The land of Theradrin trembled beneath the march of Eldris’ vanguard. The once-cursed fields, long shrouded in darkness, now burned under the light of war. From the front lines to the rear, the elite forces of the Guardians moved as one, a flawless engine of destruction against the unending tide of nightmarish creatures that surged to meet them.


    Steel met flesh. Blades carved through shadows. The battlefield was a symphony of war, and the warriors of Eldris were its conductors.


    The Sentinels of Ilara, clad in golden plate, crashed into the enemy ranks like a living wall of steel. Shields locked, spears thrusting forward with deadly precision, they carved a path through the monstrous horde, their movements unshaken despite the horrors before them. Their captain, Edris the Unyielding, led them with brutal efficiency, his shield caving in the skull of a towering beast before skewering another through the throat. His voice rang clear over the chaos: "For Ilara! For the fallen!"


    Beside them, the Ironbound of Varrian unleashed their fury. No formation, no careful precision—only carnage. Giant warriors wielding weapons as heavy as their rage, they tore through flesh and bone as if they were paper. Their leader, Commander Oris, brought down his massive warhammer upon the earth, sending a shockwave that shattered the creatures in his path. His roar was not of command, but of vengeance. "Where is our captain?! Bring them back or drown in your own blood!"


    The rest of the Guardians moved among them like specters of war.


    Siris, a phantom in the storm, weaved through the enemy ranks untouched. His twin blades whispered through the air, cutting the throats of monsters before they could even react. He did not run—he glided, death following his every step.


    Dren walked like a shadow given form. His scythe cut through the air in sweeping arcs, silent and precise, carving through the nightmarish creatures with a deadly grace. It simply struck, and where it struck, the enemy ceased to exist. His presence was cold, calculating, unstoppable.


    And yet, none of the Guardians seemed concerned for their own safety. They moved not as warriors fighting for their lives, but as gods walking through an inferior world—untouchable, unbothered. The enemy threw itself at them in desperation, yet not one reached them. The creatures of the night were fearless in nature, but against the Guardians, they hesitated.


    And at the front of it all, a singular figure marched without pause.


    Nyroth Solvain.


    He did not raise his sword. He did not even glance at the war around him. He simply walked forward, his presence cutting through the battlefield like a force of nature. And yet, no blade, no claw, no spell touched him. The creatures shrank away from his path, unwilling to be the first to challenge him. His crimson eyes were locked ahead—on Maldrak’s castle, where the true battle would begin.


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    The massive, blackened gates of Maldrak’s fortress loomed in the distance, wreathed in darkness and lined with unholy symbols. As Nyroth neared, the battlefield seemed to quiet. The creatures no longer charged blindly. Instead, they withdrew, forming a shifting mass beyond the castle walls.


    The doors creaked open before Nyroth could reach them.


    From the darkness beyond, a slow clap echoed.


    Maldrak emerged, clad in black robes laced with veins of crimson energy. His form seemed to shift unnaturally, as if reality itself refused to hold him in place. A smirk curled his lips as his golden-red eyes met Nyroth’s.


    "Nyroth Solvain," he mused, his voice dripping with amusement. "You come with all the fire of legend, yet walk like a man with no doubts. A dangerous habit."


    Nyroth halted, his crimson gaze unwavering. "I do not waste time doubting what I already know."


    Maldrak’s smirk deepened. "And what is it you know, Guardian?"


    "That you stand between me and my people," Nyroth said, his voice calm, absolute. "A mistake you will not live to regret."


    Maldrak chuckled, the sound like silk over steel. "Such certainty. And yet, you assume too much. Do you truly believe your prisoners are still waiting for you? Perhaps your grand invasion was for nothing."


    Nyroth’s expression did not change, but the slightest flicker passed through his eyes. "Then you are as blind as you are arrogant. If they have freed themselves, it means you were never their captor—only their fool."


    Maldrak’s smirk faltered for the first time.


    Nyroth turned his head slightly. "Siris. Dren. Find them. Now."


    Neither Guardian hesitated. Without a word, they vanished into the shadows of the castle.


    Maldrak’s fingers curled slightly, the air distorting around them. "Sending away your best? A bold choice. But one you may regret."


    Nyroth exhaled, unhurried, unconcerned. "I am where I am needed. Here. With you."


    The battlefield had gone silent. The war behind them raged on, but here, at the gates of Maldrak’s domain, something else was about to begin.


    Maldrak’s smirk returned, though there was a sharpness to it now. "Then let us begin, Guardian of the Veil. Show me if your legend is deserved."


    Nyroth did not draw his blade. He did not shift his stance.


    He merely nodded.


    And the world itself seemed to hold its breath.


    Deep within the fortress, the air was thick with damp rot and the scent of blood. Siris and Dren moved like wraiths through the dark corridors, their footsteps soundless against the cold stone.


    Then, from the shadows ahead, a deep growl rumbled.


    The elite werewolves of Maldrak emerged, their eyes gleaming with predatory hunger, their bodies lined with unnatural muscle.


    Siris exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "More of these things? We already saw how that went for them."


    Dren did not speak. He simply raised his scythe.


    The werewolves lunged.


    The battle that followed was swift and brutal. These beasts were faster, stronger, more cunning than the lesser creatures of the horde. But Siris and Dren were not ordinary warriors.


    Siris was untouchable, his twin blades a blur of motion, slashing through sinew and bone before his enemies could react. Every step, every movement was calculated, a dance of death performed without flaw.


    Dren, by contrast, was relentless. His scythe tore through bodies as if they were mist, cutting arcs of destruction that left nothing in their wake. A beast lunged at him—he spun, the scythe passing through its neck in a single fluid motion before the rest of its body even hit the ground.


    The last werewolf fell, its body crumpling in a pool of darkness.


    Siris flicked blood from his blades and glanced down the corridor. "We’re close."


    Dren nodded once, stepping forward.


    Beyond the next door lay the dungeons. And, unbeknownst to them, the cells they sought were already empty.