The cold night settled over Zorim Field, the moonlight casting long shadows across the open terrain. Inside the hastily constructed barracks, the atmosphere was a mixture of tension and focus. The building itself was long and spacious, yet the makeshift walls spoke of urgency—no comforts or finer details, just bare necessities to accommodate the soldiers. Though the barracks were stripped of amenities, the soldiers worked tirelessly to ensure their weapons were sharp and their armor pristine.
Alvinnué sat at the edge of one of the crude wooden tables, his black armor glistening faintly under the dim light. His loose hair framed his face, his piercing obsidian eyes scanning the room as he took in the busy scene. He was accustomed to the discipline of Shanda-Wold’s rituals, but the air in this makeshift camp was heavier—laden with the weight of an uncertain future. He and Brynda had been waiting for their orders. No one knew exactly when the battle would begin, but it was clear the soldiers were readying themselves for something inevitable.
Beside him, Brynda adjusted her Soulsever Sword, her green eyes alight with a quiet determination. The sword’s holy aura was a sharp contrast to the grittiness of the barracks. She occasionally glanced up, noting the soldiers around her, though her mind was undoubtedly focused on the task ahead. Like Alvinnué, she had no idea when the battle would start, but the silence of the night made it feel as though the conflict could ignite at any moment.
Gorimund, the veteran warrior, approached them, his powerful figure cutting through the sea of soldiers. He walked with a heavy, deliberate stride, his rust-brown hair and muscular frame commanding respect. He paused as he reached them and looked at both of their faces, his own weathered expression softer than usual.
“How are you both holding up?” he asked, his deep voice carrying a note of genuine concern.
Brynda gave him a small, forced smile, but her green eyes betrayed the nervousness simmering beneath her calm exterior. “I’m ready,” she replied, her voice steady but with a hint of tension. “But… I can’t deny I’m a bit nervous.”
Alvinnué shifted slightly, his dark gaze fixed on the floor as he thought for a moment. He wasn’t one to show weakness, but his inner turmoil was hard to ignore. “I’m ready,” he said, his voice low. “But I’m not sure if I’ll survive this. There’s always that uncertainty in battle.”
Gorimund chuckled, a sound that was more rumble than laugh, and clapped Alvinnué on the shoulder with a force that made the younger warrior wince slightly. “Trust in your skills,” he said, his tone reassuring. “You both have what it takes. Brynda, your holy powers will give the undead more trouble than they can handle. That Soulsever Sword of yours will make short work of them.”
He turned to Alvinnué next, his eyes sharp and knowing. “And you, Alvinnué, your shadow skills will be more than enough to confuse and cripple them. The undead won’t even know what hit them.”
Brynda took a deep breath, her posture straightening slightly as she absorbed the veteran’s words of encouragement. Alvinnué met Gorimund’s gaze and nodded, a quiet resolve forming within him. The road ahead was uncertain, but they had the tools to succeed—and the trust of those around them.
“We’ll make it through,” Alvinnué said, more to himself than anyone else.
Brynda, her fingers still resting on the hilt of her Soulsever Sword, glanced over at Gorimund, curiosity shining in her green eyes. “So, are all warriors from Darven-Imus like you?” she asked, her tone light but filled with genuine intrigue.
Gorimund chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that seemed to shake the air around him. “Aye, pretty much,” he said with a grin. “Dwarven warriors see many battles throughout their long lifetimes. It’s in our blood, in our very bones. We don’t just fight to fight—we fight to survive, to protect what’s ours.”
Alvinnué, tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes narrowing as he studied the veteran dwarf. “Is that it then? All dwarves just live for the fight?”
Gorimund’s expression softened as he leaned against a nearby wooden post, his arms crossed over his broad chest. “Not exactly,” he said with a thoughtful look. “Fighting isn’t the heart of a dwarf’s life. What’s most important to us is the God of Fire’s blessings. We live by his will. Working the forge, shaping metal into weapons and tools—that’s what gives our lives true meaning.”
Brynda nodded, absorbing the gravity of his words. “So the forge is your life’s calling?” she asked quietly.
Gorimund smiled, though it was a more somber smile this time. “Aye. But a warrior’s skills are more than just how well he swings an axe or holds a shield. It’s about endurance, resilience. I was raised in the forge, yes, but my skills as a warrior far surpass my smithing.”
Alvinnué’s brow furrowed in curiosity. “So you don’t miss it? The forging, I mean?”
Gorimund shook his head, a glint of pride in his eyes. “Not in the way you might think. The forge gives life meaning, sure, but it’s the fire of battle that forges the heart. That’s what makes us strong.”
There was a brief silence as Alvinnué and Brynda mulled over his words. The tension in the barracks seemed to lessen, if only slightly.
“Seems like your life has been shaped by both the forge and the battlefield,” Brynda said, her voice full of respect.
Gorimund gave a quiet nod, his eyes distant for a moment, as if lost in memories of battles fought and fires stoked. “Aye, lass. And one wouldn’t be worth much without the other.”
Gorimund fell silent for a moment, his gaze drifting down to his Forgefire Axe and Stoneguard Shield, both resting at his side. His large hands gently ran over the worn wood of the shield and the cold, sturdy metal of the axe’s blade. The weight of them seemed to anchor him in the present, but there was a distant look in his eyes, as if the memories of countless battles passed through his mind like a flickering flame.
“My younger brother,” Gorimund began, his voice softer than before, “he’s the gifted one in our family. More than I ever was.” He gave a slight shake of his head, though there was no bitterness in his tone, only pride. “He was always the one with the hands that could shape the finest steel, the one who forged the weapons you see here.”
Brynda and Alvinnué exchanged a quick glance. There was something in Gorimund’s voice—perhaps a touch of admiration for his brother—that made them both pause and listen intently.
“The Forgefire Axe,” Gorimund continued, his fingers now tracing the edge of the axe blade, “and the Stoneguard Shield… they were forged by him. I’ve carried them into every battle I’ve faced. They’ve protected me through so many dangerous ordeals that I’ve lost count.” He lifted the shield slightly, the faint glow of the forge’s magic still lingering in its surface.
“They were made with such care, and with the finest craftsmanship. My brother didn’t just make them; he imbued them with strength. They won’t ever shatter, won’t ever break. Not in battle, not even against the toughest of foes.”
Alvinnué’s eyes widened, a note of awe in his voice. “Sounds like your brother is more than just a smith… He’s a master.”
Gorimund nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Aye, and a good man, too. I’d trust him with my life as much as I trust these weapons to keep me standing. There’s no doubt in my mind that, without them, I’d have fallen many times over.”
Brynda’s voice broke the silence, soft and respectful. “Your brother’s work is proof to both his skill and his love for you. Not many would craft something so durable for another.”
Gorimund smiled faintly, a trace of warmth in his eyes as he looked at the axe and shield again. “Aye. He may not be a warrior, but he’s been my shield in more ways than one.”
Alvinnué watched Gorimund with quiet curiosity, the firelight flickering across the dwarf’s weathered face and the polished metal of his axe and shield. After a moment, he tilted his head and asked, “When was the last time you were home? To Darven-Imus?”
Gorimund let out a breath, slow and heavy, as though the question stirred dust from old memories. “It’s been a long time,” he said, not looking up right away. “Too long, if I’m honest.”
He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “I’ve been with the Geldanos Army for about seventy human years now. Joined up when King Meldran still ruled—Edmon’s father. The old king was a fierce one. Stern, proud, and never afraid to get his hands dirty. Reminds me a bit of Edmon… though the son’s got more fire in him, I’d say.”
Alvinnué’s eyes widened slightly. “Seventy years? That’s nearly a lifetime for most humans.”
“Aye,” Gorimund nodded with a small grin. “But for a dwarf, it’s just a long chapter.”
There was a brief silence, filled only by the distant clang of steel and the hushed murmurs of other soldiers around the barracks. Then Alvinnué asked, his voice thoughtful, “If you survive this battle… will you go back home?”
Gorimund looked up at him, his expression softening. The firelight caught in his eyes, and for a moment, he seemed far away—perhaps already walking the stone halls of Darven-Imus in his mind.
“That sounds like a great idea,” he said, the hint of a smile tugging at his beard. “Maybe it’s time.”
Brynda smiled at Gorimund, her voice warm despite the chill of the night. “You should go back home, Gorimund. After all this, you’ve earned it.”
She glanced at the Forgefire Axe resting beside him. “And you should get your brother to fix up that axe and shield. If they’ve protected you this long, imagine what he could do with a few upgrades.”
Gorimund let out a hearty laugh, the sound echoing off the barracks’ wooden walls. “Aye, I’ll be holding him to that. He’s probably been waiting to hammer on these old things again. Might even lecture me on how poorly I’ve maintained them.”
He chuckled again, then his gaze turned thoughtful as he looked toward the far wall, beyond which stretched leagues of dark, uncertain land. “It’s a far journey, though. My home lies to the east, past the Elven Lands of Ansell-Vend, beyond the towers of Tharmatur. Through mountains and memory.”
He turned back to Brynda and Alvinnué, a sly glint in his eye. “You two should come with me. After all this business with the undead is done… maybe it’s time we see a little more of the world. You’ve both got the makings of fine travelers.”
Brynda exchanged a glance with Alvinnué, a smile slowly spreading on her face. For the first time in days, the weight of the coming battle seemed a little lighter.
The low murmur of soldierly chatter was broken by the rhythmic echo of boots on the wooden floor. Heads turned as a figure approached, his stride purposeful, his presence commanding.
Adjutant Cenric entered the barracks.
His grey eyes swept the room with practiced precision, his expression serious—grave, even. The chatter fell into silence as soldiers subtly straightened their posture. Cenric was known for his discipline and clarity, a man who spoke only when something important needed saying.
Brynda stood immediately, her body rigid as she brought her fist to her chest in a sharp salute. “Adjutant Cenric,” she said, her voice crisp.
Cenric nodded in acknowledgment, offering a brief but respectful glance toward the trio. “Brynda. Gorimund.”
Then his eyes settled on Alvinnué. Without breaking stride, he approached and withdrew a sealed parchment from within his coat. The wax bore the insignia of the Geldanos Army—a lion’s head before a blue shield and green field.
“Alvinnué,” Cenric said, his tone firm but not without respect. “You have new orders.”
He extended the parchment.
“You are to act as an advanced scout,” he continued. “Your task is to track the movement of the Army of the Undead. You leave tonight.”
The room fell into complete silence.
Alvinnué took the parchment from Adjutant Cenric with a silent nod. His expression was unreadable, but a flicker of tension crossed his face as he looked over the seal. He didn’t open it—there was no need. Orders were orders.
His eyes shifted to Brynda and Gorimund. For a moment, the three of them simply looked at one another, the camaraderie of the last few hours settling like a weight between them.
“Well,” Alvinnué said quietly, a faint wryness in his voice, “looks like I’ll be leaving the group for a bit.”
Brynda’s brow furrowed immediately. She opened her mouth to speak, but he lifted a hand gently, his voice calm.
“Don’t worry. I’ll return safely.”
Gorimund narrowed his eyes slightly. “Are you sure about this, lad?”
Before Alvinnué could respond, Cenric spoke again, his tone confident and resolute. “The command tent watched your sparring session earlier today. Your movements—your precision—it was clear to all of us. You have the best chance of locating the enemy without being seen.”
Cenric’s gaze was sharp, but not unkind. “You are not to engage. Track their movement. Confirm their direction and numbers. Then return to camp immediately.”
Brynda stood frozen, her hands clenched at her sides. “Alvinnué…”
He gave her a small nod, the kind that said more than words ever could.
Then, without another word, Alvinnué turned and walked toward the barracks door. The dim light caught the edges of his black armor, and his silhouette faded as he stepped into the cold night.
And just like that, he was gone.
The barracks remained hushed long after Alvinnué vanished into the night, the wooden door swinging gently behind him. Brynda stood frozen, her gaze fixed on the doorway as if willing him to walk back through it. Her grip on the Soulsever Sword tightened slightly, the soft hum of its holy energy echoing her unease.
Cenric, still standing nearby, noticed the look on her face. He stepped closer, his expression softer now, the edge of command giving way to a quiet empathy.
“He’ll be fine,” Cenric said, his voice calm. “I wouldn’t have delivered the orders if I didn’t believe he could do it. I’ve seen scouts break under pressure—but Alvinnué? He’s something else.”
Brynda turned her eyes to him, uncertainty flickering in the emerald depths. “He tries to hide it, but he’s still young,” she said. “You really think he can make it back safely?”
Cenric nodded slowly. “I’ve served under two kings, traveled through half the kingdoms, and I’ve seen warriors born for this kind of work. He’s one of them. Precise. Focused. Quiet as a shadow.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “That sword he carries? The way he moves? He’s trained for things most of us would never attempt.”
Brynda let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Still,” she murmured, “it’s the undead out there.”
“And that’s exactly why he was chosen,” Cenric said. “Because he doesn’t just have skill—he has restraint. He won’t fight unless he has to. He’ll observe, track, and return. You’ll see.”
Brynda looked toward the door once more, then finally nodded. “He promised he’d come back.”
Cenric offered a faint smile. “And I believe he will.”
The vast fields of Zorim stretched endlessly beneath the night sky, their stillness broken only by the occasional whisper of wind sweeping through the tall grass. At the farthest edge of the field, where the land gave way to the Unclaimed Lands beyond, Alvinnué lay motionless, his black armor blending with the shadows. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, scanning the dark expanse as if seeking out movement, a flicker in the night that would reveal the Army of the Undead.
The quiet of the night enveloped him, and for a moment, the weight of his task seemed to disappear. It was as if the world had paused, holding its breath in the silence that surrounded him.
Above, the twin moons hung in the sky, casting a gentle light on the fields below. The silver moon, high and steady, gleamed with an ethereal glow. It was the moon of protection, a constant presence in the lives of the Shanda-Wold people. It represented safety, the watchful gaze that kept them from harm when darkness fell.
Beside it, the crimson moon loomed—a sharp, burning contrast. The moon of vengeance, known to the Shanda-Wold as the symbol of retribution. Its light bled across the sky, a reminder of the wrath that could be unleashed if provoked.
Alvinnué’s gaze flickered between the two moons. His thoughts, usually sharp and focused, wandered for a moment. He had never been one to shy away from the darkness, yet tonight, something felt different. He couldn’t explain why, but the anxiety that had gnawed at him earlier had faded. The stillness of the night, the quiet stretching out around him, felt like a cloak, wrapping him in a sense of safety.
He lay there, still, as his thoughts drifted. The dark had always been a comfort to him—an old friend that never let him down. The shadows had been his refuge throughout his training, his life, and here, in the heart of Zorim Field, the darkness felt more familiar than anything else. It was in the dark that he truly felt at peace, where his mind could clear, and his skills were most at home.
Perhaps that was why he had always felt safest under the twin moons—one symbolizing protection, the other vengeance. Both were part of him, part of the blood that ran through his veins, the legacy of his people. But in this moment, with the night settling around him and the world stretched out in quiet anticipation, he understood why he had always been drawn to the shadows.
They were his to command.
Alvinnué narrowed his eyes.
There—movement.
His pulse quickened as he caught the subtle ripple of motion against the horizon, far beyond the quiet grasses of Zorim Field. What at first looked like a shimmer of mist began to resolve into something more defined. A great mass—dark and crawling—was approaching with dreadful slowness.
The air shifted. The cold deepened.
A creeping sense of foreboding settled over him, as though the very earth beneath him held its breath.
He rose carefully from his position, not making a sound. Every step he took was deliberate, measured, silent. He moved toward a rise in the landscape—an uneven hill marked by jagged rocks jutting out like broken teeth. Without hesitation, he began to climb, hands and feet finding familiar balance along the stone.
At the summit, he crouched low, wind stirring his cloak. With one breath, he centered himself, and then activated Shadowsight.
Darkness fell away like a veil.
Before him, the plain was no longer just distant darkness. Alvinnué saw with the clarity of his bloodline—ghostly hues of movement, shapes where no living thing should walk. Thousands of figures stretched across the terrain like a tidal wave. The Army of the Undead—countless, unnatural, and unrelenting—marched silently under the twin moons.
His breath caught.
He had never seen anything like it.
The undead did not falter, did not stray. They moved with purpose. With direction.
His shock passed.
Alvinnué steeled himself, his obsidian eyes sharpening as he adjusted his position on the hill. He would not panic. He would gather what he could—numbers, direction, formations—and return.
This was what he had been sent to do.
He was the shadow in the night.
And the night had work to do.
Alvinnué narrowed his eyes, gauging the distance between the hilltop and the ever-moving horde. They were still far enough that he remained unseen, but close enough that he knew his current vantage wouldn’t yield the full picture. He needed to get closer—close enough to count their standards, discern their formations, maybe even spot a commander among them.
His gaze swept the land between, and he spotted a patch of wooded terrain nestled like a shadowed veil across the rise. It would provide better cover and a clearer angle.
He stood slowly, careful not to stir loose gravel, and let out a steady breath. Drawing inward, he summoned his mana, allowing it to flow not just through his limbs, but into his very breath and heartbeat. A whisper, as old as his people, passed from his lips:
“True shadow is not merely an absence,
but presence without a trace—felt yet never found.”
With those words, Alvinnué became a breath upon the wind, a shimmer lost in the dark. Shadowblend enveloped him. His body faded into the scenery—no longer a figure in the night, but part of it.
He descended from the jagged hill, each footfall as silent as a falling leaf, and made his way toward the grove that would bring him closer to the enemy than ever before.
Alvinnué slipped through the wooded terrain like a whisper, his form hidden in the hush of night and shadow. The trees grew sparse near the edge, their twisted limbs reaching skyward as though in silent warning. Amid them stood an old Tymer Aspen, its pale, silvered bark catching faint glimmers of moonlight. Tall and unwavering, it was perfect.
He climbed swiftly, limbs coiled with quiet strength, until he reached a vantage just below the crown. From this height, the view stretched far across the open plain—and what he saw made his breath still.
Alvinnué had heard the tales. He’d imagined them in whispers and warnings. But nothing prepared him for the truth.
They moved in a slow, dreadful tide—thousands of them, shuffling forward with grim purpose. Up close, their forms were grotesque. Some were little more than skeletons, ancient and dry, armor fused to bone by time. Others had bloated torsos of decaying flesh, limbs blackened or torn, their movements jerky and unnatural. Empty eye sockets glowed faintly with cursed mana; twisted faces seemed locked in a perpetual grimace of hunger or rage.
The stench reached even here—faint but sour, like earth choked with blood and rot.
Alvinnué felt something tighten in his chest. This was what they would face. What Brynda and Gorimund would stand against. What the army of Geldanos would soon have to fight.
Alvinnué narrowed his eyes.
There—drifting ahead of the front ranks of the undead—were shapes that did not move like the others. Ghostly forms padded low to the ground, their movements fluid, unnatural. They were wolflike, but wrong—distorted silhouettes with tattered, flickering forms as if their bodies were made of smoke and rage. Their eyes burned crimson, casting an eerie glow across the deadened earth.
Alvinnué felt a chill crawl down his spine.
He slid his pack open with practiced silence and retrieved the Creature Compendium of Shanda-Wold, its worn leather cover etched with protective runes. Flipping quickly through the pages, his fingers halted as he found what he was looking for. A sketch filled the parchment: long fangs, a narrow muzzle, and glowing red eyes. Beside it, the text:
Netherwolf
A wolflike beast from the Nether World. Its body is ethereal, shifting between realms. Eyes burn red with malice. Claws and teeth sharp enough to tear through steel. Its saliva is paralytic. These creatures serve as familiars to conjurers, often sent ahead of the main force to hunt and scout.
Alvinnué exhaled slowly.
So a conjurer is among the undead.
He closed the book, eyes returning to the field. The presence of Netherwolves meant the enemy wasn’t just moving—it was watching.
The ground beneath the Tymer Aspen shivered ever so slightly. The Army of the Undead was passing directly beneath Alvinnué’s vantage point now, their shuffling, scraping march like the dry whisper of leaves skittering across stone. The air had grown colder still, the kind of cold that bit into bone and made breath feel unwelcome.
Alvinnué pressed himself flat against the trunk, barely daring to exhale.
Steady your nerves. Silence is your ally.
He held his breath and narrowed his eyes, scanning the endless tide of death. Decrepit corpses trudged forward with lifeless resolve. Some were little more than skeletons clinking in rusted armor. Others still had scraps of flesh clinging to them, their eyes vacant, their limbs twitching with unnatural stiffness. And ahead, the Netherwolves prowled silently, spectral muzzles sniffing the wind as if catching traces of life.
But it was the rear that drew his focus now.
There—rising above the ranks like a dark flame—floated a figure.
It was tall, its form draped in blackened robes that moved like ink in water. The hood had slipped back just enough to reveal the face beneath—a skull, yellowed and cracked with age, but intact. Its hollow eye sockets blazed with sickly green light, a baleful glow that pulsed with ancient malice. Its jaw was slightly parted, as if forever whispering a silent curse. Runes etched along its skeletal arms shimmered faintly beneath the folds of its garment. It did not walk; it hovered, suspended by its own dark will, a stillness more terrifying than any charge.
A low, droning hum filled the air, as if the very atmosphere bent and quivered with its power. A whisper of wind spiraled through the ranks of the undead, but the sound was not one of a breeze—it was a breath, cold and unnatural, emanating from itself. The earth beneath seemed to pulse in time with the green glow from its eyes, and the distant night seemed to grow even darker in response to its presence.
No feet touched the ground. No breath stirred the air. And yet its presence silenced even the groans of the dead.
A Lich.
A true master of the forbidden arts, and clearly the one commanding this horde.
Alvinnué didn’t need to search for it in his Creature Compendium; he recognized it instantly. The lich was infamous in legends, known to be a harbinger of doom.
Alvinnué’s breath caught. Panic surged into his chest, but he pushed it down, hard. His hand instinctively touched the hilt of his sword—not to draw it, but to anchor himself in the moment.
I must return. I must warn the Geldanos Army.
He began to retreat, every movement measured, careful not to snap a single branch.
Alvinnué’s descent from the Tymer Aspen was fluid, every movement silent. He remained low to the ground, blending into the shadows, the dark of the night his ally. The forest around him seemed to hold its breath, as if it too was aware of the danger that approached. He took a final glance at the army of the dead, still marching in their unholy rhythm, and felt a cold wave of dread wash over him.
His pulse raced, but his focus remained sharp. He silently moved through the trees, careful not to disturb even the smallest twig. He could hear the hollow footsteps of the undead marching behind him, the rhythmic thump of their decay, but he didn’t dare look back. Instead, his thoughts were only on the camp ahead—the Geldanos Army would need to know what he had seen.
As the last tree passed behind him, Alvinnué stepped into the open expanse of grass, the night air cold against his skin. He didn’t slow. Drawing the shadows into himself, he activated Shadowsprint with a practiced motion. His body blurred, melding into the darkness—faster than a breath, a whisper across the grass, unseen and unheard.
Under the cloak of night, he raced through the darkened fields, the wind tugging at his cloak as the spell coursed through his limbs. His boots barely grazed the earth. The lights of the Geldanos Army camp glimmered in the distance, scattered like stars across the lowland—but then something else caught his eye. Shapes. Moving.
He skidded to a halt, dropping low into the grass.
There, in the silver wash of twin moons, two spectral figures prowled the terrain ahead. Netherwolves. Barely visible but unmistakable—their translucent bodies shimmered, sinewy and unnatural, as if reality itself strained to contain them. Their red eyes glowed like embers in the dark. They sniffed the air, heads twitching, claws furrowing lines into the soil. Closer to the camp than they should be.
Alvinnué’s heart pounded. These weren’t wanderers. They were scouts. The real attack was near—perhaps within the night.
He crouched behind a rock, controlling his breath. If they found the camp, there would be no time to prepare. The soldiers—Brynda, Gorimund, Cenric—they would be caught unready.
His hand tightened around the hilt of his Doth-Éamon blade. He could slip past the creatures and raise the alarm.
But no.
He exhaled a quiet, resolute breath, the shadow clinging to his form like a second skin.
They had to die.
With a whisper, he slipped into the dark and moved.
Alvinnué unsheathed the Doth-Éamon Short Sword, its edge faintly gleaming with quiet power. The subtle pulse of mana throbbed through the blade—ancient, refined, and waiting. If the legends held true, its sealing magic might be enough to banish these creatures back to the shadows.
He skirted the edge of the treeline, moving with deliberate care, his form swallowed by the forest’s darkness. Shadowblend flowed over him like ink in water, cloaking him in silence. The world narrowed to pulse, breath, footfall.
The two Netherwolves continued their patrol through the clearing, unaware of the hunter now within reach. Their forms, monstrous and distorted, moved with disturbing grace—weightless, like smoke. From a distance, they resembled wolves—four legs, fangs, tails—but up close, Alvinnué saw the truth.
These weren’t beasts—they were ruptures in the world.
Their fur was shifting vapor, oily and dark. Their red eyes flickered like torches behind a veil, and their maws dripped with long threads of pale, gleaming saliva—paralytic, if the Creature Compendium was accurate. Their paws left no trace on the ground, yet the grass withered where they passed.
Alvinnué crouched low, blade steady in his grasp.
His breath slowed.
His eyes locked onto the nearest target.
And with the silence of a falling shadow, he prepared to strike.
He focused on the netherwolf closest to him, its prowling gait eerily silent as it moved through the field’s shadows. His breath slowed further, his body still, every muscle tuned for the strike. The chill in the air was nothing compared to the cold certainty in his eyes.
Fingers tightened around the hilt of the Doth-Éamon Short Sword. The etched runes pulsed faintly with shadowlight. Mana coiled within it like a serpent, ready to strike.
He crouched low behind a thick brush, its dark leaves masking his presence. The wind shifted. The netherwolf paused, ears twitching—but it didn’t look his way.
With a whisper of breath, Alvinnué activated Shadowsprint.
He surged forward like a ripple of darkness, almost invisible to the eye. In a blink, he was upon the creature, his blade already in motion. The Doth-Éamon Short Sword sliced through the netherwolf’s spectral form, cutting through its smoky membrane. A jagged gash tore along its flank, and its unnatural glow flickered violently—as if caught in a sudden wind. The sword’s mana-sealing magic disrupted the creature’s essence.
The netherwolf let out a low, distorted snarl that barely reached the ears, its form destabilized.
Alvinnué didn’t pause. Instinct took over, and before the first wolf had even vanished, he turned on the second. The air rippled with speed as the world slowed, just enough for him to close the distance in an instant.
The second netherwolf, its eyes burning with rage, never saw the strike coming. The Doth-Éamon Short Sword embedded itself between its glowing eyes with impossible precision. A shocked yelp escaped the creature as it staggered, its form flickering and distorting.
The wolf whimpered once, a sound mournful and pitiful, before it evaporated in a burst of smoke and shadow, vanishing into the night.
Alvinnué exhaled sharply, the tension in his body easing as the weight of the moment lifted. His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving beneath his soaked leather armor. Sweat mingled with dirt as adrenaline buzzed in his veins, but the aftershocks of battle began to settle.
He stood still as the last netherwolf dissolved into drifting shadow. The field was quiet again. His breath came hard, chest rising beneath the soaked armor, but his eyes remained sharp, scanning the dark. No more shapes moved. No whispers stirred the wind. Only the fading hum of mana and the weight of what nearly was.
The tension eased from Alvinnué’s limbs, but his mind stayed focused. Shadowblend still cloaked him in silence, keeping him unseen beneath the night. He scanned the field—no movement, no sound but the wind rustling the grass. Still, he didn’t relax.
He dropped to one knee, his movements smooth and practiced. From his hip pouch, he drew a glass vial, the mana potion inside catching a sliver of moonlight. The coolness of the bottle steadied him. He uncorked it in one motion and drank.
The taste was bitter, metallic, but he forced it down. Cold mana surged through him, filling the cracks left by battle. Warmth followed, his breath steadying as the dull ache across his limbs faded to a manageable hum.
On the horizon, the flicker of torchlight marked the Geldanos Army camp—distant, but not unreachable. Every second mattered. The undead were moving. And the army had no idea what was coming.
He stood, blade in hand, senses stretching across the dark for any sign of movement. Still nothing. But instinct gnawed at him. The netherwolves had been scouts—harbingers.
He tightened his grip on the Doth-Éamon Short Sword.
He had to reach the camp.
He had to warn them.
With a breath, Alvinnué called on Shadowsprint. Power surged through him. The world slowed, bent, and then snapped back.
He vanished into motion—silent, swift, a streak of shadow racing toward the distant firelight.