Far to the east, beyond the crumbled spires of the Isle of Halor and the distant shimmer of the Aetheris riftlines, the human stronghold of Eldoria burned against the dusk sky.
It was the last bastion of human dominion—fortified stone walls layered with mana wards, towers bristling with runic ballistae, and banners of silver and deep green snapping violently in the wind.
But tonight, the horizon was not peaceful.
Tonight, the borders screamed with the clash of steel, the thrum of magic, and the war cries of two worlds colliding.
At the outer defense lines, goblins in jagged armor and orcs wielding massive cleavers surged forward like a black tide. They had crossed vast leagues from the endless dark kingdom of Endless himself, carrying the stench of that accursed realm with them—ash, rot, and an aura of magic so foul the grass beneath their feet turned grey.
At their head, a towering figure in robes of shifting black mist commanded their advance.
The Dark Magi.
