The night deepened, and with it, the flames of the warmages and wardruids burned brighter, burned hotter, holding the Nerathil horde at bay.
Fire roared from magehands, searing flesh and bone as torrents of molten energy spilled over the front lines. Flesh hissed and blackened, armor melted, limbs torn apart by scorching waves.
Wardruids' chants wove through the cold air, the earth itself a weapon, roots lashing like whips, cracking stone and snapping bones underfoot. Jagged roots tore through Nerathil flesh, twisting and crushing sinew and bone with sickening cracks.
For hours, the defenders stood firm. The spike wall drank the blood of many Nerathil, jagged tips slick with sap and gore, their bodies impaled and writhing in agony.
But fire, even magic fire, is a well that can run dry.
Ryoku's eyes flicked toward the warmages, faces strained, sweat mingling with ash and dirt. Their magic waned, the faint glow flickering like dying embers.
The wardruids were no different, silent now but for low murmurs, fingers trembling as the earth's gift slipped through their grasp.
From the ground below, the Nerathil surged.
Claws scraped stone, leaving gouges deep as they scrambled. Heavy boots thudded against broken walls, cracking mortar and splintering wood. The vanguard's grim determination turned desperate.
Ryoku's voice cut through the dark like tempered steel.
"We can't rely on fire much longer. When their strength fades, it's on us to hold the line."
He shifted his gaze to the Veilguards standing close by, Serana and two others, the best fighters among them, trained covert operatives pulled from the ranks. They were quiet, deadly, and sharp as the falcata swords and shields they bore.
"Veilguards, close the gaps. Everyone else brace for those climbing the walls."
The spike wall splintered beneath the horde's relentless pressure. Skulkin and Dreadblades found footing on fractured battlements, scaling the walls with savage speed.
Ryoku stepped forward, deliberate and unhurried, a rhythm forged by years of relentless discipline. His stance was solid, rooted like the earth itself, every motion precise and measured, as if the very hardness of tempered steel flowed through his veins.
His armor, the Ironform Vestments, shifted subtly with his weight, absorbing impact and reinforcing his posture, a perfect harmony of body and defense.
He drew Kensho, the longsword balanced to perfection. Each strike was not just a blow but a calculated fold of force, an echo of steel against steel, a dance of refined precision born of tempered earth.
A Nerathil lunged, claws tearing at the air. Ryoku's blade whispered through the darkness, folding the enemy's attack back on itself with mechanical grace. The impact rippled a series of echoes in perfect timing, breaking the foe's momentum.
A spray of thick, black blood splattered as the longsword cleaved through a shoulder, the creature howling before crashing backward, a shattered arm dangling uselessly.
When brute strength threatened to overwhelm, he switched effortlessly to the Resolve Blade, swift and light, built for sudden shifts in the tide of battle. His strikes were tempered by restraint, measured not to waste energy or motion.
He spun through the fray, slashing tendons and slicing throats. A Nerathil's head rolled free, eyes staring blankly, mouth frozen mid-scream. The stench of blood and burning flesh filled the air.
Pain blossomed from a ragged claw tearing his vest, but he absorbed it, tempering will and body alike to withstand the storm.
Nearby, the three Veilguards moved like shadows with sharp intent, Serana leading with a falcata sword in one hand and a round shield in the other, her strikes precise and devastating. Her two companions matched her rhythm, their movements fluid, weaving between enemies, parrying and striking with deadly efficiency.
They didn't fight like soldiers, they fought like hunters. Their every move balanced offense and defense, shield bashing open gaps before cleaving through Nerathil sinew and bone.
Serana's shield smashed into a Nerathil's face, cracking skull and bone with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed as the creature staggered, dazed but not down. Her falcata blade flashed, carving a deep gash from throat to chest, spilling thick, dark blood that steamed as it hit the cold stone.
Another Veilguard spun, deflecting a claw swipe and delivering a brutal shield bash to the ribs. The Nerathil doubled over, coughing blood and broken ribs, only to be finished by a quick slash across the throat.
Across the battlements, Captain Connach of the Moorfire carved a path of his own. His black-crested helm marked him as an officer, his falcata and round shield moving in brutal harmony. Each shield bash shattered bone, each sword stroke split armor and flesh. A Nerathil leapt at him, and Connach met it mid-air, shield slamming into its chest with enough force to send it sprawling, before his blade severed its head in a single, decisive cut. There was no time to watch him work, the tide was everywhere at once.
"Ryoku!" Serana called, deflecting a clawed strike with her shield, then spinning to drive her sword into an enemy's side, the blade piercing deep, blood spurting. "They're pushing harder!"
Ryoku blocked a heavy blow, countering with a crisp slash that sent his foe staggering back, bleeding profusely from a wide cut across the face. "I know. Hold tight. Don't give them room."
Another Nerathil climbed the wall behind them, catching one of the defenders unaware. The Veilguards were there instantly, shields raised and swords flashing, cutting the attacker down before it could reach its prey, severing tendons and slicing throats.
"We can't hold much longer!" a warmage gasped nearby, staggering back from a shattered hand, blood dripping from torn skin and snapped bones.
Ryoku's voice rang clear, steady with resolve.
"Then we fight. Temper your will. Keep your edge sharp. This wall stands because we stand."
Serana met his eyes, fierce and unyielding.
"Until the last breath."
The battle raged, brutal and relentless. The Nerathil clawed, bit, and surged forward, but the defenders fought with precision and tempered strength, steel and earth bound by discipline, every strike a vow against the darkness.
From the ridge overlooking the ruined city, Teshar's keen eyes swept the chaotic battlefield below. The defenders Ryoku and his group were locked in desperate combat, battered but unyielding. The shattered stone walls groaned under the weight of the Nerathil assault, spike barricades splintering with every brutal push. The air was thick with smoke and the coppery scent of blood.
Beside Teshar, Eorlas tightened his grip on spear and shield, muscles coiled like a spring. Talgir's falcata blades gleamed sharply in the dim light, his shield steady in hand. Both warriors watched, waiting for the signal.
Teshar's voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding:
"Warmages! Strike the Nerathil flank! Burn them where they gather!"
The warmages murmured ancient incantations, hands rising. A flicker of flame sparked to life, quickly swelling to blazing infernos. Suddenly, streaks of fire and molten brimstone crashed down upon the Nerathil flank, ripping through ranks with searing heat and roaring destruction. Screams erupted as limbs were cauterized mid-motion, flesh melted away, and armor blistered and cracked. The ground sizzled with molten blood and scorched earth.
Teshar raised his voice again, bellowing:
"Charge!"
With a deafening roar, over six hundred warriors surged down the ridge, a tidal wave of fury breaking upon the Nerathil flank. Axes swung in brutal arcs, cleaving skulls and shattering shields. Swords sliced through sinew and bone, sending sprays of dark blood arcing through the smoky air.
Amid the chaos, Teshar fought like a whirlwind of ruthless efficiency. His falcata flashed with brutal precision, cutting down foes before they could react. He moved with a predator's grace, striking at weak points throats, joints, exposed flesh with deadly accuracy. His shield was both armor and weapon, bashing skulls and sending enemies crashing into one another. When surrounded, he spun through the melee, his blade a deadly blur, carving a path through the horde.
Teshar's face was a mask of fierce focus, sweat and grime streaked across his brow. Each movement was economical and deadly no wasted motion, no hesitation. When a Nerathil lunged with bone-blades raised, Teshar ducked under the strike, slashed across the creature's exposed ribs, and twisted free before delivering a crushing shield bash that shattered its jaw. The creature collapsed, twitching and bleeding onto the scorched earth.
Eorlas crashed into the fray like a storm unleashed, spear stabbing through armor plates and puncturing flesh. When enemies closed, he smashed shields into ribs, snapping bones with sickening cracks. Each motion was a blend of raw power and practiced precision.
Talgir weaved through the carnage, his falcata flashing in deadly rhythm. Shield up, he blocked vicious strikes, then retaliated with swift, savage cuts gouging eyes, severing throats. His movement was fluid and lethal, carving a bloody path.
Below, Ryoku's eyes caught the flare of battle reinforcements descending the ridge. Steel-hard, he shouted:
"On me! Hit their front hard now!"
With fierce resolve, Ryoku and his defenders surged forward, smashing into the battered Nerathil front lines. The horde found themselves hammered from both sides their flank engulfed in fire and fury, their front battered by Ryoku's disciplined strike.
Bloodied bodies fell in torrents, the tide of battle turning beneath the weight of relentless steel and flame.
From above, Teshar's warriors smashed into the Nerathil flank like a crushing hammer, relentless and unforgiving. Below, Ryoku and his defenders stood firm unyielding as the anvil absorbing the brutal blows and breaking the enemy's charge with disciplined precision.
Together, they forged a deadly union of force and resistance, the hammer and anvil driving the Nerathil back into shattered ruin.
The field was silent now, save for the crackle of flames and the groans of the wounded. The stench of blood and charred flesh hung heavy in the ruin-choked air.
The dead of the Moorfire and the Blacktide lay in silent repose, their bodies arranged side by side, arms folded across their chests in the manner of warriors awaiting the pyre. The scent of blood still clung to the air, mingled with the sharp tang of salt from the sea breeze. Around them, the survivors stood in grim silence, armor dented and slick with gore, weapons still heavy in their grasp.
Two of the Blacktide Elite had fallen in the fighting, their shields shattered, and their blades still wet with the lives they had taken. Five of the Moorfire lay beside them, their faces pale and still beneath the crimson stains of battle. None would be left to rot upon this island. All would be honored as warriors.
At the edge of the shore, the pyres were prepared. Dry timber was stacked high, wrapped in oil-soaked cloth, and ringed with stones to contain the flame. When night fell, the fire would rise into the dark sky, a beacon of farewell. Their ashes would be gathered with care, sealed in urns, and carried back to Stormguard Bastion when the survivors returned.
For the Nerathil dead, no such honor awaited. The warmages of the reinforcements stepped forward, chanting in low unison. The ground trembled as they shaped deep pits in the earth, swallowing the twisted corpses of the fallen enemy. Magick fire roared to life, searing flesh and bone to ash, the blaze hot enough to warp the very air above it. When nothing remained but scorched embers, the earth was closed over them, sealing their graves forever.
By the pyres, the Blacktide and Moorfire stood shoulder to shoulder, their grief tempered by the knowledge that their brothers had fallen in valor. Torches were lit, and the first tongues of flame licked the timber. The crackle of fire rose to meet the low chant of the living, a dirge for the lost. The flames climbed higher, reflecting in the eyes of those left standing.
When the final embers sank into darkness, the survivors turned from the pyres, their oaths renewed. The dead would not be forgotten, nor would the enemy's blood on this island be forgiven.
Warden Ryoku stood with Teshar, Serana of the Veilguard, and Captain Connach.He first spoke to Captain Connach about the losses, but the captain only shook his head.
"When we accepted this mission, we already knew not all would return alive," Connach said. "The Trerani have always lived a borrowed life, either dying back on Threnar Isle or in some far-off land. We were born in battle, and as warriors, we should gladly die in battle."
Ryoku nodded. "Our next plan is simple. You can choose: stay here to defend the island's survivors, both civilians and combatants, or return to Orûn-Mal to finish the mission."
There was no hesitation. They all chose to stay.
Ryoku then wrote two messages.The first was for the captain of the Ghost Fang,The Phantomis II, sent by Teshar, who entrusted it to his warhawk, Ruun.The second was for Commander Altan, sent by Serana through her bond-messenger bird.