A heavy silence hung over Zorim Field, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by a faint breeze. Hidden within the shadows of a deep ravine, Alvinnué, Brynda, and Gorimund crouched low, their eyes sharp and unblinking as they surveyed the battlefield ahead. With them, four swordsmen and three archers from the Geldanos Army waited in tense silence, gripping their weapons tightly, muscles coiled like springs ready to strike.
Beyond their cover, the Geldanos Army stood in disciplined formations—rows of soldiers holding firm with shields, swords and spears. Across from them, the Army of the Undead stretched into the mist—a grotesque legion of rotting corpses, skeletal warriors, and monstrous abominations. Their empty sockets glowed with eerie green light, but they did not charge. Neither side moved. Both armies waited, locked in a deadly standoff.
Alvinnué narrowed his eyes, activating Shadowsight to scan the enemy ranks. The undead did not move on their own—someone, or something, was controlling them.
And then, he saw it.
At the very back of the undead army, standing upon a natural rise, a towering Lich loomed over the battlefield. Monstrous and three meters tall, its skeletal frame was draped in decayed, tattered black robes that flowed as if caught in an invisible storm. Its putrid fingers clutched a staff of bones, crowned by a pulsating green orb crackling with necrotic energy. In the center of its skull’s forehead, a black jewel glinted ominously, absorbing light like a void.
Its face was a nightmare—an exposed skull with glowing green eyes, hollow yet brimming with unholy intelligence. Its jaw twisted into a cruel mockery of a grin, and from its bones radiated an aura of death itself, warping the air with pure malice.
Dark tendrils of magic coiled around the Lich, pulsing in eerie rhythm with the undead army. Every soldier in that ghastly horde was bound to its will, their empty eyes flickering in synchronization with its power. This was no mere necromancer—this was an immortal being of death, a master of undeath itself.
“There,” Alvinnué whispered, his obsidian eyes locked on the abomination. “That’s our real enemy.”
Brynda tightened her grip on Soulsever, the holy energy in her sword flickering in response to the Lich’s presence. “If we take it down, the undead might fall apart.”
Gorimund grunted, adjusting his Forgefire Axe. “Hmph. Ye think a creature like that can be slain so easily? Liches don’t die unless ye destroy their phylactery.”
One of the archers let out a low breath. “Then we better figure out where it’s hiding the damn thing.”
Alvinnué raised his hand, signaling for the group to stay low. His eyes flickered back and forth, scanning the darkened battlefield. The tension was in the air—every breath felt like a battle. The quiet of the night hung heavily, broken only by the rustle of the leaves beneath their feet.
“Wait,” Alvinnué whispered softly. “Observe for now. We need to understand the full scope before we act.”
The group nodded, staying perfectly still. Their eyes were locked on the battlefield as they watched the Geldanos Army hold its position. It was as if time itself had stopped, both sides frozen in the dark, waiting for the other to make a move.
Then, a soft hum filled the air, growing steadily louder. The Geldanos Mages had begun their ritual, their hands raised high. With a swift motion, they cast their light orbs into the night sky—glowing spheres of radiant light that floated upward and drifted across the field.
Slowly, the battlefield began to illuminate, revealing the full scope of the enemy’s forces. The Army of the Undead stretched out in all directions, a horrific sight. Their numbers were far greater than the Geldanos Army—easily five times their size, an endless sea of the dead, with skeletal warriors, necrotic horrors, and twisted abominations, all marching under the command of the Lich.
The party gasped in unison, their eyes wide in shock. The sheer scale of the undead army was overwhelming.
Brynda muttered under her breath, gripping her Soulsever Sword tighter. “There are so many… Can we really fight all of them?”
Gorimund, grumbled, his face darkening with concern. “Aye, this ain’t looking good.”
Alvinnué’s calm voice cut through the rising anxiety. “Don’t worry. I have a plan.” He paused, locking eyes with each of them, his usual confidence unwavering. “Stay focused. We need to move closer to the Lich. It’s the only way to stop this.”
He gave a reassuring nod, though the weight of the situation pressed on him as well. “We’ll move silently. Stick to the edge of the field and stay out of sight. The Lich has to be dealt with first.”
The group took a deep breath and nodded in unison.
“We move now,” Alvinnué whispered. “And remember, be cautious. Stay hidden. No unnecessary risks.”
The group moved with purpose, every step carefully planned, every shadow a potential hiding spot. Alvinnué led them through the underbrush, weaving between trees, until they reached a small clearing that would offer them the advantage they needed. The air was thick with the distant hum of the undead army, the sense of danger oppressive.
Alvinnué recalled every detail from Baroness Yenn’s map—the contours of the land, the suggested path through the treeline, the precise distance to the Lich’s command mound. He was quietly impressed by her meticulous planning. How she had devised such an effective assassination route in so little time was beyond him. Perhaps she truly was the genius of the Geldanos Army.
But just as Alvinnué was about to signal for the group to continue, something caught his eye—a slight movement near the far side of the clearing. His hand shot up, signaling for the group to freeze.
“Stop.” His voice was sharp, low, and commanding.
Alvinnué’s eyes flickered briefly, and he activated his Shadowsight again. The darkness that had once obscured the field now parted like a curtain, revealing a hidden layer of detail in the night. Through the ethereal sight, Alvinnué made out the figures of four undead sentinels stationed at the edge of the flank, guarding the path to the Lich. They were skeletal soldiers clad in old, rusted armor that hung loosely over their brittle frames. Their bones were so ancient they appeared chiseled from stone, cracked and weathered by time. From their exposed skulls, low, eerie cackles echoed—their lower jaws moving as if trying to communicate in some grim, hollow language.
He quickly scanned the area for any other threats. It was quiet. But danger was never far, especially with the Lich’s gaze scanning the battlefield.
Alvinnué gestured for the group to gather close, his voice low and deliberate. “We have four undead guards to deal with. If we move quickly and efficiently, we can take them out before anyone notices.”
Brynda frowned, glancing at the archers in the group. “But we only have three archers, Alvinnué. How will we take them out?”
Alvinnué didn’t hesitate. “I’ll handle one myself.” His voice was calm, but there was a deadly precision in it. “The archers will take the rest.”
He turned to the archers, their faces tense but determined. “Do you have light arrows?”
The archers nodded in unison, their hands steady. “Yes, we have a few.”
“Good,” Alvinnué said, his eyes narrowing as he studied the undead sentinels. “We need to kill them with one shot. Pick your targets, and make sure your aim is precise. We can’t afford to miss.”
The archers exchanged glances, their expressions hardening with resolve. “You can count on us.”
Alvinnué nodded, turning to the rest of the group. “We get into position. When I give the signal, loose the arrows. It’s the only way we’ll have a chance at getting to the Lich undetected.”
With practiced movements, the group began to shift into position, each member taking up their designated spots. Alvinnué’s eyes swept across the field, mentally calculating the angles. The undead guards were close enough that their slow, dragging movements were becoming predictable.
Brynda gave her Soulsever Sword a quiet test swing, her muscles tensing as she prepared for the next phase. Gorimund adjusted the weight of his shield, his knuckles white around the grip of his axe.
The archers readied their bows, eyes fixed on their targets. Alvinnué took a deep breath, waiting for the perfect moment. Every heartbeat seemed to thrum like a war drum.
He knew this would be the moment that determined their success. One misstep could alert the entire undead army.
“Ready?” Alvinnué’s voice was barely above a whisper.
The group gave a silent nod, their bodies taut with anticipation.
“Ready?” Alvinnué’s voice was barely above a whisper.
The group gave a silent nod, their bodies taut with anticipation.
“Now,” he said.
In perfect synchronization, the group moved as one. The archers let their arrows fly, and Alvinnué dashed forward, his Shadowsprint propelling him with the speed of a ghost. His Doth-Éamon Short Sword gleamed in the dim light as he closed the distance, striking with a clean horizontal cut across the bone soldier’s neck. The blade’s mana-sealing power flared briefly, disconnecting the sentinel’s necrotic link to the Lich—its glowing eyes dimmed instantly as the skeletal body collapsed in silence.
At the same moment, the archers’ arrows—each one imbued with holy energy—found their marks, striking squarely in the center of the sentinels’ skulls. The blessed tips burst with radiant force, shattering bone and dispelling the foul magic that held them together.
The sentinels fell with a soft thud.
Alvinnué froze for a moment, scanning the shadows beyond the clearing. No movement. No alarm. The rest of the undead army remained still, unaware.
The world seemed to hold its breath. The group’s precision was flawless—silent, deadly.
With the undead sentinels dispatched, Alvinnué led his group cautiously into the clearing. The stench of decay and death hung heavily in the air, but the night had grown eerily silent save for the soft shuffle of undead feet and the distant clattering of bones.
The army of the undead loomed before them—an overwhelming mass of twisted figures, their hollow eyes scanning the field in a never-ending, lifeless patrol.
At the far end of the battlefield, hovering just above the ground, the Lich loomed like a dark omen. Its glowing eyes burned with malevolent energy, and it slowly floated around, overseeing the chaos, its bony fingers occasionally twitching as though it were commanding its army with subtle gestures.
Alvinnué pulled out a mana potion from his pack and drank it swiftly, feeling the refreshing surge of magic flow through his veins. His body relaxed for just a moment, his focus sharpening once more.
One of the soldiers whispered, “We are close, but we need to be closer to strike the Lich.”
Alvinnué nodded, his gaze locked on the hovering Lich. The creature was too far for an effective strike, but not for long. He signaled for the group to gather.
“Alright,” Alvinnué whispered, his voice sharp. “Let’s get into position. Brynda, Gorimund, and the soldiers will be the vanguard. Archers, you’ll stay in the back for support. I’ll be in the middle. We’ll move as one.”
The group gathered, understanding their roles without hesitation. Brynda tightened her grip on her Soulsever Sword, while Gorimund adjusted his Forgefire Axe. The soldiers fell into formation with their shields raised, ready to protect the group at any cost.
Alvinnué’s eyes flicked toward the undead horde, watching for any signs of weakness in their formation. “I’ll cast my skill, Shadowblend, on the group. We’ll weave through the openings in the undead horde and make our way toward the Lich.”
Gorimund gave a low grunt. “How long can you hold it?”
Alvinnué’s eyes narrowed. “Not long. We have to be fast, but most importantly, silent. One wrong move and we’re exposed. We need to get in close to strike.”
He looked around at the faces of his comrades. “Are you all ready?”
Brynda nodded firmly, her eyes fierce. “Ready.”
The archers gave a quiet, determined nod. The soldiers adjusted their shields, preparing for whatever came next.
“Let’s move,” Alvinnué said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of their mission.
With a final deep breath, Alvinnué activated his Shadowblend skill, surrounding the group in an ethereal veil. The shadows themselves seemed to cling to them, bending around their forms, rendering them nearly invisible to the undead.
The group moved swiftly, staying close to the ground and weaving between the gaps in the undead army. Each step was measured, every motion a calculated risk. They moved like ghosts, unnoticed, slipping through the army’s perimeter.
Alvinnué’s heart beat in his chest, his mind focused entirely on the task at hand. The Lich was closer now, its dark energy seeping through the very air. Every fiber of Alvinnué’s being screamed that they were getting too close, but they had no choice. The only way to end this was to strike now.
He stole a glance at the group as they silently advanced. “We’re almost there. Stay sharp.”
Alvinnué could feel the draining weight of his Shadowblend skill weighing on him with each passing second. His mana was fading faster than he anticipated. The toll it took to maintain the spell over the entire group—especially with so many living creatures—was immense. His body felt heavier, his limbs slower, and his breathing more ragged.
He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay focused, but doubt began to creep in. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep the group concealed. His eyes flicked between his comrades—Brynda, Gorimund, and the soldiers—who seemed to be pushing themselves as hard as he was.
Brynda, her face pale beneath the moonlight, fought to keep her composure. The undead around them were a grotesque sight, their rotting flesh leaking foul fluids. She could barely suppress the urge to gag as they moved past. Every step brought her closer to the horrors she’d sworn to eliminate, but her resolve never wavered.
Gorimund, the stout Dwarf, was visibly shaking. He had faced many enemies in his long life, but never before had he experienced fear like this. The undead, twisted and unnatural, seemed to be everywhere, their hollow eyes haunting him as they shuffled about. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath shallow. He had never felt so vulnerable before.
The soldiers with them weren’t in much better shape. They held their ground, but Alvinnué could see the tension in their bodies. The weight of the situation was getting to them. This wasn’t a simple raid or skirmish. This was something darker, something that tested their very souls.
But Alvinnué couldn’t afford to show weakness. “We’re close,” he whispered, trying to steady his breath. “Stay focused.”
Just as his mana was nearing its breaking point, a sudden movement shattered the tense silence.
The Geldanos Army had finally made its move. The air crackled with the sound of battle as mages unleashed spells, and the clash of swords and shields erupted from the main battlefield.
The undead responded immediately, lurching forward with unnatural speed, and the army surged into motion. The front lines of the undead horde shifted violently, creating a massive opening in their ranks.
Alvinnué’s heart skipped a beat as the gap appeared. This was the opportunity they had been waiting for. With the undead distracted by the charging forces of the Geldanos Army, the Lich was now exposed—just a short distance away.
He felt his mana flicker out, his spell flickering for a moment before collapsing entirely. The veil of shadows around the group dissipated, but by some miracle, they had been missed by the undead patrols that had been in their path.
Alvinnué’s eyes locked onto the Lich—it was time. “Now!” he shouted, his voice carrying through the chaos.
In an instant, the group surged forward.