The forgotten isle of Orûn-Mal lay cloaked in mist and silence. At its heart, the stone circle of the new Stormguard warcamp stood like a sentinel against the creeping darkness. Ancient rocks, carved deep with runes pulsing faintly with storm qi, whispered secrets lost to time.
Beneath the circle, in the dim glow of the chamber, Commander Altan sat cross-legged in meditation. Around him, cryo stasis pods hummed softly, each holding a Stormblade: Warden Kael and five others, their bodies slowly succumbing to the Nerathil rot. The shadow element that bound their powers now worked against them, hastening the rot's spread through flesh and bone.
Fire elementals were said to be immune. Fire qi was the only cure to burn away the rot's corrupting grasp. But the shadow element held no known remedy. Altan's mind wove through ancient texts, forbidden rites, and whispered prayers, searching desperately for a spark of salvation in the dark.
His fingers twitched subtly, calling forth Stormwake, the silent hand of the Stormguard, the invisible coordinator of scouts and agents, the network through which all whispers traveled.
Stormwake's presence filled the chamber like low thunder, calm and resolute.
Altan opened his eyes and spoke softly, "Give me all updates."
Stormwake's voice murmured in his mind.
"Stormguard reinforcements have landed at Orûn-Mal port. Two legions, strong and resolute, have secured the eastern docks. Alongside them, two new Trerani warbands, numbering two legions' worth, are unloading their gear and arms."
Altan nodded, eyes narrowing with determination. The tide was turning, and now he could focus on the next phase: purging Nerathil from the island and closing the gate or destroying it if possible.
Stormwake continued.
"A message," Stormwake pressed on. "From Warden Ryoku on Zevekhan Island. He requests to remain longer on the island to protect the survivors, civilians and warriors alike. The Dazhūm army there lies shattered and scattered, defeated by the horde. The Nerathil have claimed the island's wilds. Ryoku dispatched the Ghost Fang, The Phantomis II, back for supplies and reinforcements. Mercenaries and survivors have united under a new banner, the Blacktide Unit, now the Bloodtide Mercenary Company."
Altan's gaze hardened. The defenders fought fiercely, carving out a foothold in hell.
"Send a message to Nivak," Altan commanded. "Tell him to organize and expand all resistance efforts to contain the Nerathil spread. He must bide his time, maintain control of the city's streets and shadows until the moment is right. Send him the flame sigils, the ancient fire-wrought runes I have refined. These are no ordinary marks. They are living circuits, etched in fire qi, tuned to the leyline beneath our feet. Inscribed on weapons by our war mages, these sigils channel ordered flame to disrupt the Nerathil rot's corrupting force."
He paused, eyes burning with fierce certainty. "The sigils can ignite weapons with power beyond steel, not just to burn, but to protect and cleanse. They are our first true defense against the rot's shadow."
Stormwake nodded silently, already preparing the transmission.
Altan's voice dropped, colder and sharper. "Summon Warden Wen Tu. I have a mission for him."
The room dimmed further as the unseen web of the Stormguard stretched wide, ready to move its pieces against the growing darkness.
The sea wind whipped cold and sharp against the deck of the Phantomis II, one of eight sleek triremes cutting through grey waves toward Zevekhan Island. Warden Wen Tu stood at the prow, eyes narrowed against the spray, his dark cloak billowing like a shadow cast by the rising sun. Morning mist clung low over the distant shore, veiling the island in ghostly silence.
Behind him, the Blacktide taskforce moved with quiet purpose and disciplined precision. Rows of Null-element Stormguard Spear veterans adjusted their darksteel black cuirass armor, faint sigils etched along the plates shimmering softly in the pale light, runes crafted to repel the Nerathil's corrosive rot. Moorfire auxiliaries, their deep-blue tartan shoulder drapes fluttering in the wind, readied their weapons with grim determination, scars of past battles etched into their stance.
Near the rear, Stormcasters murmured arcane incantations, weaving fiery spells ready to ignite with deadly fury. Hospitaliers moved between the ranks, prepared to patch wounds already expected in the coming storm. Cloaked in shadow, the Qorjin-Ke elite scouts whispered plans of reconnaissance and sabotage, led by the watchful Teshar. Engineer mages, hands calloused from shaping earth and siegecraft, fingered their tools, already imagining the fortifications they would raise upon landing.
Among the ranks now stood a new addition, a Threrani archer warband two hundred strong. They carried a remarkable new war composite bow, larger than the standard design, its limbs carved deep with glowing sigils. These runes pulsed faintly, drawing energy directly from the leyline beneath the waves, channeling it into each arrow loosed. Their quivers were filled with sigil-tipped arrows, crafted to explode in bursts of flame on impact, turning every shot into a fiery trap against the creeping Nerathil horde. Their secondary equipment included lightweight bucklers, each inscribed with flame sigils for added protection, and the signature falcatas, etched with the same fiery runes that burned with controlled, living flame.
A contingent of Stormtide Auxiliary Marines, their armor lighter for swift coastal operations, formed the final line, prepared to secure the landing zone and construct the hidden port base that would become the backbone of their campaign.
As the command galley Ironwing slipped alongside the escort squadron, two Phantomis-class ships armed with arc ballistae, two Stormcutter-class picket vessels slicing through the waves, Wen Tu was handed a storm-forged iron tube by Stormwake. Breaking the seal, he unfurled the parchment inside, feeling the cold weight of Commander Altan's orders settle onto his shoulders like iron chains.
The mission was clear. Warden Ryoku held full operational command of the Bloodtide Mercenary Cohort, with Wen Tu to serve as his field lieutenant, coordinating movements on the ground. Captain Connach commanded the Moorfire auxiliaries supporting Ryoku's strategy, while Teshar will lead the elite Qorjin-Ke scouts in stealthy infiltrations deep behind Nerathil lines.
Wen Tu folded the scroll and turned to address the gathered officers. His voice was low, unwavering, each word measured.
"Upon landing, the Bloodtide forces will move swiftly to reclaim the Old Ruined City. Connach's Moorfire warriors will fortify the defensive perimeter. Teshar's scouts will seek weaknesses, disrupt enemy supply lines, and gather vital intelligence. Meanwhile, the auxiliary marines will labor tirelessly to erect concealed watchtowers, supply depots, and coastal batteries, hidden defenses to anchor our foothold."
The officers received the command in grim silence, the gravity of their task settling over them like a gathering storm.
Wen Tu gestured toward the engineer mages. "Begin final preparations. Our arrival must be swift and silent. The enemy must never know we are here until it is too late."
As the triremes surged forward, cutting through the fog-wreathed coastline, Wen Tu's thoughts drifted to the flame sigils, the ancient fire runes Commander Altan had painstakingly perfected. These were no mere symbols but lifelines etched into falcatas and armor alike, woven with living flame to protect and empower those who would stand against the creeping shadow of Nerathil rot.
From the deck of the Phantomis II, a signal flare arced into the misty sky, a bright beacon calling the fleet to readiness.
Wen Tu's voice cut through the cold air, steady and filled with quiet fire.
"Brace yourselves. Tonight, the tide will turn."