Umbralis struck first.
A dagger of pure void extended from his fist—silent, liquid, aimed straight for Vael's heart. The attack was surgical, meant to end the fight in one breath.
Vael shifted—just enough. The blade sliced empty air. Umbralis twisted, following with a second slash—faster, lower. Vael leaned back, the edge whispering past his throat. He countered with an open palm to Umbralis's ribs. The impact rang like metal on stone. Umbralis slid back three paces, shadows rippling around him in agitation.
They exchanged blows in a blur—Umbralis's strikes venomous and flowing, Vael's calm and precise. Every dodge, every block, every counter was measured. No wasted movement. No anger. Just inevitability.
Then Umbralis smiled—thin, cruel.
He raised both hands.
Darkness erupted.
Not shadow. Not night.
Complete, absolute void.
The stars vanished. The moon disappeared. Light itself ceased to exist. The world collapsed into perfect black—no edges, no depth, no end. One could not see the hand in front of their face, could not tell up from down, could not see who stood beside them or even where they themselves stood.
The skill swallowed everything.
Screams rose immediately—rogues panicking, heroes stumbling. Breathing turned heavy, labored, as though the air had thickened into tar. Fear crawled into lungs. Sorrow pressed against ribs. Minds frayed at the edges—old griefs, buried regrets, sudden hopeless certainty that nothing would ever be right again.
Veyrissa's voice cracked through the dark.
"Umbralis, you fool—are you going to blind us too? You—"
Her words cut off. Swallowed.
Beatrice's violet mana flared—desperate, bright—then guttered like a candle in a storm. Elara's golden healing light tried to bloom, only to be consumed, leaving her hands cold and trembling.
The heroes staggered. Darius swung blindly, blade meeting nothing. Kufa roared in frustration. Haldir's arrow clattered uselessly to the ground. Beatrice clutched her staff, whispering incantations that refused to take shape.
Gruk's laughter died in his throat.
Aamon's blade went still.
Only Vael stood unmoved at the center of the void.
Umbralis's voice slithered through the darkness—close, intimate, amused.
"Once I deal with you and these two clowns," he said, "I suppose the prophecy will be a successful."
Vael murmured, almost to himself.
"Prophecy?"
Umbralis laughed—low, cruel.
"The three of you are like dirt that has to be removed. And that mother of yours… she has to be skinned alive for good."
The words landed.
Vael went silent.
Completely silent.
Then he asked, voice low and steady:
"So you're playing a double game."
He smiled.
The smile was small, tired, and infinitely dangerous.
His eyes opened.
Crimson.
Bright, burning crimson—like the eyes of Deathwing staring out from the abyss.
Umbralis froze.
Vael had known where he was from the beginning—had tracked every shift of shadow, every breath, every heartbeat in the dark.
He struck.
One hand shot forward—straight at Umbralis's face. The void-user had no time to react. The blow connected with the force of a collapsing mountain. Bones shattered—cheek, jaw, orbital socket—collapsing inward in a wet crunch. Umbralis's head snapped back.
Vael grabbed a fistful of Umbralis's hair before he could fall.
Then he pulled.
Veins erupted from Umbralis's skin—thick, pulsing cords ripping free, tearing through flesh in crimson sprays. Umbralis screamed—raw, animal, helpless. The sound echoed in the void, swallowed only by the suffocating black.
Vael leaned in close, voice a whisper against Umbralis's ear.
"You think you're tough."
He opened his other hand.
A portal tore open in front of Umbralis—jagged, burning, edges crackling with volcanic red light. From within came a low, earth-shaking rumble.
Then Deathwing's face filled the rift.
Massive. Obsidian-scaled. Crimson eyes glowing with ancient, amused malice. Jaws parted wide—teeth like blackened steel, breath hot with sulfur and ruin.
Umbralis's scream choked off.
His eyes widened in pure, animal terror.
Deathwing lunged.
One bite.
Umbralis's body vanished in a spray of blood and shadow. Only his skull remained—cleanly severed, hair still clutched in Vael's fist—tumbling to the ground with a wet thud.
Vael closed the portal.
The darkness shattered.
Light returned in a violent rush—stars, moon, torchlight from the heroes' blades. The void collapsed like broken glass.
Veyrissa staggered a step, one hand pressed to her temple as though listening for something that wasn't there anymore.
"Umbralis?" she whispered.
No answer.
Her eyes swept the battlefield. The rogues lay scattered—broken, lifeless, most of them torn apart by Gruk's gleeful rampage. The heroes stood panting, blades dripping, mana still crackling at their fingertips. Only Veyrissa remained.
She smiled—slow, dangerous.
"Fine," she purred. "I'll finish this myself."
Her hands flashed. Crimson threads erupted from her palms—blood manipulation, thick and living. The threads lashed out like whips, wrapping around Aamon in an instant. They tightened, crushing, lifting him off the ground and slamming him down into the dirt with bone-shattering force. Aamon grunted, struggling, but the threads pinned him harder—then dragged him sideways, smashing him into a nearby tree trunk. Wood splintered. Aamon's body went limp for a heartbeat before he forced himself up again, gasping.
The heroes surged forward to help.
Beatrice's hands flared violet. She hurled an arcane bolt—pure, searing energy—straight at Veyrissa's chest. Haldir loosed a rapid volley of arrows; each one glowed faintly as it flew, aimed to pierce heart and lungs. The arrows struck true—burying deep into Veyrissa's torso with wet thuds, then bursting in small explosions of light and force.
Veyrissa staggered, blood spraying from her mouth, but she laughed—high, mocking, unhinged.
"Is that all you've got?"
The wounds began to close—slowly, wetly, flesh knitting together under her blood magic.
Gruk, covered in rogue blood, paused mid-swing and looked around wildly.
"Where's Vael?"
He spotted him—farther back, standing alone in the starlight, holding Umbralis's severed head by the hair. The skull dripped slowly, crimson eyes still open in frozen shock.
Gruk's gaze locked on Vael's face.
Those eyes.
Crimson. Glowing. Exactly like Deathwing's.
Gruk's grin spread—wide, evil, delighted.
"Without the ring…?" he murmured to himself. "Holy shit."
He started laughing—low at first, then louder, manic.
Meanwhile, Veyrissa turned her attention to the heroes again.
She raised both hands. Blood threads whipped out—faster this time—catching Raymond, Kufa, and Darius mid-charge. The three froze in mid-air, weapons raised, bodies locked in place by invisible force.
Veyrissa laughed with cruelty.
"Looks like I'll take down the healer first. She's annoying."
She stepped toward Elara.
Elara backed up one step, hands glowing gold, ready to defend.
Veyrissa raised her hand to strike—
A severed head hurtled through the air like a cannon shot.
Umbralis's skull slammed into Veyrissa's face with meteoric force. The impact was deafening—bone shattering against bone, blood exploding outward in a crimson spray. The blood threads snapped instantly. Raymond, Kufa, and Darius dropped to the ground, released, gasping.
Veyrissa staggered backward, clutching her ruined face, screaming in rage.
Before she could recover, Vael was already moving.
He raised one hand.
The air around Veyrissa tightened—compressed, invisible. She froze mid-step, body locked in place. Her eyes widened in shock.
"How… from that distance…?"
Raymond didn't hesitate.
He surged forward, divine sword blazing white-gold in his grip. The blade sang as it cut through the night—straight toward Veyrissa's chest.
She tried to summon another thread—too late.
The divine sword pierced her heart.
Veyrissa's scream choked off. Her body convulsed once—then began to dissolve, crumbling into fine black dust that scattered on the wind.
"No… no… no…"
Her voice faded into nothing.
The battlefield fell silent.
Gruk and Aamon stared—at the dust drifting away, at the divine sword still glowing in Raymond's hand.
Gruk swallowed.
Aamon's red eyes narrowed.
They had seen that blade before—in legends, in nightmares. The one weapon that could end even demons permanently.
Neither moved.
Vael lowered his hand.
The crimson in his eyes dimmed slowly—returning to their usual dark.
And for the first time, Vael looked at Prophetess Miraleth with suspicion.
To be Continued