On the fields of the Kingdom of Darghon at dawn, a soldier in gray armor stood beside a crimson banner emblazoned with a golden lion rising on its hind legs between twin swords. Behind him rested a shield of black and white.
He looked up at the sky and saw it filled with gray and black clouds, while his eyes watched the camp of soldiers as the blue flags fluttered, and the soldiers moved around performing their duties.
His comrade approached him slowly, mounting the steps with a bow in hand and a quiver full of arrows upon his back.
"Jack, do you really think we are able to emerge victorious against the Kingdom of Valindor?" he asked, his honey-colored eyes trembling with fear. His tone was even more shaking than his gaze.
"They say Valindor has gathered a vast host — footmen, archers, cavalry, and magi of every kind."
He spoke firmly, without a hint of self-doubt-a battle-hardened veteran of many battles and wars.
"Listen, Phil, the city of Nethira has never fallen, and it never will. The army was perfectly trained since that man became commander, before he turned traitor.
Phil hesitated. "You mean—"
"Silence," Jack snapped. "Do not speak his name. It is forbidden to utter it again in this kingdom. Do you wish to die?"
His voice had quivered, and his eyes darted around to find out if anyone had overheard.
________________________________________
Meanwhile,
In the Valindor encampment, in the command tent, a man stood clad in silver armor that gleamed in the dim light, surrounded by a number of men and two women-one draped in a fine brown cloak richly embroidered, the other in pure white garments that seemed not unlike the robes of a priestess.
The woman in brown fixed her gaze on the man in silver and said,
"If that man does not arrive, our armies will be in grave danger. We might be wiped from the face of the earth, since Darghon's army is great — and today's assault on the city was our only chance.
A man armored in black and gold replied with disdain:
"Court Sorceress Meralin, we soldiers of Valindor will never fall — not even if that man, whom the king spoke of this morning, were to appear himself."
Another man let out a tense sigh; his features were hard with anger.
"Viscount Doran, are you calling our king short-sighted?"
Viscount Doran shot back, voice sharp and burning:
"I said no such thing, Count Eldir. Entrusting our fate to a man hunted by his own kingdom — a man cursed with such a vile curse — is no wise decision.
Count Eldir replied calmly, with quiet authority:
"We told the king as much, but he made it clear, in return for his help, that man would take the city of Nethira as his domain, his palace, answerable to no one. In return he would help us destroy Darghon… and ask for nothing more."
Another man responded in a calm tone, though guarded with experience, his eyes on the table where a map was laid open:
"Count Eldir, if I may, the place of Nethira is of great strategic importance. It lies close by the ocean, to the Dragon Mountains and the Forest of a Thousand Days, besides being the crossroads of all trade between the kingdoms, a resting point for every caravan bound for the cities over the horizon.
It has by nature four gates and walls not easily to be crossed. Its defenses have been planned with utmost care."
Viscount Doran answered, his voice sharp as though realization had just struck him:
"Forgive the interruption, Lord Mirus, but do you mean to say that should our kingdom oppose him, we would be plunged into a dark and terrible fate?
"Not only us," Mirus replied after a long, weary sigh; his eyes were cautious and heavy.
But the world would suffer grievously as a result. It is as if he were only looking for an excuse, a plausible pretext, to initiate a war which is bound to spread disaster to all humanity:
Isn't that so, Commander Thamir?
Commander Thamir replied, tension weighing visibly on his face:
"Yes… I believe so, too. But first we must seize the kingdom of Darghon — then we will decide what comes next.
So does our king, Andron, but for the present his wish is to conquer Darghon and see what course fate will take thereafter."
As they spoke, one of the soldiers yelled out, saying the commander's name and informing him that a royal messenger was entering the camp. They all straightened up in preparation as the messenger strode in hastily, addressing the commander with grave urgency:
"The king ordains that thou shalt wait one hour more-for he himself will come upon the field of battle, and see with his own eyes what shall befall."
Upon saying that, he took off in a hurry.
Then, the woman in white spoke, her voice trembling:
"Wonderful… as if the pressure upon us were not enough, now we are to be watched by the king himself. Oh, great Ilara, grant us the strength to endure this dreadful day."
The head replied seriously,
"Pray harder, for this day will indeed be a heavy one."
________________________________________
In a dark room with flickering, little blue torches, one man in black armor stood, his armor very dark and terrible, as if forged out of darkness, reflecting despair and fear.
From beneath the helm, eyes of glowing violet gleamed — eyes that seemed death itself.
He stared into a mirror framed in brown wood, richly carved, the crest of Nethira engraved upon its back.
Through it he watched the coming battlefield… then concealed the mirror within a spatial pocket.
He slowly lifted his gaze and heard a voice echo across the chamber:
"Your command, my Immortal Lord."
______________________________________
The armies began to take their positions across the plains of Nethira.
Within the city, soldiers gathered upon the walls: archers and spearmen, magi, each man and woman readying themselves as the voice of Prince Darvan rang among them, directing each unit with unwavering precision.
Meanwhile, far-off, the armies of Valindor were taking up positions in a rush. Siege engines were being positioned: a huge battering ram with a bull's head aloft at the forefront, heavy infantry following with their lines interlaced with a front line of spearmen, while sorcerers and temple priests waited behind, cavalry upon either flank. Their blue banners whipped fiercely in the morning wind.
The commanders emerged from the general's tent and promptly began to make their way swiftly toward another, newly raised. The knights and soldiers that ringed it were like no other: their armor gleamed with hues of white and azure, upon every breastplate shone the sigil of the bull's head.
As the general and his aides entered, they fell to one knee in reverence.
"My lord king," said the general, "all is ready according to your command — but that man has not yet arrived."
"Not yet," King Andron replied, in a tone which spoke both of hope and fear. "He will not come until he has witnessed our resolve in battle. Go now, take your position, and begin the assault. Then you shall understand the true meaning of death."
"As you command, my lord," replied Commander Thamir firmly, his voice full of resolution.
He and his staff rushed back to their posts to begin the battle.
Moments after their arrival, silence fell — but not a silence of peace.
It was the stillness that precedes horror — the dreadful quiet that heralds the most ghastly sights mankind would ever behold.
. .
. .
. .
. .
"CHAAAARGE!" Commander Thamir bellowed at the top of his voice.
The cries of the soldiers surged as they rushed toward the city of Nethira, with their siege engines shielded to advance toward the walls.
Magical projectiles blazed from every direction, arrows flew by the thousands striking down foes in every quarter.
He yelled orders to clear the path so the ram might reach the gate as soon as possible and to protect it from any harm.
Several mages moved beside it, invoking barriers of protection. But the soldiers of Nethira were far from idle — they unleashed volleys upon the ram, while the archers on the walls rained arrows on any who dared approach.
________________________________________
Upon the battlements of Nethira, soldiers were shouting out-cries for more arrows, for more potions, the aid of magic, and healing.
Their footsteps thundered on the stones, combined with the shrieks of the wounded.
Prince Darvan stood tall amidst the chaos, urging his men onward.
"Get up! Come on — the city of Nethira depends on you!" he cried, lifting a fallen soldier to his feet.
He rushed to another, wounded and clutching his side, holding out a vial of crimson liquid.
"Drink this — it will heal you. We need your strength.
The soldiers were heartened to see their prince among them — fighting beside them, loosing arrows, tending to the wounded, offering his own potions.
Then suddenly, his voice rang across the wall:
"Cavalry Commander! Cavalry Commander!"
The mounted leader shouted back, half in exasperation, half in concern:
"This is no time for games, Prince Darvan!"
"Ready three hundred riders," Darvan called, his voice sharp and commanding. "I'm going to destroy that ram before it reaches the gate!"
"Are you mad?" the commander shouted back. "You'd ride alone into the enemy ranks? No — I won't allow it!"
"Who said I'd go alone?" the prince replied firmly. "You are coming with me."
________________________________________
With a sudden spurt of momentum, the cavalry surged toward the battering ram, which the soldiers of Valindor defended with desperate ferocity.
At the forefront rode Prince Darvan himself, leading the charge with his gleaming sword aloft, shouting orders to his knights as he cut down his foes with swift, deadly precision.
In an instant, the horsemen had reached the ram, killed the soldiers pulling it and the wizards protecting it, and were riding at full gallop toward the city.
With all its might, the army of Valinor strove to reach the walls, but it could not.
The soldiers of Nethira were too skilled, too disciplined to allow them near.
"Fall back! Reform the lines — retreat!" shouted the commander of the army in Valindor, his voice cracking as though hope itself had begun to slip from his grasp.
Yet on the walls of Nethira, the soldiers were cheering-a brief, fiery cry of triumph for their temporary victory.
A few seconds later, the gates of Nethira swung open again.
Its grand army marched forth - their armor white and radiant with the emblem of a golden sun between two lions standing on their hind legs as if leaping to strike at the light itself.
They lined up in ranks, with the cavalry at the front, then the infantry, followed by the archers, then the magi and temple priests.
At the very front rode Prince Darvan upon his white steed, his elegant armor shining in the dawn light, hope gleaming upon his face.
The troops beamed with pride, certain their battle would be won before the day's end.
Then suddenly…
A great portal appeared — violet and black, pulsing with blinding energy — some distance away from the Valindor encampment.
________________________________________
On the other side of the portal, moments before opening.
Upon one knee three men, three women, and a beast knelt before their king —
The man in full-plate armor as black as the void itself.
"My immortal lord," a towering werewolf said, his voice full of undying loyalty as he bowed deeply, "it would appear the time of battle has reached us.
"Grimshard is right, my lord," said another — a man whose soul seemed lost between worlds, clutching a violet-glowing chain around his neck. "I would say not merely the time for battle — but the time for fear and despair to spread across the earth."
The Immortal King stood up, grasping a black sword upon which white runes were inscribed.
"Let all stand and hear my words," he said, his voice booming like thunder.
"Erebus!" — the headless knight lifted his body as if he could see through unseen eyes —
"You and your riders shall be the first to arrive on the battlefield.
I know that I have not yet fulfilled your wish-to reclaim your head-but please believe me, I shall bring it back to you."
(The knight bowed low in mute devotion.)
"Morphai," the king said, turning to the man robed in black and violet, with a staff topped by a dark crystal,
"Your army shall be the penultimate to appear.
"Karmine," — a warrior of shadow surrounded by floating weapons — "your forces shall be the second to arrive.
"Grimshard, your unit will strike from behind the city. Enter through the walls and begin your slaughter without mercy.
"Seraphel," — a fallen angel with scorched wings — "it seems there will be no sky battle today, yet your division shall take to the air. Hunt those who flee from the battlefield and show them no mercy.
"Orulok," he called the bearer of the cursed chain of souls, "you know well what is required of you: destruction… and more destruction.
"Nyx," — a dark elf with a greatbow as tall as herself — "your army shall be the third to arrive. You know your craft better than I."
The Immortal King raised his sword high, his violet eyes burning through the dim chamber.
"Now — to your stations. We march to the battlefield."
"Let mankind perish, and long live the Immortal!"
________________________________________
In the present
From the dark gate rode Faraas, mounted upon a black steed that shed drifting ashes with every step. His missing head struck terror into the hearts of all who beheld him. Behind him marched knights in armor as black as midnight, their formation slow, relentless — the first line of the Immortal's army.
Then came Carmine, in the same dark armor, her weapons orbiting her like spirits bound by shadow. Behind her, the foot soldiers advanced — slow, chanting under their breath — until their voices rose together in a dreadful hymn:
"Glory to the Immortal King,
Death to mortal men.
(Humming)
Fire… Blood… Darkness…
The King's soldiers are feared by all."
Their chanting grew louder as more legions emerged from the gate. Soon the winged host of Seraphiel burst forth, flying across the battlefield at blinding speed, peering down upon the armies.
The army of darkness poured out in perfect order, their song echoing across the plains.
Then on came the Tyrant — terror incarnate, despair itself — striding at the rear of the host.
The hymn died in an instant; every soldier dropped to one knee, shouted as with a single voice:
"Long live the Immortal King! Long live the bringer of justice!"
Slowly, the Immortal walked up towards the front of his army, coming to a halt in the very heart of the plain, facing the shining walls of Nathira.
His voice broke the silence, cold and absolute:
"Stand ready… and spread your misery."
Once more there was silence, save the croaking of ravens and the beating wings of Seraphiel's host circling above the army of darkness.
________________________________________
The Plains of Nathira — Twenty Years Earlier
The sky was a perfect blue, and the fields of wheat were golden, as if the sun had kissed the earth.
Above the beautiful city of Nathira, white doves flew lazily in the air, and carriages rolled along the road up to the city's gate.
Then came the sound of footsteps from behind.
"It would appear Nathira still holds her timeless beauty," a hoarse yet soothing voice called out.
"Many cities, kingdoms, and villages have I seen," came the soft voice of a woman, "but Nathira has a charm of her own-she's fairer than all the rest."
"Indeed," the man answered warmly, his voice deep and steady. "Nathira is our home — our families, our memories, all that we are. How could we not see her as the most beautiful city in all the world?"
________________________________________
The Plains of Nethira — Now
Both the armies of Nethira and Valindor alike shook with fear as the Immortal's host came into view.
None had expected such a horror; all eyes turned toward the black army. Its silence was no comfort. The Nethirians were most stricken of all, for they knew who had come and the banners upon the breastplates — the golden sun that now seemed extinguished.
"He's here… in person," whispered the soldier in choked terror, his face as pale as marble.
Then the headless rider Erebus raised his hand and pointed to the ranks, and forthwith the soldiers, as one man, started their frightful chanting:
"Hmmm… hmmmmmm…" (the beat sprang from somewhere)
"Behold the coming might…" - the war drum sounded
"Behold the coming death…": (the drumbeat)
"Coming… coming…" suddenly the drums thundered.
Their chant swelled, darker, more terrible:
"We are the living…" (the drumbeat)
"We are the ones who remain…" (the drumbeat)
"And all creation shall perish." (three final hammering strikes)
A low murmur ran through the host like the groan of the earth in its death-throes — the heavy pound of drums.
Then silence, for a moment.
Inside Nethira, a wounded messenger panted while running towards Prince Darvan. "My prince! My prince!" he screamed. "Half-beasts-wolf-men-are attacking the city! They poured through the gate beyond the Forest of a Thousand Days. There is slaughter within the walls!"
Before Darvan could respond, a female voice rose from among the Immortal ranks in a shriek of "Attack!"
The sky had filled with black clouds. Then, as if the heavens themselves bled, it rained red across the plain. Screams erupted from every quarter within Nethira — no thunder, no lightning, only blood raining from the sky and wolves tearing through anyone in their path.
Black horses burst forward with unnatural speed; ash was drifting from their flanks. Foot soldiers ran, vanished, and reappeared yards from where they had been.
A moment's hesitation from the prince allowed the Immortal cavalry to smash into his lines with terrible force — severing heads as though reaping wheat. One soldier's scream sent the defenders racing to the walls to seek shelter from the onslaught.
But it was fatal to turn one's back. A fleeing soldier was confronted by a black-armored warrior who sliced his throat cleanly; the panic spread like wildfire.
Then a harsh, rasping voice rose from the heart of the attacking host:
"Kill them all — but leave the royal family alive."
At that command, the soldiers smiled, and a massacre began that would long be remembered. The desperate counterattacks of Nethira's men were met and crushed with savage efficiency.
________________________________________
Nethira's Gates
The prince fought bravely at the gate. A blow felled one of the Immortal's black-armored men-his head severed-yet the sight only deepened Darvan's horror. Dark, shadowy tendrils of energy writhed from the severed neck, clinging to the fallen head upon the ground, then tugging it back and fusing it to the body as if the wound had never been made.
Soldiers closed in upon the prince, snatching away weapon and armor before seizing him. One leaned close, a twisted laugh in his throat and a cruel whisper in Darvan's ear:
"These are the orders of our king — he did not wish your death.
They drug him through the city streets like a felled trunk, parading him so he might witness what the army of darkness would do. Wolves tore into the body of a fleeing man; two soldiers impaled a royal guard upon a spike; heaps of bodies with small hands protruding beneath the shrouds were piled high with bloodied cloth. A fallen angel flung a corpse atop them, and soldiers set the pile alight, their eyes cold as they watched it burn. Darvan watched on, unable to look away — nearby, soldiers laughed hysterically over a man whose ears and leg had been cruelly severed as he tried in vain to flee; they hacked off a hand without mercy, their laughter growing wilder.
"Why the children? Why the helpless — what have they done?" cried the prince.
A soldier replied by smashing the butt of his sword into Darvan's skull, and darkness took him.
. .
. .
Darvan awoke in great pain at the royal palace, within the throne hall. Women cried; a man begged at the feet of their captors: "Spare my family — I am what you want. I beg you, for mercy, spare them."
Nobody answered.
"He's awake," said a soldier. "Put him next to the others. The Immortal will be along in just a moment."
They dragged the prince and threw him down beside his wife and daughters, the king and his queen, and his little sister — all bound with ropes, their throats threatened by spear-points.
"Father — father, are you all right?" his little daughter sobbed, voice shaking with fear.
"I'm— I'm fine," Darvan managed. "Didn't I tell you to flee through the secret passage?"
"What secret passage? They have overrun every street and alley. There is no corner left unconquered," answered the king in a voice that broke with fury.
"How is this possible? Nethira's plans were never leaked; they were hidden with care," the prince said in astonishment.
"You know who came," he said with a lack of hope in his voice. "He came in the flesh."
"Is it he—" Before he could get the words out, a crushing blow landed on Darvan's jaw, merciless and bone-breaking.
"We will not permit His name to be spoken by mortal lips." So spoke the one who had struck him, and Darvan lifted his eyes to meet those of the soldier — an Immortal Guard, his violet eyes blazing with wrath and loathing of humankind.
"My husband — no!" his wife cried.
"Be silent. Your turn will come," said another soldier, and some of them burst into malicious laughter.
Only moments later, Erebus, Morfai, Carmine, Grimshard, Seraphel, Orolk, and Nyx entered the throne hall. Arrayed beside the throne stood each of the Immortal's generals; their elite units covered every corner of the interior of the palace.
Suddenly, a purple gateway glimmered open at the main gate. The Immortal King stepped out from within it: his footsteps heavy, echoing across the marble hall. The metallic clatter of his armor was like a dirge, and tendrils of dark ash flowed behind his plates as if his very form smoldered from within.
Each step that he took sent a shiver into the hearts of the royal family. The young princesses started to cry — their weeping was, to him, a melody, a music meant for his amusement.
As he neared the throne, his eyes fell upon the crimson banner of Nethira. He said nothing, moved not a muscle — yet the banner burst into black flame and vanished to ash. Then he sat upon the throne with a calm authority — radiating majesty, dread, and an unspoken command that froze every breath in the hall.
All present bowed low, even the royal family, to their knees before him. The king himself was shaking, sweat beading upon his aged brow because he knew he stood before the end.
"Rise."
The rough, hollow voice of the Immortal filled the chamber.
"King Narius," he said mockingly, "you seem in good health — despite the thirty years gone by."
The old king forced himself to his feet, his voice shaking as he spoke:
"Your Grace… I beg you — spare my family. I am the one you seek. I implore you, have mercy upon them."
The Immortal King laughed-a sound of disdain and bitter amusement.
"Spare your family? Me? After all you've done-not only to me, but to so many others?"
The sweat trickled down Narius's face as memories of their crimes came back to him-as ghosts.
"Did you truly think," the Immortal went on, a cruel smile upon his lips, "that all you've done could be washed away merely by offering your neck to the blade?"
He gave a slight head nod.
In an instant, soldiers came forward, seizing one of the prince's daughters and the queen, placing them in a specific position-the girl quivering, the queen embracing her as if to protect her child.
Powerless, the prince, his wife, the king, and the young princess could only watch as one of the dark-armored soldiers drove his blade through them both in a single merciless motion.
Blood hit the marble floor. There was silence thereafter — a silence so still it chilled.
The King and Prince lifted their heads, their eyes locked into the Immortal's gaze — those violet eyes, gleaming faintly, as if smiling — whispering wordlessly: How sweet vengeance tastes.
"I love that look in your eyes," the Immortal said softly. "Tell me — how does it feel to lose what you cherish most?"
The king's voice broke as he answered, hardly in control of his words due to the grief:
"Do you really believe murder and torture will bring them back?"
The Immortal sighed softly, his tone heavy with boredom.
"So… you still haven't lost your composure."
The prince shouted, his voice raw with fury:
"I will kill you, wretched fiend! I will tear your hands and feet apart — I will make you suffer for what you have done!"
The Immortal King rose, his heavy footsteps carrying him toward them. He moved slowly, then leaned close to the prince and said softly, as if offering a terrible gift:
"Would you like to see the most beautiful thing I have ever beheld?"
"I — the most beautiful thing I will ever see is your death." Tears streamed down Prince Darvan's face.
With brutal strength, the Immortal King seized the wife of the prince and dragged her to the center of the hall, hurling her to the floor as two soldiers stepped forward to hold her fast so that she might not escape.
"You married your son, your heir, to your illegitimate daughter. Are you proud of this achievement, that you did it without anyone knowing?" one of them spat.
"How. how did you learn this?" the king stammered, his voice rising in panic.
"We are the Immortals," was the cold response. "We see, we hear, and we pry into the affairs of anyone who matters to us.
The two soldiers forced her neck forward. The Immortal King drew his black sword slowly, while the prince and the old king pleaded for her life. A cruel smile played beneath the Immortal's helm as he brought the blade down in one ruthless stroke-the head fell. He sheathed his sword, eyes alight with horrific pleasure as he looked upon them both.
They began to weep when they beheld.
The Immortal King sat on his throne with the presence of a dark altar.
"Cast them into the dungeons," he ordered. "Give them bread and water — enough to keep them alive. Make certain the king does not die or take his own life. Take the little girl to her chamber and summon Lady Linas to care for her. And — before I forget — when you place them in their cells, do what you please before the prince's eyes."
Morphai turned, her voice sharp and commanding:
"You heard the king's orders. Move — now! Quickly!
A group of soldiers moved, dragging the king and the prince as if they were lifeless burdens. One of them carried the princess, who, by her sobs, was begging for her father. Then the soldiers disappeared along the corridors.
As the Immortal King savored what had been done, a messenger burst in, breathless:
"My Lord Immortal — the King of Valinor is at the palace gates."
"Let him enter," the Immortal King replied.
________________________________________
A Few Minutes Earlier — Inside the Valindor Command Tent
King Andron spoke with quiet pride,
"It seems he has chosen the opportune moment to appear and strike."
The counselor replied,
"Yes, Your Majesty. He does seem clever at picking his moments."
A few moments later, Commander Thamir burst in, breathless and stunned.
"My lord king, I bring grave news."
"Speak," the king ordered.
"The Immortal's host has engaged the forces of the city of Nethira," Thamir replied as a chill suddenly crawled along his spine.
"Wonderful news — and what of our army?" asked the king.
"Your grace, our men are terrified. While we spoke, they have begun to slaughter the enemy with terrifying speed."
Their words were cut off when the deputy commander burst in and shouted,
"The Immortal's forces have breached the city walls!"
"How — so soon?" exclaimed the king.
"How can it be? It has only been some minutes," an astounded Thamir exclaimed.
"The strange thing is that the sky is raining blood, and our soldiers have gone back to their camps," replied the deputy.
"Blood?" repeated the king and the commander.
"Yes, Your Grace — real blood," the deputy confirmed.
They exchanged alarmed glances and hastened out towards the standard to see for themselves. What met them froze every heart: the once proud, unbeaten banners of Nethira's army lay scattered like sacks of grain; carrion crows fought over the remains. A brutal campaign had been waged — not for days, but in mere minutes, the brave host of Nethira had been wiped away.
Then, out of nowhere, a black-armored soldier appeared behind them and said,
"Our king awaits you in the throne room of Valindor."
Spinning around, they drew their swords quickly and hastened to form a circle of protection around King Andron.
"Do you think your blades will save you from us Immortals?" the black soldier asked, a sick smile beneath his helm as violet eyes glinted. More of the Immortal host emerged from the shadows to surround them.
"How did they get in here and none of us see them?" demanded Commander Thamir.
The immortal soldier didn't say a word, his gaze meeting his, then turning to the king in silence, waiting for the next move.
"Go fetch the horses at once — we will ride now," the king ordered one of his attendants, sending him running toward the stables.
________________________________________
The Plains of Nethira — Twenty Years Earlier
Endless green plains stretched beneath a warm, golden sun.
Still young with green wheat, the fields waited for the summer light to ripen their harvest.
A rider, white-clad and mounted upon a noble steed, moved up the Nethiran road with slow pace.
And then, at the crest of a hill, he reined in his horse, gazing upon Nethira far away.
Then a woman's voice came from behind him, bright with relief,
"Finally… we have arrived."
Another voice, rougher still, replied with a weary optimism,
"At last we'll see our families again. The war was merciless.
The rider nodded silently in agreement; they negotiated the slope together, at an easy pace.
The closer they came, the brighter the walls of Nethira shone in the sunlight: proud, serene, untouched by war.
The streets erupted with cheers when they finally passed through the gates.
"Long live the hero of Nethira!
"Glory to the champion and his generals!"
"May the gods choose you as the Hero of the Sun!"
________________________________________
The Throne Hall of Nethira — Present Time
King Andron of Valindor entered the grand hall with his royal guard in tow, terror shadowing their faces after the horrors they had witnessed on their way through the city.
Yet the vision in the throne chamber was no less horrific than that which lay in wait outside.
Before him lay the lifeless Queen of Nethira, still clutching her granddaughter in a last, desperate embrace, a sword through them both.
The head of the prince's wife lay far from her body.
The air itself was thick with the metallic scent of blood: purer, heavier than outside.
Nausea welled up into the throat of the commander of Valindor's army; his aides all recoiled in disgust, even the royal guards could not maintain their aplomb.
But it was in King Andron's eyes that the deepest terror lay.
"Have I… unleashed a monster?" he thought.
"What have I allied myself with?
A cold voice cut through the silence.
"Is something wrong, Lord Andron?
Are you… scared? Or just impressed?"
The immortal king sat upon Nethira's throne, his commanders flanking him on either side, calm and unshaken, almost regal in ruin.
"I have fulfilled my part of our pact," Andron said, his voice trembling slightly.
"The city is yours… all that remains is the conquest of Dargôn. Then our contract is complete."
The Immortal King leaned forward, his tone soft but full of venom.
"Mercy? From me? You ask that of me?"
His voice grew heavier, darker.
"How could I show mercy… to those who turned my people into experiments?
How could I forgive those who killed children in pursuit of power?
He pointed toward Erebus, the headless knight standing silently before him.
"Look with your own eyes, King of Valindor — they cut off my knight's head, and we have yet to find it to this very day."
Erebus slowly raised his gauntleted hands, as if weeping for what was lost, before pressing his palm to his chest in solemn allegiance.
(The Immortal King did not notice; his expression was cold and distant.)
The King sighed faintly, then spoke once more.
"You humans will never understand what we endured because of them… so do not meddle in what does not concern you."
King Andron and all those present bowed at once.
"As you wish, Your Majesty."
"Leave now," said the Immortal King with wearied disdain.
"I will lend you my commanders for your campaign.
The room quietened again as Andron and his multitude of companions withdrew.
The commanders stepped forward with grave reverence and knelt before their lord.
"My King, it would appear the plan unfolds perfectly," Morvay said with growing pride.
"How could it not," Seraphiel answered with fierce devotion, her burning gaze fixed upon the throne.
"when it was conceived by our immortal sovereign himself?"
"That would do," the Immortal King interrupted.
"One step remains before we begin the cleansing.
Morvay—have your sorcerers reached all the kingdoms of this wretched world?
Morvay bowed deeply, a cruel smile forming beneath his hood.
"Yes, my liege. They are in place… in every capital under the sun."
________________________________________
In the capital of the Kingdom of Miralon:
A man in a grey cloak is standing before the great fountain, holding a black crystal in his hands. People are passing by, noticing nothing of this man, and before him stand the royal guards.
—Another man, in the middle of a busy marketplace full of merchants, stands the same way in the capital of the Kingdom of Valimor.
—In the capital of the Kingdom of Arkanda, yet another appears, positioned in front of the gates to the royal palace amongst a great mass of citizens.
And in other cities across the realm, similar figures appear.
Before the great white cathedral in the center of Eloris' capital, one stands solemnly.
And last but most importantly, the capital of Radagon — Dracothar —
where dragons circle overhead, their shadows crossing the city's towers.
________________________________________
"Place the crystals on the ground, return to your homelands, and you shall be greatly rewarded,
The Immortal King spoke telepathically to his sorcerers.
He then turned to his commanders and said:
"To your positions. We begin the second phase of the plan."
They replied as one, "As my lord directs".
before disappearing to assume their positions outside the courtyard of the palace.
All departed the throne room, save Morfai, who remained standing beside the king.
________________________________________
And in the skies above the five capitals, huge illusions appeared -
Visions directly from the city of Nethira.
They showed the massacre carried out by the Black Army —
Mutilated corpses everywhere: soldiers, women, elders, and children alike.
The flag of Nethira was torn and scorched, lying on the ground.
Then the scenes changed to show the king and prince of Nethira-jailed, bruised, and broken from all the torture.
Everything passed slowly, clearly, forcing the nations to contemplate the horror in all its details.
Armies around the world began to converge towards the black crystals, each wanting to claim them.
while their people trembled, sickened and horrified by what they had witnessed.
Then, from within the images, the Immortal King appeared —
his violet eyes burning beneath his helm, standing before the whole of the Black Army, with his seven generals beside him.
As his gaze turned skyward, a light rain began to fall —
Not just upon Nethira, but upon every capital in the world.