The valley roared with chaos as the first wave of goblins came screaming out of the black ravines. Their war drums thundered, echoing against the jagged cliffs, while torchlight spilled across the slopes like rivers of fire. They came in endless streams, blades flashing, eyes burning with feral hunger. Against them stood a line so thin it seemed a miracle it had not already broken: the oathbound company, Seraphine at the center, Zeke holding the flank, and every man and woman who had sworn to fight though the night devoured them whole.
Zeke's rifle bucked in his hands. Each shot spat thunder into the dark, knocking goblins from their charge. He fired until the barrel smoked, until his shoulder was raw from recoil, until the magazine rattled empty. Still the goblins came. He reloaded with shaking hands, snapped the lever down, and kept firing, carving bloody channels through the swarm. "Keep your eyes sharp, boys!" he shouted over the noise. "They bleed, so let's bleed 'em dry!"
Seraphine's blade was already slick with gore. She cut through the first rank of goblins like fire through straw, her movements fluid, merciless. Steel sang in the night, each stroke a vow kept, each kill a promise fulfilled. The enemy pressed harder, climbing over their own dead, shrieking in blind rage. Seraphine drove her sword through one and tore it free in time to split another skull. Her breath came hard but steady, her eyes locked not on the horde but on the robed figure commanding them from the ridge. A cultist general, cloaked in crimson, staff raised, voice rising above the din like a whip cracking across the valley.
The goblins surged faster at every word he spat. Seraphine knew the truth—unless the commander fell, the tide would never end. She pointed her blade at him, voice ringing clear through the chaos. "He is mine!" Then she broke from the line, carving a path through claw and fang, her focus narrowing to a single deadly target.
Zeke fired his last round. The rifle clicked dry. He cursed, tossed the weapon aside, and drew steel—knife in his left, saber in his right. "Guess we're back to the old ways," he muttered. A goblin lunged, and Zeke's blade caught it under the jaw, snapping upward through its skull. He yanked free, spun, and slashed at the next. Every move was brutal, efficient, honed from years of riding trails where hesitation meant death. He fought like a man who had long ago made peace with dying, and now had nothing left to fear.
Around him the company fought tooth and nail. Men fired until their barrels glowed, then clubbed with the stocks. Women stabbed with daggers, hacked with axes, their screams of defiance drowning out the shrieks of the goblins. The ground grew slick underfoot, mud and blood mingling, corpses piling in heaps. Still the horde came, a tide that could not be measured, only endured.
High above, Seraphine reached the ridge. The cultist commander turned, his face hidden behind a mask carved into the snarl of a dragon. His staff blazed with crimson light, runes crawling across its length like fire made flesh. He spoke a word and the ground cracked, flame spilling in jagged tongues. Seraphine raised her sword, her voice steady. "Your fire dies with you."
Their blades met in a shower of sparks. The cultist wielded his staff like a spear, each strike heavy with unnatural force. Seraphine parried, countered, struck low, but the staff twisted aside, deflecting her blade. He lashed out with sorcery, flames leaping, but Seraphine rolled clear, dirt scorching where she had stood. She rose, unyielding, and pressed forward.
Down in the valley, Zeke fought with nothing but grit and steel. His knife punched through ribs, his saber cleaved skulls. Goblins swarmed him, dragging at his coat, clawing at his flesh. He shoved them off, slashed a throat, rammed his knife into another belly. Blood spattered his face, and still he grinned that hard grin of a man too stubborn to quit. "Come on then," he growled. "All the hellspawn in the world ain't enough."
The company held, barely, their line buckling but not breaking. Every oath they had sworn burned in their arms, their blades, their hearts. They fought not for victory but for the right to deny surrender, to meet fire with fire, death with defiance.
On the ridge, Seraphine and the cultist clashed again and again, sparks painting the night. His staff cracked against her sword, sending jolts up her arm. She staggered, caught herself, and answered with a thrust that tore his cloak and left a scar of silver across his chest. He hissed, voice twisting into a chant, runes burning brighter, the ground trembling as the portal behind him widened.
The sky split further, jagged crimson veins spreading like wounds in the heavens. From the tear in the world, shadows poured, vast wings unfurling in the blood-red light. The air grew hot, suffocating, each breath tasting of ash. Soldiers faltered, goblins screamed, even the cultist paused in reverence.
Zeke looked up, sweat and blood streaking his face. "God almighty," he muttered. The portal tore wider, its light pouring over the battlefield. From within came a claw, black as obsidian, edges glowing with molten fire. It grasped the rim of the rift, ripping it wider, shaking the valley with every pull.
A roar followed, deeper than thunder, older than mountains. The black dragon was coming through.
And the night was only beginning to burn.