A knight lay still on the cold ground, seven spears piercing through his armor, blood dried and darkened under the fading light. His body had long gone cold, lifeless, and silent. Around him were thousands more — warriors who had fought, screamed, and fallen — now lying still, waiting to become one with the soil, waiting to be consumed by the earth itself. The battlefield was endless, filled with the smell of rust, blood, and smoke.
Galaguard: "My humble king, may I speak for your presence…"
Lyoth was walking slowly, his shadow stretching across the ground, his waist meeting the crouched king, his eyes calm, cold, and merciless.
But it was just a dream.
Azerious woke up suddenly, his body trembling, sweat running down his face. His heart beat fast, his breath uneven. He looked around — the room was dim, silent, and cold. The dream felt real, too real. He stood up quickly, opened the door, and ran to the city gates. The guards were startled when he pushed them open himself.
From the cliff, he looked toward the horizon. The sun had not yet risen — the sky was still dark and quiet, the world asleep. But something in the air felt wrong, heavy, and filled with dread.
Azerious: "Commander Ricks!"
A voice answered immediately, "Yes, my king!"
Azerious turned sharply. "Let the women and children be banished from this city now. Take them as far away as possible — across the river, beyond the forest. I don't know how much time we have, but do it quickly. As for the army — are they prepared?"
Ricks: "Yes, my king. The soldiers are ready and await your word."
Azerious nodded and turned away, walking into the corridor. His steps echoed as he entered his chambers. His wife and three daughters were already awake, frightened by the sudden alarms and movement outside.
Azerious took a deep breath and looked at them — his heart heavy, his eyes tired. "My children," he said slowly, "you must leave. We are surrounded by a war that cannot be escaped. I do not know if I will live to see tomorrow, but you must. Leave this city. Go where no darkness can find you."
His eldest daughter began to cry, her hands trembling as she tried to speak. Azerious placed his hand on her shoulder gently. "You have my blood," he said, voice breaking slightly, "and you will carry my name. Never forget that your father fought so you could live."
The family embraced him one last time before being led away by the guards. Azerious watched them go — his daughters' small figures disappearing into the fog of dawn.
Outside, the army was gathering — thousands of soldiers in armor, their banners waving in the cold wind. The clashing of metal, the sound of marching boots, and the low whispers of men filled the air. The king walked through the lines, every soldier lowering his head in respect. They chanted his name softly, their voices trembling but loyal.
Azerious mounted his horse. His armor was heavy, but his heart felt heavier. From the other side, Galaguard rode forward, stopping beside him.
Galaguard: "My king, the troops are ready. The scouts report movement in the east."
Azerious nodded silently. "So it begins…" he whispered.
He remembered the dream again — the corpses, the spears, the voice of Galaguard. It haunted him, as if the gods had shown him what was to come. But even knowing that death awaited, he did not step back.
The battlefield stretched far and wide. The sky grew darker by the minute. The once-peaceful wind turned harsh, shaking the banners violently. The ground trembled lightly, and a low sound began to echo through the hills — a distant rumble like thunder.
Then, silence.
The world paused. Even the birds fled from the air.
The sun tried to rise, but the clouds swallowed it whole. The blue sky turned black, and thunder cracked across the heavens. Red lightning flashed, followed by blue — both colliding, twisting, roaring in the storm above. The light reflected across the army's armor, painting them in blood and shadow.
The soldiers stood still, eyes wide, hearts shaking.
Galaguard: "BE PREPARED!" he screamed, his voice thundering through the field.
The soldiers raised their shields, gripping their swords tighter. The silence broke. Armor clanked, swords unsheathed, the ground trembled as fear spread among the ranks.
And then — from the darkness of the horizon — came the dark army.
They emerged like a black wave, stretching across the plains, armor corroded, banners torn, their bodies surrounded by red mist. Behind them rolled massive catapults carved from obsidian, glowing with strange runes. Their number was endless — twice the size of Azerious's entire force. The air filled with their chants — deep, guttural, and filled with madness.
And then the earth shook again.
From the mist, the Golem appeared — its eyes burning red, its body as huge as a mountain. With every step it took, the ground cracked. Its roar echoed across the sky, louder than thunder.
Above it, riding the neck of the Black Reaper, was Lyoth.
The creature's wings were vast, spreading across the clouds, each flap shaking the battlefield. Lyoth raised his daggers — black and shining with death — first pointing at his army, then slowly toward the king's.
The dark army howled, raising their weapons high.
The king's soldiers screamed in return, rage and fear burning together.
And then, the charge began.
The two armies clashed like fire meeting wind. The sound was deafening — swords striking, men shouting, the ground painted red. The Black Reaper descended, spreading dark flames across the field, burning hundreds in an instant.
The screams filled the air.
The king's army tried to fight back, but their blades cut through shadows that reformed again. One soldier stabbed a dark warrior, only to watch him regenerate and drive a blade through his chest.
The Golem smashed entire ranks of soldiers with one swing of its arm. Catapults rained fire. Horses screamed. Men fell and were trampled. The sky itself seemed to collapse under the chaos.
Azerious fought with all his strength, his sword cutting through foes one after another — until pain struck his chest.
He looked down — a blade had pierced through his armor.
Slowly, he turned — and his heart froze.
Galaguard.
The knight's face was blank, his eyes cold and dead.
Azerious tried to speak, blood filling his mouth. "Why…?"
Galaguard stepped closer, his voice soft but empty. "My humble king… may I speak for your presence?"
Azerious collapsed. Around him, his army was dying. Spears rained down. The sound of death filled the air.
The dark soldiers roared in victory. The Black Reaper landed again, shaking the field.
Lyoth stepped down, walking slowly through the corpses. His boots left bloody prints on the earth. He moved toward Galaguard, who knelt before him.
Countless soldiers lay lifeless. Some still moved faintly, reaching for help that would never come.
Lyoth stopped.
Lyoth: "Where are the remaining humans in the kingdom?"
Even his voice carried death — calm, cruel, and heavy.
Galaguard tried to answer, but no words came. His lips vanished. His mouth was gone. Panic filled his eyes as he clutched his face, suffocating, gasping, his nose sealing shut. He fell to the ground, shaking, trying to breathe — until a single slash ended him.
Blood sprayed onto the dirt.
The Black Reaper turned its head. "Looks like Zeiris's plan was a success," it said, voice deep as chains grinding against stone.
The battlefield fell silent again. Blood pooled into the soil. The air was thick, the wind still.
Far away, on a mountain ridge, a lone man stood watching — cloaked and silent. His eyes were filled with horror and disbelief. He had come from the city of Blacktides.
His name was Zord Skeeth.
Lyoth walked slowly toward the fallen king, whose eyes were barely open, his breath fading.
Lyoth knelt beside him, daggers dripping with blood. "Your time has ended, king," he whispered. "Rest now."
With a swift strike, he ended his suffering.
Lyoth stood up, wiping his blades clean, and turned away. The Black Reaper spread its wings again, rising into the stormy sky. The dark army began to march forward — into more lands, more blood, and more death.
The wind blew softly across the field, carrying with it the cries of the fallen. The ground was drenched, and the bodies of the warriors lay still — waiting, silent, to be consumed by the earth.