Chapter Eleven: The Battle In The Mist

The Forsaken Wastes erupted into chaos.

The High Lord's twisted soldiers surged from the mist, their bodies warped by dark sorcery. Their eyes glowed with an unnatural light, and their movements were too fast, too precise—inhuman. Their weapons gleamed, crude and wicked, yet deadly in their hands.

Voss raised her hands, shadows twisting at her command. The air crackled as she whispered an incantation in the language of the Eldar. Darkness burst from her fingertips, sweeping over the front ranks of the mutated warriors. They staggered, shrieking as the magic consumed them, but more came, their numbers unrelenting.

Striga met them head-on, her sword igniting with searing flame. Every strike left molten steel in its wake, severing limbs, cutting through armor, yet the enemy fought without pain, their bodies moving even as they should have fallen.

"We can't hold this position!" Striga shouted, blocking an overhead strike and driving her sword through an enemy's chest.

Voss clenched her jaw. This was not a battle they could win by force alone.

Drakonix reared back, all six heads unleashing a storm of elemental fury—fire, water, earth, and air converging in a devastating blast. The ground split, winds howled, flames engulfed, yet still, the enemy pressed forward.

Voss knew what she had to do.

She raised one hand to the sky, shadows rippling around her. The ground beneath her feet darkened, a void forming at its center. One by one, ghostly figures emerged—the fallen warriors of past battles, their eyes burning with spectral fire.

The dead had returned.

At her silent command, they charged, colliding with the High Lord's creatures in a clash of steel and bone. The tide shifted as the enemy was forced to fight on two fronts—against both the living and the dead.

Striga glanced at Voss, eyes narrowing. "We need to move while they're distracted."

Voss nodded. "We cut through them, head north. The elves are waiting."

She turned to her spectral army, her voice ringing through the battlefield. "Hold them here."

The dead did not hesitate.

Voss leaped onto Drakonix's back, gripping the reins tightly. "Go."

The hydra's wings unfurled, and with a mighty leap, they soared into the air. Below, the resistance pushed forward, cutting a path through the chaos.

The Forsaken Wastes had tested them, but they would not fall here.

Not yet.

The resistance moved swiftly through the shattered landscape, their numbers thinned but their will unbroken. Smoke and the stench of battle clung to the air as Voss led them north, toward the elven sanctuary hidden within the ancient Veilwood.

Drakonix soared above, its massive wings casting shadows over the land. From his vantage point, Voss could see the remnants of their battle—a battlefield haunted by lingering spirits, where the dead still clashed with the High Lord's monstrosities. She exhaled, dissolving her spectral army into the ether. The dead would not linger longer than necessary.

Striga rode beside her on a dark stallion, her expression hardened. "We lost too many back there."

Voss nodded. "And we'll lose more before this is over." She met Striga's gaze. "But we move forward. We reach the elves, we regroup, and we make sure the next battle is on our terms."

Striga glanced back at their warband—hardened fighters, mages drained but determined, wounded carried by their comrades. They were battered, but alive.

"The High Lord won't let this go unanswered," Striga muttered.

"He never does," Voss said.

The Veilwood

By dusk, the resistance reached the edge of the Veilwood. The forest loomed before them, its massive silver-barked trees stretching toward the heavens, their leaves shimmering in the fading light. A heavy mist wove through the trunks, shifting unnaturally, like something alive.

Voss dismounted from Drakonix's back, stepping toward the threshold of the sacred land. She could feel it—the power humming in the air, ancient and untouched by time.

The elves were watching.

A soft whisper echoed through the trees, and a dozen figures emerged from the mist. Clad in flowing armor of woven silver and midnight blue, they moved with a grace beyond mortal understanding. Their eyes, luminous and unreadable, locked onto Voss.

One stepped forward, his presence commanding. His long silver hair flowed like water, and his emerald gaze burned with quiet intensity.

"You should not have come." His voice was smooth, yet laced with warning. "The debt of mortals was paid long ago."

Voss held his gaze. "Then you know why we're here."

The elf's jaw tightened, but he did not look away.

Striga stiffened beside Voss, hand resting on the hilt of her blade. "We don't have time for riddles. The High Lord is coming. You know what he's done. You know what he's planning."

The elf studied her, then exhaled. "We know."

The mist thickened, swirling around them, and the trees groaned as something unseen shifted.

Another voice, softer yet full of power, cut through the tension.

"And that is why we can no longer stand aside."

A second figure stepped forward—a woman, her presence radiant with an ethereal glow. Unlike the warriors, she wore no armor, only flowing robes that shimmered like the dawn.

Voss narrowed her eyes. She recognized the authority in her stance.

"You're their leader."

The woman inclined her head. "I am Queen Sylwen of the Eldar." Her gaze swept over the weary resistance fighters, then settled back on Voss. "And we have much to discuss."

The War Council Begins

The resistance was led deeper into the Veilwood, past ancient ruins overgrown with glowing vines, past crystal-clear rivers untouched by corruption. The deeper they went, the more Voss could feel the pulse of the land itself—a power unlike anything in the mortal realm.

Finally, they reached an ancient hall carved into the heart of a massive tree. Within, the elven council awaited them.

Maps were unfurled, battle plans drawn. The elves knew much—they had seen the High Lord's war machine growing, had sensed the dark forces he had begun to awaken.

"He is no longer simply a man," Queen Sylwen said. "He is changing. Becoming something beyond mortal flesh."

Voss frowned. "What is he becoming?"

The queen's expression darkened. "Something that should not exist."

Silence fell over the chamber. The implications were clear. If the High Lord was no longer bound by mortal limits, no army would stand against him.

Unless they found a way to sever his power.

Striga leaned forward, her voice sharp. "Then we strike first."

Sylwen studied her. "With what army?"

Voss met the queen's gaze. "We don't need to match his numbers. We just need to find the one thing that can end him."

Sylwen's expression was unreadable. "The Shadow-forged Blade."

A chill settled over the room.

"The blade is real?" Striga asked, her tone skeptical.

Sylwen nodded. "Forged of shadow and divine magic, it is the only weapon that can sever his connection to the eldritch forces sustaining him."

Voss exhaled. This was the key. The only way to end this.

Striga crossed her arms. "Where is it?"

Sylwen's gaze darkened.

"Lost within the Temple of Forgotten Gods."

Silence.

Then Voss stood.

"Then that's where we're going."