Valmitor
Great Fireball!
A roaring blaze tore through the dark sky before crashing with brutal force against Valmitor's main gate. The explosion shook the entire city, and a column of fire and debris rose like an infernal pillar, illuminating the early morning with a reddish glow. The gate shattered into a thousand pieces, opening a colossal breach in the western wall. Through that wound, the first undead began to enter, dragging with them the stench of decay and death.
From a nearby hill, two hooded figures watched in silence.
Their black cloaks fluttered gently in the icy breeze. The sky, still veiled by clouds, revealed a grayish dawn that carried no hope. One of them, with eyes the color of molten steel, stood with arms crossed, watching the advance of the corpses like someone admiring the results of a long harvest.
"The gate fell faster than expected," Eve remarked in a bored tone.
"The resistance was weak. Our task is complete," Siferv replied flatly.
"Are you sure?" she asked with a crooked smile. "They lasted all night."
"Precisely. There's nothing left to break. Only bones."
Without warning, Eve extended her arm toward the city. Embers still smoldered from the previous explosion, and taking advantage of the lingering heat, she combined a blade-sharp gust of wind with the latent flames. The result was a spinning spell: Scorching Crescent.
Five arcs of fire and wind descended like spinning discs, slicing through entire streets. The incendiary blades advanced with a high-pitched screech, consuming structures, rotting flesh, and cracked stone alike. In their wake, they left blazing trails and charred fragments.
Siferv watched silently.
"You attract too much attention."
"I prefer to leave a stylish signature," Eve replied, satisfied.
Both turned on their heels. A pale glow flared beneath their feet. In an instant, they vanished. No sound. Only a flicker in the air.
—
Chaos reigned in Valmitor.
The city had resisted since nightfall, but darkness was no longer its enemy. Now, the true foe was exhaustion. The soldiers, sleepless and relentless, fought with bloodshot eyes, dry throats, and arms numb from cold and fatigue.
The undead surged in waves. Some crawled like broken beasts, others charged with murderous rage, jaws unhinged, eyes wide in a rictus of hate. They did not kill out of hunger. They killed from the sheer impulse to destroy anything still alive.
An old soldier leaned against a wall, trembling. His shield was split, and his spear broken to splinters. Beside him, a dirt-covered young man tried to tie a rope around his wounded leg. They didn't speak. They simply looked at each other. Their eyes said everything: they knew they would die there.
The alleys had become traps. At the start of the night, many civilians had taken refuge in them—now they were mass graves. Some had been found. Others were slaughtered. Mothers silenced their children with shaking hands. A blacksmith, who had used his hammer to fight for hours, finally collapsed when his knee gave out. He was crushed beneath a dozen mangled bodies.
Near the central fountain, a group of veteran soldiers still held their ground. Their halberds moved in tight formation, weary but burning with rage. They had been fighting since midnight. One fell. Then another. But not a single step was lost.
On the rooftops, archers held elevated positions. They fired arrow after arrow until their bowstrings snapped or their quivers emptied. Some, once out of ammunition, descended and wielded knives, carpenter's axes, or even shovels. Anything that could crush a skull was useful.
Underground tunnels had become the last escape route. Through them, children and elders were evacuated in small groups, guided by squires or carpenters who knew the layout. Each attempt was a gamble. Some made it out. Others were never seen again.
And still, Valmitor did not fall.
—
John Bedralt and Gerse Vatryl hadn't slept all night. Between preparations and defense, their bodies barely responded. But their swords kept moving. The blood that covered them could no longer be distinguished—friend or foe. The sky began to brighten, but it wasn't the dawn they were waiting for. It was the chance to survive one more minute.
"For every step they take, let them pay with their vile souls!" roared Gerse, his voice hoarse.
"Regroup in the northern district! Don't leave the squires alone!" shouted John, his voice cracking.
The soldiers no longer spoke. There was no time. They obeyed on instinct. From habit. From desperation.
—
At that moment, the horns sounded.
An echo vibrated through the morning mist. A deep, rumbling sound that pierced the dead air.
Beyond the city walls, banners rose. One bore a sun split by a spear. Another, a serpent entwined around an oak.
The heavy cavalry appeared first, like a wave of steel. Riders in full armor descended the slope with flawless discipline. Behind them, the infantry: organized, resolute, unyielding.
At the front rode two figures:
Sir Aldren Vark and Lady Kaela Dorn — heirs of noble houses with warrior lineage. As soon as they lowered their hands, the troops charged without hesitation.
Aldren, armed with a tempered lance, galloped with purpose. His steed crushed bodies beneath its hooves, and his strikes were precise. He entered the fray like a god of war. Every motion spelled death.
Kaela, wielding her massive warhammer, led the infantry on foot. She didn't shout. She didn't need to. Her advance was the order. With every blow, a body shattered. With every turn, a new breach opened. She never stopped. Never faltered.
—
While the reinforcements held the front outside, five robed figures marked by arcane symbols entered Valmitor. Their presence changed the atmosphere. They were not support—they were retribution.
Domrik Vark, broad and unyielding as stone, was the first to act. He knelt near the shattered gate and placed both hands on the ground. The earth vibrated, and a solid wall of rock rose to seal the breach. The undead trying to enter slammed into it, trapped between stone and steel.
"The entrance is closed. Now we clean," Domrik said gravely.
Atop the wall, Ilaren Dorn moved swiftly. His robe trailed behind him as he descended by rope into the soldiers' ranks. In his right hand, he wielded a sword of pure ice, while with his left he cast freezing blasts. Each undead struck froze solid. Some shattered instantly; others were finished off by his blade.
"Back off! They're mine!" he shouted, striking with martial precision and icy magic.
On the ground, Fannis Dorn advanced street by street, his staff ablaze. From his free hand rained searing fire-needles, each embedding with deadly accuracy. The struck enemies combusted from within, lighting the streets with their burning bodies.
"Don't run. Don't be afraid. We're here to burn them all," he said calmly, wreathed in firelight.
Down the main avenues, Luthen Vark and Veara Dorn moved as one. Luthen summoned currents of slicing wind, lifting enemies into the air. Veara awaited below, arms wide, hurling fire in straight bursts that incinerated the corpses midair.
"Don't let them fall, Luthen!" Veara shouted.
"You roast them—I'll keep them airborne!" he called back with a grin.
Together, they cleared entire districts. Behind them, soldiers reorganized, regrouped, and pressed forward.
The effect was immediate.
The overwhelmed defenders within Valmitor began regaining ground. Their formations advanced behind the mages, eliminating stragglers. Desperation turned into coordination. Shields rose. Orders were given. Cleanup teams split off into streets, squares, and alleys. The city was breathing again.
At the center of it all, John Bedralt and Gerse Vatryl led the final charge.
"Leave nothing behind!" shouted John, impaling a corpse with his blade.
"If it moves, destroy it! If it doesn't, finish it anyway!" Gerse roared, crushing a skull beneath his shield.
The counterattack had begun.
Outside the city, the fighting was just as intense.
Both armies were nearly equal in number, but the human soldiers had something the undead could never replicate: strategy. The ability to protect one another, shift formations, adapt. To read the battlefield. That invisible advantage began to tip the scale.
The ground in front of Valmitor became a narrow corridor of combat—a wall of shields, spears, and screams. There was no room for flanking. Every inch gained was a battle of will.
The human soldiers moved as one. They shifted without commands, covered gaps left by the fallen, rotated formations like gears in a living machine.
The undead were brute force. They didn't coordinate. They didn't defend one another. They hurled themselves forward like a wave of hate, consumed by their own blind momentum.
At the center of the line, Sir Aldren Vark fought like a living fortress. Armed with his tempered lance, he swept through the enemy with wide, controlled arcs. The long, sharpened blade pierced torsos and skulls with precision. He carried no shield—he didn't need one. His reach and technique were his defense.
"Shield wall forward! Spears up! Rotate right!" he shouted as he drove his weapon through a charging corpse, twisting the haft to hurl it aside.
To his left, Lady Kaela Dorn spun through the horde like a crimson whirlwind. Her warhammer—massive and unrelenting—smashed through bone and rusted armor alike. Her assault wasn't graceful—it was devastating.
"Advance with me! Hold the line!" she ordered, swinging her hammer through a cluster of corpses.
Her soldiers followed with a mix of fear and reverence. She never stopped. Not once.
Casualties were heavy. The mud was red with blood. The stench of rot mixed with sweat. But meter by meter, the human army advanced. Shields slammed into decaying flesh, spears pierced twisted limbs, and the battle cries of the living rose above the gurgles of the dead.
Some larger undead—fallen knights still wearing shattered armor—tried to break the line. But they were met with precision. Human spears struck true. If one broke through, five soldiers brought it down as a single, trained unit.
As pressure eased within the city thanks to the mages and reorganized troops, it also shifted outside. Morale surged. The reinforcements pushed harder. The enemy's lines cracked with every minute.
The horde was breaking.
—
The sun rose slowly through the clouds.
The last undead were surrounded, crushed, annihilated. Some had wandered too far and were hunted down by mounted soldiers, taken down one by one like diseased beasts.
When the final corpse fell, Lady Kaela Dorn struck it down with a downward blow that shattered its spine from shoulder to hip. She breathed heavily, but her hands remained steady.
Sir Aldren, his face streaked with sweat and blood, scanned the battlefield.
Scattered bodies. Twisted steel. Torn earth.
"All of them?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Kaela met his eyes. She nodded, solemn.
"All."
And amidst the flames, Valmitor still stood. Triumphant.