The gravity spell descended.
Thorne didn't scream. The sound that escaped him was a sickening crunch as the invisible force slammed him into the mud. His knees shattered against the stone pavement. His head bowed, forced down by the weight of a collapsing star. He was pinned, struggling just to draw breath into his crushed lungs.
From the hollow of the tree roots, Aael and Rian watched, their blood freezing in their veins. They were statues of terror, unable to blink, unable to breathe.
But Rian was his father's son.
Seeing the invincible Chieftain forced to bow—seeing the monster floating above him with that cold, arrogant gaze—something snapped inside the boy. The fear didn't vanish, but it was eclipsed by a blinding, white-hot rage.
Rian scrambled out from the mossy curtain of the roots. He didn't have his wooden sword. He didn't have a plan. He snatched a jagged stone from the mud, the size of an apple.
"LEAVE HIM ALONE!"
Rian's voice cracked, high and desperate, echoing across the silent square. He hurled the stone with all his might.
It sailed through the air, a pathetic gray arc against the dark sky. Clack. It bounced harmlessly off the Lich's ribcage, falling into the mud.
The High Lich stopped. Slowly, terrifyingly slowly, he turned his skull to look at the small boy standing in the open.
Thorne, pressed into the dirt, forced his head up. His eyes widened in horror. "No..." he wheezed, blood bubbling past his lips. "Rian... Aael... run!"
Azaroth looked at the child. He did not feel anger. He felt mild annoyance, like a man swatting a fly.
"Vermin," the Lich rasped.
He raised his staff. The green fire in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a void-like darkness. He pointed the skull-tip directly at Rian and Aael, who was now peeking out from the roots, paralyzed by the gaze of the monster.
The Lich spoke, the words vibrating the very air around them.
"Ignis... Umbra... Khol."
At the tip of the staff, the air screamed. A sphere of fire materialized—not orange, not green, but a swirling, chaotic ball of pure blackness, rimmed with violet lightning. It crackled with the sound of a thousand snapping bones.
Rian stood frozen, his small chest heaving, realizing too late the magnitude of his mistake. Aael couldn't even close his eyes. They watched death form in front of them.
The Lich flicked his wrist.
The black fireball shot forward. It didn't fly; it roared, tearing up the ground beneath it as it raced toward the children.
Thorne saw the fire.
In that fraction of a second, the gravity spell didn't matter. The broken bones didn't matter. The fact that he was already a dead man walking didn't matter.
He didn't stand up; he exploded from the ground. Driven by a power older and deeper than any magic—the primal instinct of a father—Thorne threw himself into the path of the spell.
He didn't have time to attack. He only had time to block. He planted his feet in front of his sons and raised the jagged greatsword.
BOOM.
The impact was silent, creating a vacuum that sucked the sound out of the world. Then came the heat.
The black fire washed over Thorne. The greatsword he held disintegrated instantly, turning to metallic dust. The armor on his arms melted. His skin blistered and charred in a heartbeat.
But he did not move.
He stood like a statue of iron, taking the full force of the void fire, his body acting as the shield for the two small boys cowering in his shadow.
The spell dissipated. Smoke curled from Thorne's body. He swayed, a ruin of a man, burnt and broken beyond recognition.
"Father!" Rian screamed, reaching out to touch the smoking cloak. "Father!"
Thorne didn't turn around. He couldn't. If he moved, he would fall. He kept his eyes fixed on the Lich, his vision fading to black. He summoned the last breath in his lungs, a rasping whisper that carried all the love and command he had left.
"Run," Thorne choked out. "Don't... look... back."
Thorne was ready for the darkness. He felt his heart stutter, the beats becoming irregular and faint. The pain was gone, replaced by the numb cold of approaching death.