The War Rages On [Plot]

The night of the Gathering of Heroes…

Days had passed since the first attacks on the outlying towns and villages, and for a moment, it seemed as though life might return to normal. Survivors—bruised, battered, and haunted—drifted inland toward the baronial capitals, seeking refuge in the towns that still stood. The soldiers who had ridden out in defense of the borderlands now trudged homeward, weary and bloodstained.

Yet reports of devastation continued to pour in. Scouts returned with grim news: entire settlements reduced to smoldering ruin, their streets littered with the unburied dead. In some places, the fighting still raged, a desperate struggle against an enemy both relentless and unnatural. And as more forces had been drawn outward to battle the chaos, the great capitals of the baronies—Umbris, Dalefaer, and Almuril—were left vulnerable.

Then, in the dead of night, the alarms began to wail in the capitals.

Sleepers were torn from their beds by the clamor of steel on steel, the crackle of ignited spells, the screams of the dying. With fewer soldiers than usual standing guard, the defenses crumbled under the onslaught. The attackers swarmed through the streets, cutting down those too slow to flee.

Towering golems, their bodies forged from gemstones and enchanted metals, lumbered through the city lanes, their immense limbs swatting people aside like insects. Elementals raged unchecked—fire beings setting homes ablaze, water entities drowning entire alleyways, earthbound horrors tearing the very streets apart, entombing the helpless beneath cobblestone and rubble. Goblins darted through the chaos, their wicked blades flashing as they looted and murdered indiscriminately. And above it all, winged creatures with gleaming collars shrieked orders in an ancient tongue, directing the massacre.

In Almuril, Baron Linneus moved like a shadow through his beleaguered city, his rangers following close behind. Though their numbers were few, they fought with deadly precision, each movement measured, each arrow loosed with purpose. He raised his hands, and magic erupted from his fingertips—arcane barriers flickering into existence, enemies hurled backward by unseen forces. Still, the tide was overwhelming.

In Dalefaer, Baroness Charlotte waded into battle, a whirlwind of steel. Her sword found the weak points in a construct’s enchanted armor, shattering it with a series of precise blows. She spun, raising her shield to meet the next foe. Her knights, too few to properly defend the city, fought with the ferocity of the doomed, determined to protect every last person they could.

And in Umbris, where the dead did not rest, Seneschal Katalina stood amid a battlefield unlike any other. Her surviving warriors fought alongside the risen—skeletons and corpses, freshly animated by her will, clawing their way into the fray. The air reeked of decay and magic as she worked tirelessly, drawing more of the fallen into her ranks. It was a desperate strategy, but desperation was all they had left.

Across the land, the capitals trembled beneath the might of the Fae and their unnatural legions.

War had, indeed, come to Ariad.

And they were losing.