The wind that blew across the Cursed Plains carried no scent of life, only the cold breath of death and decay. The sky stretched endlessly above in a dull shade of red and black, where clouds churned like boiling smoke. Each gust of wind screamed as if it carried the pain of countless lost souls, and every footstep sank slightly into the ashen soil that once might have been the bones of fallen warriors.
Draven walked at the head of his army, his cloak torn but flowing like a shadow given life. His armor glowed faintly with veins of dark energy that pulsed like a living heart. Behind him, the legions marched — thousands of soldiers of different races and realms united under one banner, their steps forming a rhythm that shook the dead earth. The sound was not just that of marching feet; it was the echo of defiance, the heartbeat of resistance against Varhos, the Demon King.
Everywhere they looked, the world reminded them of Varhos's cruelty. Obsidian towers jutted out of the ground at odd angles, as though the land itself had rebelled and been frozen mid-scream. The ground trembled with each passing minute, whispering secrets in forgotten tongues. Faint shapes moved beneath the surface — shadows trapped in eternal torment, clawing at the walls of their unseen prison.
Aris flew ahead on her blackened wings, her silver hair catching the faint crimson light of the false sun that hung above. She surveyed the land, then descended swiftly beside Draven. "The plains stretch for miles," she said, her voice low. "No shelter. No water. Just emptiness and echoes. Varhos wants to exhaust us before we reach his citadel."
Draven's gaze didn't waver. "He underestimates what exhaustion means to those who've already died once."
Valen, the beast lord, growled under his breath, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. "The air stinks of something worse than death. His creatures are near."
Draven nodded. His shadow flickered around his boots, whispering softly like restless spirits. They could sense it too — something moving beneath the surface of the plains, something vast and ancient. He raised a hand, and the army halted. The silence that followed was heavy, almost suffocating.
Then the ground split open.
From the fissures burst creatures of nightmare — enormous beasts with bodies of molten rock and wings made of bone, their faces twisted into permanent screams. Their eyes burned with the crimson glow of Varhos's power. The first of them landed with a roar that shattered the quiet, and then the battle began.
Draven's army formed ranks instantly. Arrows of shadowlight flew from the archers, each shot piercing through the air with deadly precision. Mages unleashed waves of black fire that tore through the front line of beasts. Valen charged forward, his claws glowing, tearing through flesh and bone with primal fury. Aris soared above, hurling spears of pure energy into the creatures' skulls.
But for every beast that fell, two more took its place. The ground itself seemed to give birth to them endlessly.
Draven stepped forward, his sword humming with power. The world darkened around him as his shadow expanded, rising higher and higher until it blotted out the false sun. He spoke a word in the ancient tongue, and the ground erupted with black fire. The beasts froze, their molten bodies cracking as shadowfire crawled through them, consuming their cores.
The explosion that followed turned night into day. When the light faded, silence returned. The creatures were gone — nothing remained but smoldering craters and the faint hum of power that lingered in the air.
Draven stood at the center of it all, his sword buried in the ground, his breathing steady. The shadowfire around him subsided slowly, retreating into his body like smoke drawn into a flame.
Kael approached from behind, his armor still glowing faintly from battle. "They were sent to slow us down. Not destroy us."
Draven looked up, his expression unreadable. "Varhos is testing me. He's learning how far he can push before I break."
Valen spat into the ashes. "Then let him test. We'll keep walking until his world burns."
The army resumed its march. The further they went, the stranger the land became. Trees of bone rose from the ground, their branches swaying despite the lack of wind. Rivers of blood flowed backward, defying gravity, while fragments of the sky occasionally broke apart, crashing into the earth as molten stone. The laws of nature meant nothing here. This was Varhos's realm, a reflection of his madness and power.
Aris landed beside Draven again. "We've seen no sign of the fortress ahead. Are we certain we're still on the right path?"
Draven closed his eyes for a moment. The shadows around him moved independently, spreading across the land like ink through water. They slithered over the ground, feeling, searching, listening. Then his eyes snapped open. "The path is shifting. He's trying to lead us in circles."
"So the land itself obeys him," Kael said quietly.
"Everything here does," Draven replied. "But the shadows belong to me."
He extended his hand, and the shadows suddenly pulsed outward, latching onto the cracks of reality itself. The world rippled. The illusion broke, revealing a distant glow — the outline of massive spires rising from the far horizon. The second-to-last fortress.
"There," Draven said. "The gateway to the Citadel."
But before they could move, the air around them thickened. The wind stopped. The shadows that had once answered Draven's command now trembled. He felt it instantly — that ancient, suffocating presence pressing down upon his soul.
Varhos was here.
The voice came like a whisper and a roar at once, echoing in every mind across the battlefield. "You keep walking into my darkness, little shadow. You kill my beasts, my servants, my generals — yet you do not see. Each victory brings you closer to me because my power lives inside you."
Draven's vision blurred for a moment. His heartbeat echoed with two rhythms — his own and another, deeper one, like the pulse of a vast heart beneath the world. His sword trembled in his grip as shadows wrapped around his arms, whispering in languages older than time.
He fell to one knee, his body burning from within.
"Draven!" Aris shouted, landing beside him.
He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand. "He's trying to invade my mind."
Varhos's laughter filled the air. "Invade? You are mine already. You wield my fire, my gift. You are the blade I forged long before you knew your name."
Draven roared and drove his sword into the ground. The earth exploded in waves of shadowfire that spread across the plains, pushing back the voice. For a moment, the world went still again. The heartbeat faded. His breathing slowed.
Valen stepped forward cautiously. "Are you in control?"
Draven looked up, his eyes glowing brighter than ever. "I am." But deep inside, he wasn't sure.
Night fell again, if night could even exist in this place. The army made camp beneath a sky that shifted between stars and storms. Draven sat alone at the edge of the encampment, staring into the horizon where the next fortress waited. The flames of the campfire flickered, casting shadows that twisted into shapes and faces before dissolving again.
He heard a sound — footsteps behind him. Aris approached silently, carrying a flask of shadowsteel water. "You haven't rested once," she said, offering it to him.
"I can't afford to," Draven replied. "Every time I close my eyes, I see him. Varhos. He's not waiting in his citadel anymore. He's already inside this war."
Aris sat beside him, watching the horizon. "Then we'll burn him out. Together."
Draven didn't answer right away. His gaze stayed on the flickering fire. "When I face him," he said at last, "I won't be fighting a king. I'll be fighting a part of myself."
The silence that followed was heavy. The wind shifted, carrying with it a faint whisper — almost like a voice calling Draven's name. He looked up sharply, but there was nothing there. Only the endless plains, and the faint glow of the fortress far ahead.
He rose to his feet and turned toward his army. "At dawn, we march. No matter what the land throws at us, we keep moving. Varhos thinks he owns this realm — we'll show him what happens when shadows choose their own master."
The soldiers responded with a unified roar that rolled across the plains like thunder. The firelight reflected in their eyes, and for a moment, it seemed as though the night itself bent to their will.
As the army settled for the night, Draven looked once more toward the horizon. The fortress seemed closer now, its black walls gleaming faintly in the distance. Lightning flashed above it, revealing for an instant the shape of something vast and winged coiled around its highest tower.
Varhos was watching. Waiting.
And Draven, wrapped in shadows and fury, whispered to the wind, "Soon."