The Crimson Spires trembled as Aravos, Lirael, and Draven erupted from the tunnels into the lower bailey—a vast killing ground ringed by iron-barred gates now buckling under werewolf assault. Moonlight silvered the chaos: vampire sentinels hurled shadow-lances from ramparts, piercing furred hides, while Wildmoons packs swarmed like a living tide, earth-magic upheaving flagstones into jagged barricades. Howls drowned the screams, gales from shaman paws flinging defenders into walls with bone-crunching force.
Thorne Blackfang dominated the fray, a monolithic terror twice a man's height, fur storm-black and rippling with power. His claws rent a gatepost like parchment, lunar energy crackling in arcs that vaporized shadows on contact. "Voss blood ends tonight!" he bellowed, voice a landslide rumble. "Heartstone calls—the Veil falls!"
Aravos vaulted a barricade, shadows exploding outward in a radial storm—tendrils spearing three werewolves mid-leap, their gales dissipating into harmless gusts. "For Grigoryn!" he roared, crimson eyes locking on Thorne. Lirael crouched behind him, locket blazing like a beacon, its runes mapping the Heartstone's pulse—a throbbing nexus deep in Wildmoon territory, drawing nearer with each rift-tear.
Draven barreled past, greatsword a whirlwind cleaving a path through lesser beasts. "Flank him, boy! I'll draw the alpha's ire!" His blade met Thorne's claw in a cataclysmic clash—sparks erupted, shockwave hurling thralls aside. Earth spikes lanced from the ground toward Draven, who shattered them with a shadow-infused swing.
Lirael rose, heart pounding. Sun's daughter—the words burned true; power stirred in her veins, unfamiliar heat blooming from the locket. She channeled it instinctively: a beam of captured sunlight lanced out, searing a werewolf shaman's flank. The beast shrieked, its gale collapsing as fur blistered. "It works here," she gasped, awe mixing with terror.
Thorne whirled, yellow eyes narrowing on the light. "The tear-witch! Kill her!" A pack veered toward Lirael, but Aravos intercepted—shadows weaving into a colossal serpent that crushed them in coils of night. He reached her side, back-to-back. "Stay close—the locket's your blade now."
Their alliance shone: Aravos's elegant darkness parried earthen assaults, Lirael's radiant bursts blinding foes, buying Draven openings. The lord landed a brutal gash on Thorne's shoulder, drawing first blood—black ichor steaming on stone.
But Thorne laughed, wound knitting under lunar glow. He slammed paws earthward; a chasm yawned, swallowing vampires whole. "Fools! The alignment begins—the Heartstone rises!" The ground heaved, rifts spiderwebbing outward, spilling Eldorian night-fog that withered vampire flesh.
Aravos glimpsed it—a subterranean glow erupting from Wildmoon depths, the Heartstone ascending like a second moon. Thorne retreated into the breach, packs covering his flight. "Pursue!" Aravos commanded, shadows bridging the chasm.
Draven nodded grimly, Lirael at their heels. The gates lay sundered, Grigoryn's heart exposed—but the chase into enemy wilds beckoned, prophecy's path blood-oiled and treacherous.
Aravos led the pursuit through the sundered gates, shadows propelling their trio into the Wildmoon thicket—a tangled nightmare of thorn-vines and mist-shrouded everblacks, where roots twisted like veins under perpetual moonlight. The air reeked of wet fur and churned earth, werewolf howls fading into strategic barks ahead. Lirael's locket thrummed urgently, its glow cutting the gloom like a compass to the Heartstone's rising pulse, now a seismic drumbeat shaking the forest floor.
"Stay sharp," Aravos hissed, weaving shadows into scouting tendrils that slithered ahead, alerting to ambushes. Draven flanked right, sword low, while Lirael gripped the locket two-handed, her nascent sun-magic flickering—bolts of light piercing fog to reveal trip-vines laced with lunar venom.
The thicket fought back: branches lashed like whips, earth sucking at boots with bog-magic. A werewolf scout lunged from the underbrush, jaws unhinging for a killing bite—Aravos's shadow-spear impaled it mid-air, body twitching as it dissolved into mist.
"They're herding us," Draven grunted, cleaving thorny snares. "Thorne wants the Heartstone bait."
Lirael stumbled, vision blurring from the locket's strain. Flashes assaulted her: mother's face in Thornvale firelight, whispering of hidden blood—Eldoria's lost heir, veiled from assassins. "It's pulling me," she murmured. "Like it knows me."
Deeper in, the trees parted on a chasm-rim. Below, the Heartstone loomed—a colossal crystal pulsing crimson and silver, half-emerged from cavern maw, werewolf shamans circling it in ritual chant. Thorne stood atop, claws embedded, channeling its power: rifts tore wider overhead, spilling Grigoryn night into Eldoria glimpses—villages aflame, knights fleeing shadow-hounds.
"Voss!" Thorne thundered, spotting them. "Join the new age—or perish!" He wrenched the stone; a lunar beam lanced skyward, moons aligning in cataclysmic convergence. Quakes split the rim, hurling Draven to one knee.
Aravos countered instinctively—shadows flooding the chasm like an ink tide, smothering shaman lights. Lirael unleashed her brightest burst yet, sunlight beam striking the Heartstone dead-on; it cracked audibly, Thorne recoiling with a bellow.
But the alpha rallied, earth surging to bury Aravos under rubble. Draven hauled him free, ribs cracked. "The stone—destroy it!"
As Thorne prepared a killing leap, a new howl pierced the din—not enemy, but rogue: a lone werewolf emerged from shadows, scarred and silver-furred, eyes defiant. "Blackfang betrays the old ways!" it snarled in gravel-tongue, lunging at Thorne's flank.
Pandemonium erupted—ally or trap? Aravos seized the moment, shadows racing toward the Heartstone's fracture.