ahead while he conserves himself. It is a little trick; he is content to be the last to arrive.
Lily taps the tree first, triumphant. Carlos comes next, breathless but laughing. Aron strolls up last, smiling like a man who has saved his strength on purpose. But the race was never the real prize—it was the view Carlos wanted them to share.
From the mountaintop the valley stretches like a living tapestry: tidy houses with smoke curling from chimneys, a river that threads the fields and crosses under a stone bridge, terraced plots of wheat and barley, and far beyond, mountains rise, dark and evergreen. Wind wraps itself around them, shaking hair and clothes and carrying the scent of earth and flourishing life.
"It's beautiful," Lily whispers, eyes lifted to the horizon. She breathes in the wind as if memorizing the world.
Aron settles down and lets the breeze comb his hair. Carlos sits beside him. For a moment the three of them are an image of peace—youth and contentment etched into the quiet between words. It is as if, in that instant, the valley holds its breath and the world is safe.
But safety is a fragile thing. Back at the camp not so far away, Galaguard is mapping routes and preparing defenses. He studies lines of march and marks positions for catapults; he gathers the Bloomberg warriors—skilled, fearless men from neighboring lands—and nurses a hope that strategy and courage might bend the course of fate.
Suddenly a soldier stumbles into camp, panic raw on his face. "Sir!" he cries, voice cracking.
Galaguard looks up with immediate alarm. The hall falls into an uneasy hush.
"What is it?" Galaguard demands. "Speak."
"The dark army," the soldier gasps. "They'll reach this land by morning…"
The words strike like a bell. A cold silence settles over the room, a weight that presses against the ribs. For a moment hopelessness threatens to drown every plan; there is no time to lead the people far away, no safe window left.
Galaguard's jaw tightens. He will not abandon his people without fighting for them. He strides to the great hall where Azerius sits upon his throne, a ruler of stern mien and weathered power. When Galaguard arrives, Azerius raises a hand and the crowd stills.
"What do you seek?" Azerius asks, voice measured but sharp.
"The dark army will be here by morning," Galaguard replies without hesitation. "I have come to ask you to fight with us. If we stand together, perhaps we can save the city."
Azerius' eyes narrow, then flicker with a calculating light. He steps down the eight carved steps and lays a heavy hand on Galaguard's shoulder—a gesture both solemn and binding.
"You will not fight for free," Azerius says. "Tell me what you want."
"A place capable of sheltering my people," Galaguard answers plainly. "Passage and land—through the routes of Bloomberg."
Azerius considers the plea like a general weighing terrain. Then he nods, slow and certain. "Then it is done," he says. "We will build your route and find shelter. Ready the catapults. Ready the warriors. Tomorrow we face our enemies."
The command spreads through the camp like a blade of purpose. Men heft weapons, sling armor, grind teeth against fear. Outside, the sky darkens once again as if answering the decision. A shadow moves along the horizon—a silhouette that chills the blood. A man rides a dragon, vast wings cutting the clouds, and his presence casts a new dread over the land.