The ruined fortress plaza stretched cold and stark beneath the high midday sun. Frost coated the shattered stone, sparkling cruelly as the brightness pressed down without mercy. Seventeen Nightbound, bloodied and wearied, held their ground beneath their alpha Kael's unwavering gaze. Beside them stood the five Old Blood wolves, their ember red eyes burning with fierce determination despite the exhaustion that weighed on every muscle and breath. The vampire-like healing from the complete Rite, fused through Ethan and the Blade of Severance, coursed warmly through their veins, knitting cuts and bruises with unnatural speed. Yet even that potent magic struggled to banish the creeping fatigue carved by endless combat since dawn.
The very air hummed with tension, thick, heavy, and unyielding. Despite the bright sun overhead, the swirling mist clung stubbornly, coiling like spectral fingers in the corners of the battlefield. From its depths came the unending hisses, snarls, and shrieks of Malrion's vampire legions which daylight no longer affect because of the Malrion's magic. This relentless, chilling chorus had pressed the packs hard all morning, battering their defenses, wearing down their spirits with every new wave.
At the heart of the chaos stood Ethan, the Blade of Severance heavy and trembling in his worn hands. Its faint light flickered sporadically, shadows playing weird dances across his pale silver hair plastered to his brow by sweat and exhaustion. His amber eyes, calm and steady to the outside world, flickered with a haze of confusion and withdrawal. A strange stillness had taken hold of him, as if his mind itself recoiled, uncertain how to respond to the endless tide of foes. He felt suspended between calm and chaos, his thoughts tangled in a fog of doubt. How could they resist when every enemy slain was replaced by two more? What move could turn this tide when the moon had yet to rise over the bloodied field?
Beside him knelt Helena, her fragile form shaking beneath the fatigue that dragged her down. Her golden eyes dulled, shadows darkening around them, and the fiery warmth of the vial at her neck flickered weakly like a candle fighting a storm. Her trembling fingers barely held her whispered chants, the magic slowly fading beneath the weight of despair. The others formed a circle, a fragile shield around her, Elara, Rufik and Ethan, but its strength felt precarious at best.
Kael's voice rose with resonant authority, cutting through the din like thunder. His broad frame radiated steadfastness, the arm healed by the Rite flexing with primal power. Helena spoke incantations, desperate and urgent, weaving intricate patterns in the air with trembling hands, each word laced with hope and fear. But the Veil remained stubbornly unyielding. Her magic found no purchase; her voice seemed to vanish against the tide.
On the battlefield's edge, the generals, Malrion, swathed in a cloak of frost; Varek, with his cold hollow gaze; Draven, fingers crackling with erratic flame; and Sylra, shadows twisting like living smoke around her, commanded the endless horde with merciless precision. Their insidious strategies turned waves of vampire legions into a singular, brutal weapon.
Kael's Nightbound sent arrow after arrow soaring, their tips shattering ice and flame alike. Rufik in fury, now up to fight, danced through enemy ranks, blade flashing in lethal arcs. Ethan's shockwaves blasted forward, sending foes reeling, but with every downed enemy, more rose from the swirling mist, spectral and innumerable.
Helena's strength faltered. Her chant broke, her body nearly collapse. Yet their ring of unity stood firm, a precarious fortress around the foursome,Ethan, Rufik, Helena, and Elara, the last bastion against darkness. The sun edged upward, becoming cooler, the battle still in the relentless afternoon. Movements slowed, limbs heavy and sluggish. The packs' resilience flickered on the edge of fraying as exhaustion gnawed mercilessly.
Ethan's calm deepened, now mixed with a quiet resignation and wild confusion. His grip on the Blade of Severance loosened; the blade lowered as his searching gaze sought salvation in the endless folds of mist. His thoughts raced silently, trapped between urge and inaction.
Then, as if the very air changed its breath, the mist thickened suddenly, boiling up like spilled ink. The biting cadence of battle paused, silence swiftly snatched from chaos. All turned their eyes to the shifting haze as a single figure emerged, a moving shadow against the gray.
He wore a long black coat, flowing with the air as he descended with unnatural grace. His pale silver hair streamed behind him, catching stray red sunlight like threads spun from moonlight. Taller and broader than any wolf or warrior present, his presence alone commanded a silence that hushed fear and hope alike. In his hand gleamed a long sword, sharp and ancient. His movements were fluid and breathtakingly fast, a predator that had stalked through a thousand years, borne of shadow and light.
The packs stared, frozen in awe and disbelief, as the stranger slipped into the fray. His blade was a silver blur, slashing and striking with deadly precision, cleaving through Malrion's summoned vampire legions. The icy, fiery, and shadowy wraiths that had haunted them since morning fell like autumn leaves before an unstoppable storm.
In mere moments, the verse of carnage was rewritten: the sprawling plaza cleared. None of the cursed legions evaded his wrath. The exhaustion that had shackled the Nightbound and Old Blood vanished like smoke, replaced by stunned silence and widened eyes.
From the haze, the generals retreated, spectral silhouettes swallowed once more by the encroaching mist. Their cruel laughter, once ringing clear, was abruptly silenced, cut short as the long-forgotten tide turned.
The enigmatic figure turned then, limbs steady and deliberate, and strode toward the packs clustered protectively around Ethan, Rufik, Helena, and Elara. The calm tension rebounded swiftly into wary readiness. Weapons glittered, blades flashed, arrows nocked, yet none made a move to strike.
He stopped before them, standing taller still, a shadow cast long beneath the blood-red sun. His voice was calm, deep, and low, carrying the weight of authority and ancient justice.
"Who are you?", Asked Kael
"I am Vahriun," he said, the pale silver hair cascading like a banner catching the light. "The Defender of the Nocturne, Enforcer of Good."