The ground trembled beneath Wyatt’s feet, and the eerie screeches of the approaching creatures filled the air. His grip tightened around his hammer as he tried to steady his breathing. The Royal Guards stood firm, weapons drawn, while the city’s soldiers rushed to fortify their defenses. The streets of Winterspire, once blanketed in a pristine layer of frost, now lay in disarray as rubble and ice crashed from above.

  Uriel’s battle staff pulsed with energy, the deep orange glow illuminating the chaos around them. "Whatever these things are, we hold the line!" he barked, his voice resolute despite the uncertainty of their enemy.

  Khandem let out a low curse. "Be ready, lads! Ready your arms and keep your wits about! This fight will be unlike any before!"

  Cassian stepped beside Wyatt, shield raised. "You ever see anything like this before?"

  "Not even in my worst nightmares," Wyatt admitted. His heart pounded as the first of the creatures lunged forward.

  They were grotesque, twisted things—half-shadow, half-flesh, their forms constantly shifting as though they had been torn from the fabric of reality itself. Hollow eyes stared out from featureless faces, and their clawed limbs twitched unnaturally as they scuttled down the icy remains of Everfrost Capital.

  The first wave struck hard.

  Wyatt barely had time to react before one of the creatures leaped at him. Instinct took over—he swung his hammer upward, colliding with the beast’s chest. It let out a distorted shriek as the force sent it flying backward. Uriel was already moving, his staff slicing through the air, arcs of flame searing through the dark forms as he combusted air into pure fire.

  "Focus on keeping them away from the civilians!" Uriel commanded, drowning a wave of them as he turned ice into rubble.

  From the rooftops, archers loosed arrows, their shafts glowing with enchanted fire. Some struck true, piercing through the amorphous bodies of the creatures, causing them to erupt in bursts of black mist. Others simply phased through, as if the creatures weren’t fully tethered to the physical realm. The realization sent a chill down Wyatt’s spine.

  "We can’t hold them!" one of the royal guards shouted. "They’re phasing in and out!"

  Uriel gritted his teeth. "Then we hit them before they fully form!" Khandem swung his axe with reckless abandon, weaving through the creatures' chaotic attacks as best he could. "Come and get some! I can do this all night!"

  The battle raged in the streets, the air thick with the clash of steel and the cries of both man and monster. Khandem and Cassian fought side by side, the dwarf’s war axe carving through the creatures with brutal precision, while Cassian’s shield bore the brunt of every incoming attack. The Royal Guards coordinated in practiced unison, forming defensive lines where they could and taking out countless enemies without losing a single one of their own, but for every creature they felled, more took their place.

  Wyatt barely managed to knock back another twisted creature before turning to Uriel, his breath heavy. "Uriel!" he called out, parrying a set of jagged claws. "What happened to Lord Rykard?! He should have been here, fighting alongside us!"

  Uriel struck down a beast with his battle staff, then cast a quick glance toward Everfrost Capital. His expression was grim. "He’s still in the castle," he said between strikes. "Suspended. Trapped in some kind of stasis. I found the halls abandoned, and immediately rushed to the throne room. I tried reaching him when the attack began, but he's bound in some sort of barrier, sealed—arcane bindings, mana manipulation unlike anything I’ve ever seen."

  Wyatt’s grip tightened around his hammer, the weight of the revelation settling in his chest. "Then he's still alive?" he pressed.

  "Hopefully, yes," Uriel confirmed. "But we have to hurry. If these creatures are still here in the streets, then who knows what happening inside the castle." He said as he blocked a bite from a creature using his battle staff, its hollow-eyed, humanoid features gnawing at him.

  Another creature lunged at Wyatt, cutting the conversation short. But the thought of Lord Rykard—frozen, unable to act while his city burned—gnawed at his mind even as the battle raged on.

  Wyatt ducked under a sweeping claw, he shouted as he swung his hammer hard onto another beast. The moment of impact was powerful enough to send the creature toward a group, knocking them down to the ground, surprising Khandem and Cassian. But there was no time to celebrate the small victory—more were coming, and the sheer number of them was overwhelming.

  Then, the sky darkened.

  A guttural voice echoed through the streets, a chilling presence that froze Wyatt’s blood in his veins. "You struggle...in vain," it whispered, layered with countless voices speaking in unison. "Your world is his to claim, as was foretold, and as was destined to be."

  Atop the ruined tower of Everfrost Capital, a figure emerged—a towering being clad in tattered robes, its face obscured beneath a hood of swirling darkness. It raised one hand, and from the depths of its sleeve, a black sigil burned against the night sky.

  Khandem’s breath hitched. "What in the..."

  Wyatt turned to him. "Who is that?!"

  Khandem swallowed hard. "I don't know who he is, but that sigil...that represents eternal suffering. Limbo."

  Before Wyatt could ask further, the being raised its arm, and the shadows themselves seemed to respond. A portal tore open behind it, an abyss of writhing darkness, and more of the creatures began pouring through.

  The defenders of Winterspire were being pushed back, forced into a desperate retreat. Even Uriel, for all his power, struggled to contain the seemingly endless horde. Wyatt clenched his jaw as royal guards, soldiers and civilians alike were surrounded from all sides. This wasn’t a battle they could win through sheer force alone.

  And then, the tide shifted.

  A warhorn echoed through the frozen city, deep and thunderous, shaking the very foundation of the battlefield. The sound sent the creatures into a momentary frenzy, their movements faltering. From the northern gates of Winterspire, the banners of the Dwarven Legions emerged, gilded in gold and steel. Hundreds of dwarven warriors charged forth, their weapons gleaming beneath the moonlight.

  Leading them was a figure unlike any other.

  Sindras, the elder king of House Stormguard, rode at the forefront, his armor etched with ancient runes that glowed faintly with mana. His presence alone seemed to radiate authority, and as he raised his scepter high, a wave of energy surged forward, rattling the monstrous horde.

  Wyatt had never seen anything like it. He stood in awe at the sheer display of mana.

  The dwarves crashed into the battle, their discipline and strength turning the tide in mere moments. The mysterious figure let out a frustrated hiss, its fingers tightening into a fist. The shadows stirred violently, forming monstrous shapes in an attempt to overwhelm the new arrivals.

  But Sindras would not allow it. He waved his scepter outward, and the very air around him seemed to crack. "I sense the presence of a marked weapon." He turned around searched hard, and found Wyatt catching his breath, with his war hammer in hand.

  "You there! Come forward!"

  The young warrior rushed toward the dwarven king, panting from exhaustion. Sindras studied him for a brief moment before nodding. "Your weapon… It bears the faint remnants of a dwarven rune. Hold it out for me, quickly." He asked.

  Wyatt’s eyes widened. "Y-yes, your majesty!" He stammered as he was still catching his breath.

  Sindras placed a firm hand on Wyatt’s hammer, his own mana surging into the weapon. An unfamiliar rune shimmered to life, though faintly, as though awakening from a long slumber. "It is incomplete… but it can still serve its purpose tonight."

  Wyatt felt an odd warmth spread through his fingertips. Sindras stepped back and spoke with quiet authority. "I've temporarily awakened a glimpse of its true potential. Envision it. See the world breaking apart beneath them. Feel the power take form."

  Doubt gnawed at Wyatt’s mind, but there was no time to hesitate. He gripped the hammer tightly, closed his eyes, and envisioned exactly what Sindras instructed as he stepped forward and faced the oncoming wave.

  A crack in the world.

  The moment his hammer struck the earth, a shockwave erupted outward, sending tremors racing across the battlefield. The ground beneath the creatures splintered, forming deep fissures that swallowed them whole. The screeches of the hollowed, humanoid figures filled the air as they plunged into the abyss.

  Uriel, understanding what needed to be done, raised his staff and unleashed an immense surge of mana. The chasm began to close, sealing the creatures within the earth itself. Silence followed, the battlefield momentarily still.

  Sindras let out a breath, satisfied. "Well done."

  Wyatt could hardly believe it. His hammer—his father’s creation—had wielded such power.

  But Sindras wasn’t finished. He turned to Wyatt, his expression unreadable. "You've exceeded my expectations, boy…I'm glad we caught you just in time." The dwarven king turned to Uriel. "Thank you for your help with the situation in the North. This expedition will be escorted personally to Ghor Nheram." Uriel bowed in response. "It's the least we could do, Your Majesty. We wouldn't have made it out of here alive without your help."

  Khandem looked up sharply. "My King!" He said as he bowed, catching his breath. "I'm sorry if we took too long! What news at the front?" Sindras acknowledged his presence. "It's good to see you alive and well, Khandem. Vargas awaits us. But time is not on our side." He continued.

  Before they could move, Uriel stepped forward, his expression grave. "Your Majesty, before we depart, I need your assistance." His tone was urgent as he explained Lord Rykard's current situation. Sindras listened in silence, his expression hardening with each word.

  "Blessed ancestors..." he muttered under his breath. "If what you say is true, we must act swiftly." His eyes flickered toward the ruined castle. "To the throne room. Now!"

  Without hesitation, the two moved as one, pushing through the remnants of the battlefield toward Everfrost Capital. The dwarves, despite their exhaustion, greeted the Royal Guards and soldiers alike, their discipline unwavering. Khandem wasted no time in taking charge, barking orders to secure the safety of the civilians.

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  Wyatt followed closely, but his mind was restless as he wanted answers. Without a moment's hesitation, he ran and attempted to catch up to the two, who were already at gates. As Wyatt neared the castle, he cast one last glance at the ruined tower—the place where the mysterious figure had stood. The sigil that had burned in the night sky was gone, as if it had never been there.

  But he knew better. This was only the beginning.

  With the battle ended, the two pressed forward into the castle with Wyatt rushing behind them. The throne room lay in utter ruin, shattered pillars and collapsed walls painting a grim picture of the destruction. At its center, suspended behind a pulsating barrier of arcane energy, was Lord Rykard—unmoving, frozen in time.

  Sindras slowly approached, his expression dark. "These runes... they do not belong to any known dwarven script. This is ancient—forgotten magic." He said after studying the barrier.

  Uriel stepped forward. "Can you break it?"

  Sindras tightened his grip on Tharnok, his scepter. "If there is a way, I will find it." He closed his eyes as he delved deep into the knowledge passed down through dwarven ancestry, tracing the runes with his fingers. Slowly, he asked for Uriel's assistance, and with their combined strengths, unraveled the intricate weave of magic.

  With a final surge of energy, the barrier shattered into pieces, with solid shards falling onto the floor, and dissipating as if they never existed. Lord Rykard collapsed in a bundled mess. Uriel immediately dropped to the floor to search for a pulse, and breathed a sigh of relief after he had detected a faint heartbeat. The Warden of the North was unconscious, but alive.

  "We cannot leave him here," Sindras declared. "He comes with us to Ghor Nheram." Uriel agreed with the king. His original orders were to bring him back to the Capital City, but given the circumstances, this was the safest alternative. "I trust your judgment, Your Majesty. We'll leave immediately." Wyatt managed to catch up with them in time, seeing Sindras and Uriel carrying the unconscious noble's body.

  "Lord Rykard! Is he..." Wyatt feared for the worst. "Not to worry, he's alive, but he needs rest." Wyatt helped Uriel carry the Warden as Sindras looked on, observing Wyatt's features. "You there, you remind me of someone I used to know. You did well on the battlefield as well. Utilizing a marked weapon's power without proper practice is no easy task."

  Uriel chuckled. "Well of course, he's the son of the Ironclad, Your Majesty. What more would you expect?"

  The king’s eyes widened at the revelation. "You... you're the son of Dale Blackwood?"

  Wyatt straightened, unsure of what to make of the sudden shift in Sindras’ expression. The dwarven king, a warrior and diplomat known for his unshakable composure, seemed caught between shock and something deeper—reverence, perhaps, or a long-buried sorrow. His fingers tightened around the shaft of his scepter, and for the briefest moment, the hardened ruler looked like a man grasping at the threads of the past.

  "Dale Blackwood…" Sindras breathed, as if tasting the name for the first time in decades. His gaze, heavy with the weight of memory, locked onto Wyatt’s. "By the ancestors… I never thought I would see his legacy walk this realm again."

  A rare smile, small but genuine, broke through the king’s stern exterior. "Your father was more than just a warrior. He was a brother-in-arms. A craftsman of unmatched skill. A man who left his mark not only in steel and stone but in the hearts of those who fought beside him." Sindras let out a deep breath, as if centering himself. "And now his son stands before me, wielding a weapon not yet whole, but already strong. Perhaps fate does have a sense of humor after all."

  Wyatt felt the weight of those words settle in his chest. He had always known his father was a great man, but hearing it from the mouth of a dwarven king made it feel… different. More real.

  Sindras clapped him on the shoulder, his grip firm. "You have much to prove, lad. But if you are truly your father’s son, then perhaps there is still hope in these dark times."

  Uriel chuckled. "Oh, there’s no doubt about that, Your Majesty. He’s got his father’s stubbornness, too." He jested as he shifted his center of balance to carry Lord Rykard.

  Sindras let out a hearty laugh, one that carried through the throne room like the echo of a forge’s fire. "Then may the sacred ancestors help us all."

  ***

  Their journey to Ghor Nheram was long and arduous, the frozen landscape stretching endlessly before them. As they traveled, Sindras shared stories of the dwarven capital, of the battles fought to defend its halls from frost drakes and the fiendish invaders alike. Wyatt listened intently, his thoughts a whirlwind of uncertainty. He had proven himself tonight, but the road ahead was far from over. Each step forward brought him closer to a destiny he had yet to fully understand, and with Lord Rykard still unconscious, the weight of responsibility pressed heavier on his shoulders than ever before.

  As they continued their journey to Ghor Nheram, Wyatt rode beside Khandem, his mind still reeling from the battle. "Khandem, those creatures… what were they?"

  The dwarf exhaled sharply. "Things that should not exist in this world. There is a dwarven legend that there exists a being that can command the forsaken souls that wander Limbo, souls that never found their way to the afterlife. Twisting them into monstrosities is its cruel gift."

  Wyatt frowned. "Then that means… these were once people?" Khandem nodded grimly. "Aye. And their suffering is endless."

  Wyatt's eyes widened with sudden realization. "Wait—Limbo. Isn't that the first circle of the seven hells?"

  Khandem frowned in confusion. "What do you mean by that, lad?"

  Taking a deep breath, Wyatt launched into an explanation. He detailed humanity's belief in the seven circles of hell—how they were realms where the souls of the damned were sent, each circle a prison of suffering for those unworthy of Paradise in the Mother's judgment.

  Khandem scratched his beard, his expression thoughtful. "Hold on, you're saying that dwarven legends and human beliefs are connected?"

  Uriel, who had been listening as he rode alongside them, let out a dry chuckle. "After what we faced hours ago? I’d say they’re more than just legends or beliefs now. They’ve become our reality."

  Wyatt hesitated before bringing up another thought. "Sir Byronard once mentioned that a race not of our own could be responsible for these attacks." His brows knitted together. "Could the figure we saw earlier be one of them?"

  Khandem exhaled heavily. "Maybe… but it's too early to say for certain."

  "For now, we have more questions than answers," Uriel added. His gaze flickered toward the cart trailing behind them. "Lord Rykard has spent his life studying the Divine and the nature of our world. If anyone can help us understand what’s happening, it's him."

  They turned their eyes toward the unconscious Warden, lying beneath thick blankets to shield him from the cold, his face pale but steady in sleep. Whatever lay ahead, their hopes rested on him waking before it was too late.

  After hours of travel, the expedition and the dwarven army finally crested a frozen ridge, and there, bathed in the morning glow, stood Ghor Nheram in all its glory. Towering stone fortifications, intricately carved with runes, guarded the entrance to the underground city. Massive golden gates gleamed in the sunlight, their surface adorned with the history of the dwarves, depicting their triumphs and struggles. Smoke curled from countless forges, and the sounds of industry and life echoed even from afar.

  Wyatt and Cassian stared in awe. "By the Mother... it's magnificent," Cassian whispered. Wyatt, speechless, could only nod, overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the dwarven capital. As they entered, Sindras shared stories of the dwarven capital, its great halls echoing with the voices of smiths and scholars alike. Upon arrival, towering stone fortifications guarded the underground city, its golden gates gleaming under the sun.

  Sindras turned to his men. "Escort Lord Rykard and the wounded to the infirmary. Khandem, see to it personally. Uriel, your men will rest in my halls. Eat, drink, recover. You are honored guests."

  But before they could settle, they were met by a broad-shouldered dwarf gripping an imposing war axe. His eyes, sharp as steel, appraised them with a warrior’s scrutiny.

  Without warning, the dwarf snarled, reared back his fist, and drove it straight into Wyatt’s jaw. The force sent the young warrior stumbling back, stars bursting in his vision. The entire expedition stared at them, eyes wide open, shocked at the turn of events.

  Wyatt staggered back, pain exploding across his jaw as the force of the punch nearly knocked him off his feet. He caught himself, breathing heavily, his head spinning. The taste of iron filled his mouth as he wiped the blood from the corner of his lips. His eyes snapped to the dwarf responsible, burning with fury.

  "Hey! Who in the seven hells do you think you are?!" he snarled. "And what was that for?!"

  The broad-shouldered dwarf flexed his knuckles, clearly satisfied with his handiwork. "That one was for looking exactly like him." He paused, tilting his head. "Well, not exactly like him," he admitted with a growl. Then, with a deep breath, he exhaled as though he had just lifted a great weight from his chest. "Sacred ancestors, that felt good."

  Wyatt’s grip tightened around his hammer. Rage boiled over, overriding reason. With a battle cry, he lifted the weapon, preparing to bring it crashing down on the dwarf’s skull.

  But before he could build momentum, Uriel and Khandem seized him by the arms.

  "Calm yourself, lad!" Khandem grunted, digging his heels into the ground as he fought against Wyatt’s strength. "This is no time to be picking a fight—especially not in your current state! And especially not with him!"

  Uriel, his fingers clenched tightly around Wyatt’s other arm, gritted his teeth. "By the Divines, Wyatt, stand down!" Sweat beaded at his forehead as he struggled to hold the furious young warrior back.

  Wyatt fought against their restraint, his breathing ragged. "I won’t back down unless I get an answer!" he roared. "Who in the seven hells are you?!"

  Cassian and a few others rushed in, adding their weight to restrain Wyatt. Even with five men holding him, he refused to yield. His muscles strained, every fiber of his being demanding retribution.

  The dwarf barked out a short, amused laugh. "Hah! Look at that! A Blackwood through and through!" His eyes gleamed with recognition. "A few men won’t be enough to hold off that monstrous strength—he gets it from his father."

  The name sent a shockwave through the group. Wyatt stilled for just a moment, glaring daggers at the dwarf. His father? What did he have to do with any of this?

  The dwarf waved a hand dismissively. "Let go of him," he said, almost lazily.

  Khandem shot him an incredulous look. "Are you mad?! He’s about ready to tear your damn head off!"

  "I said let go of him already!" the dwarf snapped. "I just needed to blow off some steam."

  A tense silence followed. After exchanging uncertain glances, Uriel and the others reluctantly released their grip.

  Wyatt wasted no time.

  The moment he was free, he lunged, his hammer swinging in a blur. The dwarf barely had time to react before the impact sent him staggering back a step. Gasps of shock rippled through the gathered warriors—everyone except Sindras, who merely sighed and rubbed his temples.

  The dwarf recovered quickly, grinning wide as he cracked his neck. "Not bad, lad." Then, with a speed that belied his stocky frame, he slammed a fist into Wyatt’s stomach.

  The air rushed from Wyatt’s lungs. He doubled over, his knees hitting the ground as he struggled to breathe.

  The dwarf loomed over him. "Was that all you go—"

  Wyatt didn’t let him finish.

  With a savage growl, he surged upward and smashed his forehead into the dwarf’s nose. The impact was brutal. The dwarf stumbled back, blinking in surprise before bursting into booming laughter.

  "Now that’s more like it!" he bellowed. "Hah! You’ve got some fire in you, lad!"

  The brawl erupted into a chaotic whirlwind of blows. Wyatt fought like a man possessed, fueled by equal parts rage and determination. The dwarf, however, matched him strike for strike, taking the punishment with a grin and dishing out twice as much in return.

  Minutes passed, each one marked by the sound of fists meeting flesh.

  Then, it was over.

  Wyatt sat slumped against an iron pillar, his chest heaving, his body bruised and aching. His right eye had already begun to swell shut, and blood trickled from his lip. He barely had the strength to lift his head.

  The dwarf stood victorious, arms crossed, a satisfied smirk on his face. He approached Wyatt and crouched down. "You’ve got no quit in you, lad… I’ll give you that much."

  Wyatt glared at him through the haze of pain and exhaustion. He spat a glob of blood at the dwarf’s feet.

  The dwarf merely chuckled. "Defiant until the very end," he mused. "That’s the thing I liked about your father."

  The words hit Wyatt harder than any punch. His father. Again. His mind reeled, demanding answers.

  Before he could speak, Sindras stepped forward and smacked the dwarf upside the head.

  "Are you done with your antics?" the dwarven king demanded. "This is not how we treat our guests."

  The dwarf grunted, rubbing the back of his head. "Well, he wasn’t a guest of mine unless he passed. And he did."

  Despite everything, Wyatt gritted his teeth and forced himself to his feet. He swayed unsteadily but remained standing. He clenched his fists, determination overriding his battered body.

  "I’ll… ask again…" he panted, barely able to form words. "Who… in the seven hells… are you?"

  The dwarf grinned, stepping close enough that Wyatt could see the scars lining his face.

  "Me?" His voice rumbled with amusement. "I’m King Vargas of House Stormguard." His grin widened. "And I have a feeling we’ll get along just fine, lad."

  Wyatt’s vision blurred. His body could take no more.

  The last thing he heard before darkness took him was the deep, echoing laughter of King Vargas.

  Then, everything went black.