The Citadel’s Last Stand

Kaelen and Lyria sprinted through the shattered streets of Eldrath, their boots splashing through pools of rain and blood. The acrid scent of smoke filled the air, mingling with the metallic tang of death. Overhead, the sky churned with unnatural energy, jagged bolts of violet lightning crackling through the clouds.

The Citadel loomed ahead, its once-proud spires now crumbling under the relentless assault. Kaelen's heart pounded—not just from the run, but from the knowledge that if they failed here, there would be nothing left to save.

Lyria grabbed his arm, pulling him into the cover of a fallen statue. "Look."

Kaelen followed her gaze. At the great iron doors of the Citadel, a monstrous figure stood—a towering entity clad in black armor, its helm adorned with jagged horns. The warlord.

"Varik," Kaelen muttered, his grip tightening on his sword.

The name alone carried weight like a curse. Varik the Hollow. The man—or whatever he had become—who led the horde of shadowborn that had reduced Eldrath to ruin.

Surrounding him were his monstrous servants—twisted creatures, their bodies half-flesh, half-shadow, their eyes glowing with an unholy light. They tore through the last of the city's defenders, cutting down knights and mages alike.

Lyria exhaled sharply. "We're too late."

Kaelen refused to accept that. "Not yet."

She gave him a sharp look, but there was no time to argue. With a battle cry, Kaelen surged forward, his silver blade flashing in the dim light. He carved through the nearest creature, its body unraveling into black mist.