Grand Elven Sorcerer Silas stood braced in the shadows behind the drummers, three arms tall, his gray eyes catching the pale shimmer of nine moons above Mount Balon. His dark green hooded robe folded around his crossed arms as the ritual circle beat with thunder. From the cliff's edge, the world below seemed swallowed in night.
He had waited three thousand years for this moment. Planned every detail. Trusted only a sworn circle of allies, bound by secrecy. If the Royals or the Governing Alliance ever learned what they dared here, every one of them would hang.
The ritual was forbidden. Dangerous. Necessary.
For tonight, they would summon a MagalaN.
Once, in the Age of Legends, five MagalaN heroes had saved the world from Gol'Koxzurc and his Legion Horde: Galadrim the Healer, Thorim the Archer, Perim the Wizard, Matrim the Knight, and mightiest of all—Aladrim the Great. Their sacrifice ended the Demon War, but also the golden age. With Aladrim's final breath, peace had died. Millennia had passed since without a champion.
Now, with darkness stirring once more, there was only one chance to call another.
Silas's long fingers stroked his smooth chin. As often before, he thought of the human wizards with their tangled white beards—fragile masks for dangerous power. How grand a beard would look on him, how it would mark his centuries of wisdom. For a heartbeat, the thought almost made him smile. Almost.
The drums thundered on, played tirelessly by his two apprentices. Oscar, one of the High Sorcerers, led the chant. Across the circle, Silas's greatest ally—Grand Wizard Theodore Smith, beard flowing like a banner—channeled power with his small band of warriors.
Together, they dared what no kingdom would sanction.
For if the Dark race summoned the MagalaN first, all hope would be lost.
"It is time!" Theodore cried, snapping Silas from his thoughts.
"I hear him!" Theodore shouted again, panic breaking his voice. "He chants a battle spell—he's channeling through our drums!"
Silas's gaze snapped upward. The star above them pulsed, then faltered, dimming like a dying heart.
"Any moment now," he whispered. Then louder: "Prepare your Ancient spell, Theodore! Wait for my signal!"
"Another spell!" Theodore's face twisted in alarm. "By the Light, he resists us!"
The air thickened, charged, as though the world itself held its breath. Silas felt it—the star's final heartbeat trembling on the edge of collapse.
"Now!" Silas roared.
But Theodore's scream tore the night.
"I can't! He's cast a third spell—we're doomed!"
And then the heavens broke.
The star died. Its last breath swept across the world in a blaze so fierce it turned night into day. Shadows fled. Every figure on the plateau stood bathed in raw, searing brilliance.
One chance in a lifetime.
One chance for their world to have a champion.
Tears welled in Silas's eyes. He would not—could not—allow this chance to vanish. Aladrim had given his life for the world. Silas would give his soul.
His body tightened like a bowstring, every muscle quivering with focus. His chest swelled with the sharp weight of destiny.
"I will not let this pass!" he roared, voice cracking the air. With a cry torn from the depths of his soul, Silas hurled every Ancient spell he had cultivated in three millennia into the light.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then—
The MagalaN screamed. Not with mortal lungs, but with a voice vast enough to split the sky.
The day collapsed back into night.