The land before them was cracked and scorched, as if something older than fire had burned it long ago and left only ash to remember.
Jagged rocks and half-buried bones jutted from the cursed soil like forgotten tombstones. The sky overhead was a dull gray, stretched taut like a dying breath that never left the lungs.
Aden Vasco stood at the edge of this blighted plain, his obsidian cloak barely fluttering in the unnatural stillness. Behind him, the Twelfth Pillar's army waited — tired, wary, and silent.
Egmund's voice slid into his mind, low and dry. "You sure about this? Thought you wanted to sweet-talk those mercs. This feels a little... 'death before diplomacy' to me."
"I don't have time to play cards with ghosts," Aden muttered under his breath. "The Liches have already started. If we don't move now, we lose the initiative."
Egmund gave a low whistle. "Initiative's great and all, but just a reminder — those bone boys eat initiative for breakfast. And your guys? They look like they skipped lunch."
Aden didn't respond. His eyes scanned the battlefield, where the silhouette of the Lich encampment loomed like a rotting cathedral. The ritual stones surrounding it pulsed with a faint green glow. They were already channeling mana, already preparing.
He raised his sword.
The army stirred.
From the ranks, Marshal Darius Vahn — a grizzled war veteran with a thick scar across his cheek — rode forward.
"Orders, Lord Vasco?" he asked, voice rough but clear.
Aden didn't look at him. "Break formation into four phalanxes. Push forward in waves. War mages behind the second line. Beast-tamers ready flanking movements. Tell the Black Talon unit to watch the eastern ridge — that's where the second wave will come from."
Darius nodded once, then bellowed commands. The army shifted like a living beast shaking off sleep. Shields locked. Spears leveled.
Aden whispered, "March."
And they charged.
The first contact was brutal. Liches stood behind walls of twisted bone, chanting foul spells. Arcane flames lit the sky. Bolts of necrotic magic streaked across the field, tearing holes through flesh and armor alike. Screams followed — short, sharp, and final.
Aden raced ahead, blade carving through summoned undead like silk. His footwork was perfect, not a single wasted movement, not a breath out of rhythm. And yet—
The Liches kept coming.
"Yeah, this is going great," Egmund snarked. "You kill five, they raise fifteen. Real efficient use of stamina."
"I'm working on it."
Behind him, Captain Lyselle — one of the Twelfth Pillar's youngest but fiercest tacticians — called out a warning. "The left flank's collapsing! We've got a mana drain curse eating through the mages' barrier!"
"Tell them to pull back ten paces and reinforce with elemental wards," Aden shouted, slashing through a howling ghoul. "And keep the beast line tethered!"
The battlefield groaned like a dying animal.
Ten minutes became thirty.
Dozens became hundreds.
And still the dead rose.
Aden stood atop a blood-soaked hill, panting, armor cracked, and body screaming from a dozen shallow wounds. Below him, the field was a tapestry of carnage — torn banners, shattered spears, and far too many corpses that wore his crest.
A quarter of his army. Gone.
He stared down at the carnage, and for a moment, the warlord façade cracked.
Am I even cut out for this? he thought. Or was I just pretending?
Was I just living through another man's prophecy?
He clenched his jaw, turning to regroup — but the air shifted.
The sky pulsed.
A shriek tore through the battlefield — not from the living, not even from the dead — but something worse. A creature of ritual. A High Lich.
A black lance of cursed lightning slammed into him from above before he could react.
Aden was hurled backward like a broken doll, crashing through stone and mud, skidding across the hard-packed ground until he came to a stop near one of the glowing ritual stones. His vision blurred, ringing in his ears.
"Aden?" Egmund's voice cut through the haze, suddenly sharp, no longer mocking. "Hey! Talk to me, man—dammit—come on…"
He tried to speak, but blood filled his mouth.
He looked up, just barely, as he saw towering shadows move across the broken land.
The High Lich's army was advancing.
And the line... was broken.
In the distance, a warhorn faltered mid-blare.
The flame of resistance flickered.
Death had arrived — and it was still hungry.