The low dawn light cast a sickly pallor over Orûn-Mal's shattered landscape. The ground trembled beneath thousands of marching feet as Stormguard legions formed ranks behind freshly dug trenches. Commander Altan stood atop a jagged rock, eyes narrowing as he surveyed the sprawling battlefield.
Before them, the Nerathil horde moved with eerie precision, five legions strong, their twisted forms shifting and writhing in unnatural unison. The gaunt Skulkin darted ahead like a plague of skeletal rats, their talon claws scraping stone and flesh with equal hunger. Behind them, hulking Dreadblades slammed the earth with each thunderous step, their fused greatswords cleaving bone and armor in horrific arcs. Ironmaw beasts snapped heavy jaws, crushing shields and skulls alike, while Hollowhands hovered, skeletal fingers pulsing with rot-infused spells.
Altan's lip curled. This was no mindless mob. These monsters were organized, tactical, and relentless.
He raised a hand, voice low but urgent. Warmages and engineers moved swiftly at his command. Trenches were carved deep into the earth, jagged wooden spikes bursting upward to form a deadly barrier between the Stormguard and the encroaching horde. Sigil wards pulsed softly along the trenches, their faint glow a silent promise to hold the rot at bay.
Daalo gave the signal, and the ballista operators sprang into action. The six-foot lances ignited their flame sigils, glowing fiercely with ancient runes. On impact, each would erupt in a devastating explosion, unleashing fire and destruction in a fifty-meter radius designed to clear the way before the horde could reach the Stormguard lines.
With a thunderous roar, the ballistae launched their fiery bolts into the approaching mass. The earth shook as explosions ripped through the front ranks of the Nerathil. Waves of searing flame consumed flesh and rusted steel alike before the enemy could close the distance.
Before the smoke cleared, the warmages stepped forward, hands weaving intricate signs through the air. Fire and ember coalesced at their fingertips, growing in furious heat. With a unified shout, meteors of molten flame crashed down from the sky, smashing into the Nerathil mass with deafening impact. The battlefield ignited in a blaze of chaos and agony, twisted screams echoing beneath the roar of flame.
From the flanks, the archer cohorts released a volley of flame sigil-tipped arrows. Each arrow streaked like a shooting star before slamming into the massed enemy. On impact, the arrows erupted in violent explosions, setting creatures ablaze, igniting tangled corpses, and turning the battlefield into a crucible of fire.
The Nerathil staggered but did not break.
Altan's steely gaze swept the lines as the shieldwall of the central Stormguard legion tightened, spears bristling like iron thorns. The Blacktide cohort melted into the shadows behind, silent predators awaiting the command. Flanking Threnari warbands crouched low, bows raised, eyes burning with cold fury.
Then the ground erupted.
The Nerathil horde crashed against the earthworks with savage fury. Piles of broken bodies, corrupted and burnt, filled the trenches. Twisted limbs tangled in splintered wood and scorched soil. The stench of rot and molten flesh hung heavy as the first wave of abominations clawed their way over the barrier, desperate to spill into the Stormguard lines.
From the rear, a rumble shook the ground. A monstrous Dreadblade emerged, towering and grotesque, swinging its fused greatsword in wide, deadly arcs. Each strike cleaved through multiple Stormguard warriors, smashing shields and snapping bones with horrifying ease. Screams of the fallen were swallowed by the grinding clash of corrupted steel and shattered shields.
But the Stormguard were unbroken.
Altan's disciples stepped forward into the fray, their presence a storm within the chaos.
Nyzekh, captain of the Blacktide cohort, moved like a shadow born of absence. His Nullmantle Carapace absorbed the light, his form almost invisible as he slipped through the battlefield's noise. With twin voidforged sabers called Eclipsed Fang, he carved a silent path through the Nerathil ranks. Where he passed, matter seemed to vanish. Enemy soldiers collapsed into nothingness, their memories and bodies erased by the vacuum he wielded. Each strike was a whisper of oblivion, a deadly void unshaped and unbound.
Beside him, Bruga roared like a living inferno. His Emberplate Mantle shimmered with molten qi as he swung Pyrebite, the emberstone war axe, cleaving through bone and metal with volcanic strength. Twin ember hatchets flashed in his hands, cutting down anything reckless enough to close. Flames flickered across his armor's edges, his presence a tempest of fire and earth, burning bright amid the blood-soaked soil.
Yezari Val'Kyren moved with chilling precision. Her Whitelight Frostplate gleamed softly in the smoke-choked air. She danced through the chaos like a breath of winter. Whiteshear flashed in deadly arcs. With every swing, she unleashed the Frozen Bloom Reversal, an icy petal bloom that seemed to halt time itself, freezing enemies mid-attack. Their strikes halted and their breath caught in frozen stillness. She ended battles with quiet finality, a perfect stillness that brought death without struggle.
Together, these disciples wove destruction through the ranks of the Nerathil. The Dreadblade's deadly swings found no purchase on them. Nyzekh's void consumed their flesh and minds. Bruga's fire shattered their corrupted bones. Yezari's frost sealed their fate in frozen silence.
Still, the tide pressed onward.
Altan's voice cut through the clamor. "Hold fast! This is our line. We burn the rot from this world or fall with it!"
The battle raged on, a brutal clash of flame, frost, void, and steel against the relentless corruption of the Nerathil.
The disciples moved as one, each a tempest of destruction within the maelstrom.
Nyzekh was a living void. His footsteps left no sound, his presence erased from the battlefield's cacophony. As twisted Nerathil lunged with razor claws and gnashing teeth, he flowed between strikes with uncanny grace. The Eclipsed Fang sabers whispered through the air, cleaving corrupted flesh and bone with effortless precision. Where his blades passed, bodies disintegrated into shadows, erased from existence as if swallowed by the void itself.
A hulking Fleshglaive charged him, its bone blades jagged and glinting cruelly in the dim light. Nyzekh spun, a swirl of nothingness enveloping the monster's strike. The great claw passed harmlessly through his null domain. With a flick of his wrist, the sabers sliced through the Fleshglaive's torso. The creature howled in pain and dissolved into ash and smoke, consumed by Nyzekh's void.
Bruga was fire incarnate. His war axe Pyrebite struck the ground with thunder, sending shockwaves that shattered Nerathil bones and sent foes flying. Flames curled from the ember hatchets, igniting the battlefield with every swing. He roared, a primal sound that drowned the clamor of battle. Each strike unleashed a pyroclastic burst, molten qi exploding in fiery arcs that incinerated foes in a sudden inferno.
A pack of Skulkin darted at him, their talons raking flesh and armor. Bruga responded with a brutal downward swing, cleaving two attackers in one stroke. A twin ember hatchet flashed, severing a third before he crushed a crawling Crawlborn beneath his boot. His armor cracked with the heat of his own fury, but he pushed onward, a burning whirlwind of destruction.
Yezari moved like winter's breath in the heart of chaos. Her Whitelight Frostplate shimmered against the smoke and blood. Her saber Whiteshear danced in precise, silent arcs, severing corrupted limbs and freezing enemy sinew mid-attack. Confronted by a Hollowhand, its skeletal fingers crackling with rot light, Yezari held her ground. The creature unleashed a pulse of corruptive energy. Time seemed to falter as she invoked Frozen Bloom Reversal. An icy petal bloom blossomed at her feet, encasing the Hollowhand in shimmering frost. The enemy's spell shattered against the cold barrier. Yezari struck, her saber piercing the heart of frozen corruption. The Hollowhand shattered like brittle ice, falling silent forever.
Despite the disciples' might, the Nerathil pressed hard. The ground was slick with blood and ichor. Broken bodies piled high in trenches. But the Stormguard lines held firm, unwavering in the face of hell's onslaught.
Nyzekh's eyes, black as the void itself, scanned the battlefield. "There will be no mercy here," he whispered, voice hollow and chilling. "Only oblivion."
Bruga's laugh was wild and fierce. "Then we burn it all away."
Yezari's gaze was cold steel. "The ice will claim them."
Together, they carved a path through nightmare and ash. Stormguard legends forged in the fires of war.
As the Nerathil horde pressed forward, the ground littered with their broken forms, the battle's tide shifted once more.
From the ranks behind the trenches, the elite Stormguard advanced, one cohort strong, five hundred warriors under the iron command of Supreme Warden Chaghan.
They moved like statues awakened, clad in full-coverage helms forged from darksteel and aurichalcum alloy. No human feature showed beneath the cold masks. Only narrow slits for eyes and mouths, expressionless and unreadable. Their presence was that of silent war-golems, forged rather than born, every movement precise and purposeful.
No banners flew. No cries echoed. They were the storm's still center, calm, unyielding, deadly.
Their armor absorbed the light, shadows clinging to the cold plates like a second skin. They marched in perfect formation, a wall of iron intent on unmaking the corruption before them.
Chaghan's voice was a low rumble, barely more than a whisper, yet it cut through the chaos like a blade. "Silent Core Path. Focus. One stone misplaced is a mountain undone."
With that, the cohort sprang into lethal motion.
Shields rose like obsidian cliffs, their edges razor-sharp. The first wave of Nerathil struck. Claws scrabbled and teeth snapped but met instead the unyielding barrier of Mirror Edge shield doctrine. Each bash-strike chain staggered the attackers. Binding locks crushed limbs and impact disruptions sent enemies sprawling.
Spears sliced through the air with serpent-like grace, coiling and extending with flawless timing. The Serpent Wind Form made each thrust a dance of death, targeting joints and sinew, leaving foes incapacitated before they could react.
The warriors moved with Thousand Weight Pressure, absorbing blows and returning them with redoubled force. Every muscle and sinew synced in perfect harmony. Their bodies were a living conduit of kinetic energy.
When terrain shifted beneath their feet, they adapted with Gravelwalk Technique, turning broken stones and unstable ground into traps for the unwary. The earth itself seemed to betray the Nerathil, causing them to stumble and fall into the cohort's waiting blades.
Chaghan led from the front, his own movements a masterclass in Silent Core combat. In his hands blazed a flame-sigiled falcata, its curved blade shimmering with burning runes. Each slicing strike scorched Nerathil flesh, igniting wounds with searing fire that melted rusted armor and blackened corrupted sinews.
When surrounded, he employed the signature Stumblefield Mirage, weaving illusory terrain shifts that sent enemies crashing to their knees, struggling to regain footing as his warriors finished the kill.
There was no hesitation and no wasted motion. Each attack, each parry, each step was part of a greater, unbreakable rhythm. The elite Stormguard did not merely fight. They were the embodiment of relentless discipline, the mountain that would not fall.
The Nerathil ranks thinned beneath their unyielding assault, but the tide was far from broken. The battle for Orûn-Mal was a test of iron will and brutal resolve, and the Stormguard had only begun to hold their ground.
Then came a dozen more horrors crashing onto the battlefield. Dreadblades towered like living mountains, their fused greatswords swinging in deadly arcs that cleaved through multiple Stormguard at once. Behind them, Ironmaws lumbered forward, jaws snapping with bone-crushing power, tearing through shields and armor alike.
The ground trembled beneath their charge.
The Nerathil momentum threatened to shatter the Stormguard lines.
But from the flanks, the Threnari warriors moved with silent precision. Cloaked in battle-green tartans, they flowed around the edges of the battlefield like a living wave. Archers and spearmen wove through the broken terrain. Their war cries fell silent, replaced instead by an ancient, haunting song that rippled through their ranks and beyond.
The Nerathil faltered.
Some halted mid-attack, eyes glazed as if caught in a trance. Others turned suddenly, claws rending their own corrupted kin in wild confusion. The horde staggered, thrown into disarray by the strange power in the air.
From the center of the Threnari ranks, the wardruids began their chant, a deep, resonant melody that rolled over the battlefield like a storm wind.
Their voices rose:
O come the fog and beastly tide,
From stone and mire the fiends did ride.
But we are sons of moor and flame,
And none shall break the Threnari name.
We've sung in blood and stood in fire,
When mountain fell and gods drew nigher.
The roots run deep, the wind runs true,
And still we stand, the red and blue.
By elder oath and clanstone bound,
We'll not yield this hallowed ground.
Let shadow come, let thunder cry,
We are the storm, and storms don't die.
So raise your blades, and hold the line,
The old song calls through ash and pine.
For every hero buried low,
A thousand more shall rise and grow.
The haunting melody twisted through the Nerathil ranks, sowing discord and confusion among the twisted abominations. The tide of corruption, once so unyielding, began to break at the edges.
The Threnari surged forward with renewed fury, flanking the disoriented horde. Spears thrust with deadly accuracy, and arrows found soft joints between rusted armor plates. The wardruids' song was a weapon as fierce as any blade, turning the battlefield into a living tempest of steel, spirit, and fire.
Then came the killing blow.
From both flanks, five hundred Threnari warriors gathered, the air thickening with the weight of ancient resolve. At the signal, a deep, resonant horn known as the Tidecall split the battlefield's chaos with a haunting, echoing cry.
The warriors answered in unison, their voices rising as one in the Black Oath, a solemn death vow that bound their spirits into a single, unbreakable force:
"By tide and steel, our spirits bind,
Our foes shall fall; no man behind.
Steady as rock, swift as the flood,
We carve the path through blood and mud."
A sudden surge electrified the Threnari ranks. Their movements sharpened to deadly precision. Strikes were faster than thought. Shields locked tighter than iron. Their cohesion became unyielding, an impenetrable wall of wrath and fury.
Across the Nerathil lines, enemy morale shattered. The corrupted beasts staggered, some hesitating mid-attack, others faltering beneath the sudden weight of fear. The battlefield seemed to tremble under the shockwave of the oath.
With a roar that shook the very stones of Orûn-Mal, the Threnari surged forward, their charge an unstoppable tide crashing against the rotting horde.
The ground trembled beneath the onslaught as the Threnari hammered into the Nerathil with relentless force. Spears ripped through flesh and rusted metal. Shields shattered bones with brutal impact. The corrupted creatures fell in piles, their twisted forms crushed beneath the storm of disciplined fury.
The trenches, once a bulwark against the horde, filled quickly with the bodies of the slain, bloody heaps of iron and rot.
Then, out of the bloodied carnage, the Dreadblades advanced, towering brutes wielding fused greatswords, swinging in wide, devastating arcs. Each strike cleaved through multiple foes, scattering the remnants of Nerathil across the battlefield like rag dolls.
Ironmaws followed close behind, jaws snapping with bone-crushing power, tearing through shields and armor alike.
Yet the Threnari held fast, their Black Oath unbroken.