Chapter Eleven: The March of Shadows

The sky was the color of dying embers, casting a blood-red hue over the barren landscape as the sun dipped behind the hills. The wind whispered through the dry grass like the voice of a restless spirit, and the scent of war clung to the air.

Althar stood at the front of his forces, clad in dark silver armor etched with ancient runes that shimmered faintly under the twilight. His cape fluttered behind him like a banner of defiance. Around him, his knights and soldiers waited in tense silence. They knew the enemy was coming. They could feel it in the ground, hear it in the wind.

He raised his gauntleted hand slowly, signaling his men to hold formation. His eyes scanned the horizon.

And then he saw them.

A wave of grotesque, monstrous figures crawled over the ridge, too many to count. Their skin glowed faintly with unnatural veins of red and violet, pulsing in rhythm with some dark force that drove them. Some walked on all fours like beasts, others loomed upright like malformed titans, wielding jagged weapons forged from obsidian and bone.

But it wasn't just the creatures. Behind them, veiled in a miasma of corrupted magic, came riders clad in black, bearing no insignia. And at the center of them, cloaked in shadows deeper than night, was a figure whose presence made even the wind falter.

Rorek stepped up beside Althar, gripping his sword tightly. "They brought a commander."

"I can feel it," Althar murmured, his eyes locked on the distant silhouette. "A puppet master."

It wasn't the same presence as the dead mage—but it was similar. A kindred force, older than the world, wielding corrupted creation magic. This enemy wasn't here to conquer land. It was here to consume it.

A flash of memory seared through Althar's mind—his old kingdom, a thousand lives ago. The feeling of betrayal, the silence of an empty throne room, the weight of wearing a crown atop a lifeless empire. And now, in this new life, with this strange power growing inside him and foreign emotions tugging at his heart, he had the chance to change the ending.

No matter how much blood it cost.

"Archers!" Althar called out. "Form ranks!"

The soldiers snapped to position, forming long lines along the ridge, while mages behind them began to chant. Light gathered around their staffs, crackling with unrefined magical energy. The creatures below shrieked and began to charge, their howls splitting the air like the shrill cries of the damned.

"Loose!" Althar bellowed.

A rain of flaming arrows streaked through the sky, illuminating the field in a blaze of fire. The front ranks of the enemy shrieked as they were impaled or set ablaze, but still they came, undeterred by pain or death.

Althar drew his blade—a sword forged from a rare, spellbound ore he hadn't recognized until recently. Now, as it vibrated with latent power in his grip, he realized it wasn't just a weapon.

It was a key.

As the front lines clashed with the monsters, steel met fang and claw. Screams erupted from both sides, and the earth itself shook. Althar plunged into the chaos, his blade cleaving through one beast after another. Where he struck, magic burst from the steel—ripples of unseen energy that tore through flesh and scattered darkness like sunlight through mist.

The enemy commander raised a hand, and black tendrils snaked forward across the battlefield, reaching for Althar. He turned just in time to see Rorek tackle a soldier out of their path.

The tendrils struck the ground where Althar had been standing, warping the stone into a puddle of shadow.

"Show yourself!" Althar roared toward the figure in the distance. "Come face me!"

As if in answer, the darkness parted. The cloaked commander moved forward slowly, unhurriedly, as though time itself bowed before them. Their face remained hidden beneath a horned mask, but their voice slithered through the air like a poisoned whisper.

"You do not know what you carry, little king. That power in your blood—it is not yours to wield."

Althar's eyes narrowed. "Then let me return it. In pieces."

The masked figure chuckled, a sound that grated against the soul. "You are but the first of many. The world remembers what the old kings buried. You will awaken it."

Before Althar could respond, the commander raised a staff and struck it into the ground. A shockwave of shadow erupted, knocking soldiers off their feet. The dead began to rise—fallen men and beasts alike, now puppets of the same forbidden force.

Althar's heart thundered. Not with fear—but with fury.

For the first time in both lives, he felt something hot and bright stirring inside him—not the cold resolve of a king, but righteous anger. They will not take this world.

He planted his blade in the earth. A pulse of raw energy surged outward, blasting back the undead and cracking the ground beneath them.

The masked commander recoiled, taken aback. "What… are you?"

Althar looked up, eyes glowing faintly with golden light. "I don't know yet. But I'm about to find out."

He lunged forward.

And the battle for the soul of the kingdom truly began.