The skies wept shadow and fire.
From the obsidian gates of the Rift, opened by King Ashkeroth and commanded by Saevan's dread whisper, came the second wave of darkness.
They descended like a tide across land, sea, and sky, no longer a war of men, but of realms. Every creature of myth, of darkness, of forgotten scripture, beasts that had once been locked beyond the veil, poured into the mortal plane.
They screamed in tongues that cracked stone, their wings tearing the sky like parchment. The ground quaked as titans with molten veins rose from the deeps, and in the oceans, sea serpents larger than cities uncoiled from ancient slumber.
And all across Artherion, war ignited.
Black-winged wyverns, mounted by shadow-drakes and vampiric lords, clashed with the Skyborn Paladins of Artherion. Dressed in silver and sunsteel armor that gleamed like the morning star, the Skyborn dove from their greatwing steeds with lances tipped in divine fire.
The battle was a celestial storm. Cloud to cloud, they fought. Some fell like comets. Others shattered enemy flocks with holy glyphs that exploded in the air like heavenly thunder.
One paladin, Sir Thamos, held the skies above the eastern gate for hours alone, wings ablaze, fending off no less than five shadow wyverns. His dying strike, a holy dive called Lumenfall, exploded with such glory it split the heavens in two.
On the western flank, the elite vampire houses of Dravenguard emerged under the twin banners of House Varelion and House Nox. They moved like blurs, faster than thought, striking with claws and blood-forged sabers, draining soldiers before they even hit the ground.
But Artherion was prepared.
The Dawn Sentinels, battlemages infused with radiant sigils, stood in formations of six. Each unit was linked by light conduits that pulsed through the ground. When vampires rushed them, the conduits erupted.
The battlefield became a radiant crucible. Screams of undead burned through the morning winds. Charred capes, melting fangs, and flaming shadows filled the air as the vampires realized too late: this ground was consecrated.
The western coast was lost in mist and salt.
From beneath the foam of the crashing waves rose beasts sung of only in sailor myths: Krakens with skin like shipwrecks, Leviathans that carried abyssal trenches on their backs, and deep sirens whose songs drove men to madness.
The Artherion navy was the most advanced the realm had ever seen, but this… this was ancient rage.
Admiral Leor, aboard the Solaris Ardent, unleashed the Armada of Light. Seven divine galleons, each blessed by King Elyrion himself, their sails burning with glyphs of power. They sailed through impossible waves, their cannons launching not iron, but runes that exploded with pure radiance.
Underwater, mer-knights of the Azure Temple joined them, armed with tridents of ice-forged mythril. Together, they turned the tide. Beasts died glowing. The seas boiled with judgment.
Deep in Artherion's south, where tunnels met the underworld, the Crawlers came.
Blind, many-legged horrors, they moved in hives, devouring rock, bone, and magic. Whole towns disappeared in silence.
But the Earthguard of Artherion, tunnelers and stone-walkers clad in runic obsidian fought back.
They collapsed tunnels, wielded axes made from volcanic hearts, and summoned golems that burned with the planet's core. The battle turned subterranean, lit only by magma and warlight.
Out on the fields, there stood Riven.
Blade blacker than darkness. Armor marked with the seal of Ashkeroth. Eyes lit beneath his helm.
He moved across the battlefield like a plague.
One slice, twenty Artherion soldiers fell.
He dismembered a golden knight mid-air. Shattered a holy ward within a thought. Danced with a captain of the Royal Guard and decapitated him before the third parry.
The Field of Ash, they called it.
And Riven reigned.
His sword whispered names. Names of the dying. Names of those who betrayed the light.
Above, Saevan watched.
And below… the blood soaked the earth.
Elsewhere, mages of Dravenguard, elders, witches, warlocks, stood on the ridge of Mount Vehris.
Their spells darkened the sky. Green fire, necrotic chains, banshee winds.
But opposing them, the Radiant Choir of Artherion.
Thirty-two mages. United. Harmonized.
They sang.
Not spells.
Scripture from grimoires.
And from their mouths, reality bent. Storms split. Light seared. Darkness wept.
For seven hours, the mountains trembled. Spells clashed like titans. Meteors fell like rain. Cities nearby evacuated as the sky itself tried to flee.
---
And then it came.
A scream.
From the Gate of Unlight.
And a million shadows emerged.
The second wave.
Orcs, ten feet tall. Trolls hard as rock. Specters. Wraiths. Banshees. Titans. Black dragons. Fallen archons. Shadow wolves with eyes of galaxies.
They came descending.
And King Elyrion… sat still.
He raised no sword.
He spoke no word.
Until the final line was crossed.
Until the mountains cracked.
Until the sky dimmed.
Then, he rose. His voice carried not in sound, but in soul.
"Go."
And they heard it.
Lucien.
The Knight.
And the seven seraphim.
They stood atop the peak of Mount Elatarion. Clad in light. Wings unfurled. Blades like suns.
And at his word, they descended.
Not like angels.
Like judgment upon the earth.