Wrath Unleashed

"What is this madness?" As the ground shook beneath their feet, a Caldrith soldier let out a tremulous cry. Caldrith's once-victorious pride was now reduced to desperation as his sword trembled in his grasp. "There is a tornado! It has already killed more than a thousand men and is directly aimed at us!"

His yell was barely audible over the roaring winds and the clamor of screams. As the soldiers rushed to find cover, the air was heavy with dust and debris, choking them. The tornado struck them with the indiscriminate destruction of a furious god.

Another soldier staggered forward, sweating and with a pale face. "Our king has been paralyzed!" he yelled, his voice cutting through the confusion with desperation. "What are we going to do? How is it possible to oppose such a terrible force? Who could have that kind of power?

Men were drawn into the ruthless whirlpool of the storm as the ground shattered beneath their feet. The remaining soldiers were overcome with fear as the monstrous storm caused their resolve to crumble.

One soldier, whose voice could hardly be heard over the roar of the storm, yelled, "If we retreat now, it will chase us down and kill us all!" "But like the others, we will be massacred if we stay!"

"Then we engage in combat from a distance!" With a desperate yet determined tone, another soldier let out a bark. Fireballs! We will give it everything we have got! Magic may be able to destroy this monster if it is a product of it.

Despite their fear, the soldiers made every effort to remain brave. Gleaming fireballs were conjured into their quivering palms as they raised their hands. A slender glimmer of hope briefly broke through the oppressive blackness of the battlefield with the combined light of their magic.

They roared together, their hopes pinned on this final desperate assault, and threw the flames toward the monstrous tornado.

However, hope soon gave way to despair. The fireballs were caught mid-air as the tornado, seemingly alive, twisted and swirled in an unnatural way. With devastating force, it threw them back with an almost mocking elegance. Explosions broke out among the Caldrith ranks, sending debris and men flying in all directions. The night was filled with cries of pain as the once-proud army fell into anarchy.

With his voice hardly more than a whisper, one soldier dropped to his knees. "This... it is not a storm. It is actually death.

--- The Vessel of Darkness, Andras

At the heart of the storm stood Andras, his figure illuminated by the flickering light of destruction. His once-familiar features were now unrecognizable, his glowing eyes betraying the presence of something far darker within him. The air around him was heavy, as if the battlefield itself recoiled from his presence.

Inside his mind, a voice—ancient and filled with malice—whispered incessantly.

"Kill them all… Leave no one alive… They are beneath you… Destroy, Andras, destroy…"

The dark sprite that had possessed him fed on his rage and grief, twisting his emotions into a weapon of pure devastation. Its whispers grew louder with each passing moment, urging him forward, urging him to kill.

"No one will live!" Andras roared, his voice reverberating across the battlefield like thunder. He raised his hands to the sky, and the tornado grew larger, its winds howling like the cries of the damned.

The soldiers of Caldrith, what few remained, tried to rally, but the storm consumed them without mercy. Men were torn apart, flung into the air like leaves, their cries silenced in an instant. Blood soaked the ground, mixing with the shattered remnants of their armor.

From a distance, King Roderic of Caldrith lay helpless, his body paralyzed by the poisoned arrow that had struck him earlier. He could only watch as his once-mighty army was annihilated. Tears streamed down his face, not for his own fate, but for the men who had followed him into what was now a slaughter.

---

The Aftermath

When the last of the Caldrith soldiers had fallen, the storm began to subside. The winds died down, leaving behind an eerie silence broken only by the crackling of flames. Bodies littered the battlefield, their lifeless forms a grim reminder of the power that had been unleashed.

Andras strode forward, his expression unreadable, his sword dragging through the blood-soaked earth. The glow in his eyes dimmed slightly, though the darkness within him remained.

He approached King Roderic, who lay sprawled on the ground, his once-proud demeanor reduced to despair. The king's voice was faint, but his words carried the weight of a broken heart.

"Please… spare my people…" Roderic whispered. "Take me as your prisoner. Let me bear the punishment for their rebellion. Do not kill any more of them… They followed my orders… They do not deserve this…"

Andras stopped a few feet away, his cold eyes boring into the king. The voice in his head whispered again, urging him to kill.

"Finish it… End him… No mercy for the weak…"

But Andras hesitated. For a brief moment, the whispers faltered, and he seemed to regain a shred of clarity. He sheathed his sword and turned to his men, who had gathered behind him, their faces a mix of awe and fear.

"Take him," Andras commanded. His voice was calm, but it carried an edge of finality. "He will live as our prisoner, but his people will pay for their defiance. If any of his soldiers remain alive, they will be executed. No mercy for the enemies of Fenalore."

The soldiers of Fenalore roared in triumph, their cries of victory echoing across the battlefield. They bound King Roderic in heavy chains and began their march back to Fenalore, dragging their prisoner behind them.

Andras led the procession, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Though victory was theirs, his thoughts were clouded by the darkness that still lingered within him. The voice returned, whispering once more, promising power, glory, and vengeance.

Victory had been claimed, but Andras knew this was only the beginning. The darkness within him had tasted blood and hungered for more.