The night above the war-torn plains was choked with smoke, lit only by the intermittent glare of distant fires. The ruins of what had once been a proud citadel now lay in blackened heaps, its broken spires clawing at the sky like the fingers of a dead giant.
Altharion moved silently through the wreckage, his crimson cloak dragging over the ash. Every step stirred the dust of the fallen—men and beasts alike. The air reeked of burned flesh and the metallic tang of blood, but he did not flinch. He had walked battlefields far worse than this.
He paused near the shattered gates, his eyes narrowing as he ran his gauntleted hand along a splintered beam. It was still warm. The enemy hadn't left long ago.
"Two hours," he murmured to himself, voice low but cold. "No more."
Behind him, his shadow moved—Kaelis, his silent lieutenant, materializing from the smoke. "We found survivors," she reported. "Five… maybe six. All wounded. One of them swears he saw the Black Hand leading the assault."
Altharion's expression hardened. The Black Hand—his most dangerous adversary—wasn't a warlord to be taken lightly. He was a master of chaos, a figure whose mere presence turned allies against each other.
"Bring the survivors to the ridge," Altharion ordered. "No one stays here when the Black Hand circles."
Kaelis hesitated. "You think he'll return?"
"He never leaves a corpse unburied or a city half-burned," Altharion replied, eyes fixed on the black horizon. "If we linger, we die with the rest."
As they moved toward the ridge, a sound drifted through the smoke—low, almost musical, yet carrying the cold weight of dread. The war horns of the Black Hand. Three deep notes, echoing like the tolling of a death bell.
Kaelis stiffened. "They're closer than we thought."
"Closer?" Altharion drew his blade in one fluid motion. "No. They're already here."
The shadows shifted at the edge of the ruined street, forming shapes—warriors clad in jagged black steel, their faces hidden behind cruel masks. The front rank stepped forward in unison, weapons dripping with the blood of the city's defenders.
Altharion stepped ahead of Kaelis, the firelight catching the cold gleam of his sword. "Get the survivors out. Now."
Kaelis opened her mouth to argue but froze at the sheer finality in his tone. She vanished into the smoke, leaving Altharion alone to face the encroaching tide.
The first of the Black Hand's soldiers charged, a massive brute wielding a cleaver the size of a door. Altharion sidestepped the blow with an ease that mocked the brute's effort, driving his blade upward into the gap beneath the warrior's arm. The enemy crumpled before his body hit the ground.
But there were more—dozens, maybe hundreds—pouring through the broken gate. Altharion fought with precision, every strike a calculated execution. His sword flashed silver in the smoke, severing limbs, splitting armor, cutting down any who dared close the distance.
Still, even he could feel the tide pressing in. They meant to surround him.
Then the air shifted—cold, sharp, heavy with the scent of rain. Altharion looked up to see the clouds boiling overhead. Lightning split the darkness, and with it came the figure he had been expecting.
The Black Hand emerged from the smoke, his armor blacker than night, the sigil of a skeletal hand etched in blood across his chestplate. His helm's visor glowed faintly red, like the dying embers of a forge.
"Altharion," the Black Hand's voice rasped, almost amused. "I had hoped you'd survive long enough to greet me."
Altharion's grip tightened on his sword. "And I had hoped you'd be fool enough to face me without your horde."
The Black Hand's laugh was deep and hollow. "Oh, my horde is merely here to watch."
The two warriors stood amid the burning ruin, the storm above promising that their duel would not end until one lay in the ashes.