The gates of Dreadhold stood tall, black stone gleaming beneath a pale, cloudy sky. Thunder rumbled low on the horizon—far, but growing closer.
Before the gates, the envoy of the allied nations stood once more, reading from the crimson scroll.
"In the name of the United Realms, Dreadhold must surrender its arms and open its gates. The cursed king is gone. This land must be purged of the darkness he left behind."
A moment passed.
Then twelve figures stepped forward.
The Twelve Thorns stood united—each garbed in the regalia of their domain. Power radiated from them like heat from flame. They did not need to speak—but Lyra did.
Her voice was clear. Unshaken.
"We decline."
The envoy flinched. "You would choose destruction?"
Valdran stepped forward, spear in hand. "No. We choose loyalty."
The Thorn of Shadows, cloak billowing, added, "Tell your kings their blades will break before our walls."
The envoy, pale and sweating, bowed stiffly and turned to ride. As he vanished into the distant horizon, the Thorns stood silently, watching the wind carry dust across the field.
The allied camp was a city of banners and firelight. Inside the largest command tent, generals and heroes gathered around the envoy, who now knelt before them.
"They refuse," the envoy said. "All twelve of them. And the woman—Lyra—stood at their front."
Murmurs swept the tent. The Supreme General of Dareth slammed a gauntlet on the table.
"Then we take it at dawn. No more parley. No more delay. Dreadhold will fall."
A young hero glanced uneasily toward the map. "And if the king returns?"
"He won't. And if he does… we'll cut him down."
Back in Dreadhold, storm clouds gathered overhead. The people moved quickly—stockpiling food, forging weapons, preparing for siege.
From the northern skies came the sound of horns.
Elven horns.
A procession of shimmering silver armor crested the hill—banners of the Sylvan Court snapping in the wind. At their front rode Queen Anariel, her white hair braided in war-knot, her emerald eyes burning with magic.
She dismounted before Lyra and offered a hand.
"You called. We came."
Lyra grasped it with a nod, her voice thick. "Thank you."
Together, they looked toward the battlefield beyond the walls. Torches dotted the land like fireflies. The allied army was encamped. Thousands strong.
The air was heavy with the scent of war.
High above, atop a black spire overlooking the world, stood a lone figure cloaked in wind and shadow.
Kael's body… now a vessel for something else.
The god's eye glowed crimson.
N'therak—the soul-reaper, the god-forgotten—watched Dreadhold with a strange, mournful silence.
Then, in a voice only the wind could carry, he spoke.
"You never feared my curse, Lyra. You only feared what it would take from you.""Soon, I will take everything… and yet, I envy the way you looked at him."
He turned, cloak billowing like smoke.
"Prepare your tears. Tomorrow, your world begins to end."
And the storm descended.