The air inside the shattered plaza clung like smoke to Altan's lungs. Even as he lay slumped across Chaghan's shoulder, the tang of scorched iron, burnt stone, and ozone from the collapsed gate filled his senses. His body ached with every breath, ribs bruised and lungs raw, yet somewhere beneath the pain, his soul stirred, slipping free, drawn toward a distant call.
Altan's awareness detached from the ruinous weight of his body, rising, drifting through the bruised sky. The Red Realm unfolded beneath him, a land of jagged crimson horizons and shifting shadows that pulsed like veins beneath the earth. There, he saw the aftermath of the explosion, embers of the artifact's detonation still flickering, threads of magic curling into the void. The gate had closed, the black obsidian sealing the tear with merciless finality.
He saw Nyzekh and Bruga, faces scorched and armor warped, staggering among the survivors of the Stormguard. Not all had lived; the ranks were broken, bodies strewn across the ashen fields. Their breaths came ragged, but the stubborn glint of defiance remained in their eyes. Altan's heart clenched, so much had been lost, so many had stayed behind to buy time. He traced the survivors' slow, careful movements as they regrouped, warding themselves against the lingering tremors of the blast.
Further into the Red Realm, Altan glimpsed a sight both strange and compelling. Figures unlike any human he had known moved among the ruins, slender, with skin that shimmered like molten copper under the red sky, eyes bright as molten crystal, and a gait that blended fluid grace with uncanny precision. They did not acknowledge the intruders but seemed aware of Altan's presence, sensing the fold of his spirit before it could touch their plane. He drew in the realm's metallic air; it tasted of iron and ash, of fire and frost entwined, carrying the faint hum of raw magic.
The vision pulled back abruptly, and Altan's spirit returned to his body. He gasped, chest heaving, frost still clinging to his skin from Yezari's ministrations. His fingers flexed, testing the air, the sting of healing wounds reminding him that reality had weight. Yezari crouched beside him, frostwork fading from her hands, eyes steady but sharp as ever.
"Altan," she said softly, voice threaded with authority. "You are awake. The wounds hold."
Altan sat slowly, letting his limbs remember their shape. His mind raced, still caught between realms, still tasting the echo of the Red Realm. He forced focus. "Yezari," he said, voice hoarse. "The gate, the obsidian, it can be opened again, but not without the Flame Stone."
Her brow lifted. "The Flame Stone?"
"It is the catalyst," he said. "It can only be mined at the Dwarf Kingdom. Without it, the gate remains sealed. We cannot risk leaving it closed forever, not with what waits on the other side."
Yezari's gaze sharpened. "Then we must prepare. The journey to the dwarves will be perilous, but if the Flame Stone can undo the obsidian seal, we must act quickly." Her eyes flicked to Chaghan, who had been silent, shoulders tense as he observed Altan's recovery. "We must gather what remains and make haste."
Chaghan nodded once. His hand rested on the haft of his falcata, knuckles pale. "We move with what we have left. Every unit counts now, every survivor. Nyzekh and Bruga, they" He faltered, a shadow crossing his face. "Not all survived. Their sacrifice bought us time, but the cost…" His voice trailed into the chill air of the tent.
Altan closed his eyes, letting grief temper his urgency. He had seen it with his spirit, the bodies, the shattered armor, the empty spaces where comrades should have been. The loss carved itself into him as sharply as any wound, yet there was no time to linger. The Red Realm waited, and with it, the key to returning and to finishing what had begun.
Outside the tent, the obsidian gate glimmered with a cruel perfection. No warmth, no light penetrated the black surface. Its cold gaze held secrets, swallowed echoes, and memories of those who had crossed, who had remained. The plaza felt suspended in a moment beyond time, wind carrying the acrid stench of ash, the soft groan of broken stone under distant shifting rubble, and the faint hum of residual magic coiling through the debris.
Daalo moved beside the gate, hands pressed against the flawless black surface. His rune-streaked fingers trembled slightly. "It is solid," he said, tone low, reverent. "The aftershock braided into the obsidian, locked from within. Nothing can pierce it, not force, not magic. Only the Flame Stone can undo the anchor."
A shadow of fear passed through the gathered Stormguard. The truth was stark, the gate was no longer a doorway but a tomb for what remained behind. Yet even in the shadow of loss, determination flared. The survivors' faces were streaked with soot and frost, expressions carved from the same stone as their shattered homeland. They had endured fire, ice, and death, they would endure the Red Realm as well.
Chaghan returned to Altan's side, voice low but unwavering. "We honor those who stayed. Bruga, Nyzekh, the hundred who held the line, they are inside now. Their fight was not in vain, but it is done. We carry their strength forward."
Altan nodded, a bitter echo of relief and sorrow folding within him. He felt the pulse of the Red Realm beneath the black mirror of the gate, a rhythm that matched the residual hum of the artifact's magic. The Flame Stone was not merely a tool, it was a living key, a focus for energies that could unweave the obsidian anchor, yet it demanded caution. Mishandled, it could burn them all, a catalyst for ruin rather than rebirth.
Yezari rose, frost fading from her fingertips. Her gaze swept over the remaining Stormguard and medicae, assessing readiness, gauging the cost already paid. Then her expression hardened, resolve sharpening into action. "We must act swiftly," she said. "I will lead a mission north to the Dwarf Kingdom. Ten of our elite Stormguard Dark Elves will accompany me, along with Daalo, our mage engineer. By all means necessary, we will retrieve the Flame Stone. Nothing else matters."
A murmur of assent passed among the ten selected, their armor scarred but spirits unbroken. Yezari's gaze lingered on each of them, measuring loyalty, focus, and readiness. "Altan will not be with us," she added, letting the weight of the statement settle. "We act independently, as a single unit. No hesitation, no diversion. The Flame Stone must be ours."
Altan's pulse tightened. He had hoped to accompany her, to guide the mission himself, but the weight of the Red Realm and the obsidian gate demanded his presence elsewhere. "Be careful," he said, voice hoarse yet steady. "The path is perilous, and the Flame Stone will test all of you. Trust each other, and trust yourself, Yezari."
Yezari inclined her head once, frost glimmering along her sharp features. "We will not fail. The fallen watch us still, and their strength moves with us. This mission is ours, and we will return with the Flame Stone or not at all."
The survivors prepared to depart, tending wards, gathering supplies, and checking weapons. Frost and smoke intertwined as lanterns were lit, smoke from fires curling into the cold dawn. Every sound, the scrape of armor, the hiss of wards, the distant shift of stone, felt amplified, charged with tension and the lingering echo of the explosion that had closed the gate.
Altan tested his strength again, rising slowly, every joint screaming. He glanced at the tent flap, at the plaza beyond, and felt the pull of the Red Realm, a silent reminder that time was not their ally. "We move at first light," he said, voice steadier now. "Prepare yourselves. The Flame Stone is our only chance to undo the obsidian seal. We cannot fail."
Chaghan gave a short nod. Daalo's fingers brushed the black glass once more, leaving faint rune traces that faded immediately. Yezari's frost lanterns flickered, then steadied. The storm of the past days had left them battered, but a new purpose took root, to reclaim the gate, to honor the fallen, and to face whatever waited beyond the Red Realm.
The wind drew through the broken arches of Orûn-Mal, carrying ash, frost, and the distant hum of dormant magic. The plaza simmered in the aftermath of destruction. Watchfires were lit, lanterns flickered in the cold, and the survivors moved with silent determination. Names would be counted later, losses mourned in time. For now, the obsidian mirror waited, unyielding, black and absolute, a sentinel of sacrifice and the key to a future still unwritten.
Altan's hand brushed the haft of his falcata. He looked toward the horizon, where the Red Realm's glow kissed the sky. A new journey awaited, one of peril and fire, frost and blood. With the Flame Stone, the gate could open again. Without it, the obsidian would remain, and the price of failure would echo across Orûn-Mal and beyond.
He drew a slow breath, tasting ash and frost and the faint metallic tang of magic. The path was set, but the cost would be steep. Survivors gathered, wards held, and the shadow of the fallen hung over them. Yet in the grim light of Orûn-Mal, amidst the ruin and loss, a spark of resolve burned.
The Red Realm waited. The obsidian gate waited. And Yezari, with ten elite Stormguard Dark Elves and Daalo at her side, would carry the hope and peril of the Flame Stone northward.
The next day, the harbor of Orûn-Mal lay shrouded in frost and ash as Yezari and her ten elite Virak'tai boarded the triremme. Lanterns swayed along the deck, casting pale light over black wood polished to a muted shine. Daalo, the mage engineer, moved beside her, fingers tracing the faint glow of runes etched into the vessel's hull. A young apprentice, Kaelen, shadowed his movements closely, clutching a satchel of small vials, arcane tools, and apprentice-bound wards. The island behind them was scarred by fire and battle, towers blackened, streets strewn with rubble, the lingering smoke curling into the storm-choked sky.
Yezari's cloak fluttered in the icy wind as she stepped aboard, her frost-lined boots striking the deck with purpose. Each of the Virak'tai followed silently, weapons secured, expressions calm but tense. They were her personal guards, warriors of her realm, yet also seasoned Stormguard. Daalo's eyes darted across the horizon and rigging, hands occasionally adjusting the runes that pulsed faintly along the deck. Kaelen mirrored him, attempting to recall every gesture, every murmur of the protective chants. The weight of their mission pressed upon them, heavier than any armor. The Flame Stone awaited, and with it, the chance to reopen the obsidian gate. The path ahead was uncertain, and Orûn-Mal's shadows still clung to their minds.
Altan and Chaghan watched from the quay, bodies tense, voices swallowed by the wind. Altan's hand rested briefly on the haft of his falcata as he met Yezari's gaze. No words were needed. The understanding passed between them silently, urgent, and resolute. Yezari nodded once, then turned her eyes to the horizon. Orûn-Mal was behind them now, its jagged skyline fading into the mist, a scarred memory of fire, frost, and sacrifice.
The oars dipped rhythmically into the dark waters, the triremme sliding steadily away from the island. The wind carried the bitter tang of ash, salt, and frost, tugging at sails and banners. Daalo chanted softly under his breath, fingers dancing over the glowing runes that now lined the deck and railings. Kaelen repeated the motions, hesitant but determined, adding his own small hums of protective magic. A soft pulse of energy radiated beneath the Virak'tai's boots, grounding them against the wild magic that lingered from the obsidian gate. Each of the Virak'tai moved in practiced precision, scanning the horizon and waters alike, every sense tuned for the unknown.
As the triremme left Orûn-Mal behind, the cliffs and ruins of the island grew smaller, swallowed by mist and shadow. Lanterns along the quay flickered and dimmed, and the whispers of those left behind carried faintly across the water, calling to lost friends and fallen comrades. Yezari did not look back again. Every stroke of the oars, every gust of wind, carried them further from the island and closer to the Flame Stone, closer to the unknown trials awaiting in the north.
Above, clouds churned violently, and the first drops of rain hit the deck, cold and sharp. Frost scattered across the railings and oars as the triremme surged through the waves, a lone vessel moving into the vast, uncertain expanse. Yezari stood at the prow, cloak snapping in the storm-laden wind, eyes fixed on the horizon. Daalo moved among the Virak'tai, adjusting wards and murmuring protective incantations, his eyes flicking toward every shadow in the waves, every shifting cloud above. Kaelen stayed close, alert and learning, careful not to falter under the weight of the storm and responsibility. Behind them, Orûn-Mal's scars and ashes were a memory. Ahead, the path was fraught with danger, but their purpose was absolute.
The journey had begun. Orûn-Mal faded into the distance, a blackened sentinel watching as Yezari, her Virak'tai, Daalo, and his apprentice sailed toward destiny, carrying the hope of reopening the obsidian gate and the peril of the Flame Stone that awaited them.