Bonded Summoner

Morwen’s flotilla of airships raced across the sky, heading toward the necropolis. They made haste, even ignoring a few Rifts for pure expediency. They placed array flags, monitored previous placements, and even left parties behind to protect them as they leapfrogged across the dreary landscape.

As they got closer to the center of the continent, the deathly energies certainly got higher. Things were more barren and dead than ever, feeling more at home. But it was also getting colder. A welcome shift, caused by their Array Flags.

She suddenly received an incoming communication as she stood on the forward bow with her husband.

It was Rookard’s voice that reached her ears. “Morwen, do you read?”

“Ah. It’s good to hear your voice, Rookard. You, too, are heading for the necropolis?”

“Turon’s nose is guiding us here, but our scouts have learned that the enemy armies, too, are gathering there. They have not enjoyed our transformation of their leylines and constantly try to remove the array flags. Even Tartarus has started to select Rift spawns that are smart enough to remove them, so we’ve been pushing slowly.”

Morwen smiled as she looked over to her new Servants of Arawn and even more of the immortal legion. “They no longer listen to our tricks over the tokens and have abandoned them, but the flags work in their own way to draw them in, do they not? We have captured for ourselves many more servants. I hope things have progressed similarly on your side.”

“We’ve managed to capture quite a few betrayers and rescued many captives. But we’ve had to leave patrols to protect the flags, so our forces for this confrontation are not… ideal.”

Morwen shrugged. “Same. I still think that’s wonderful news when combined with the leyline transformations. This necropolis is no longer getting as much death mana. I already see the snowcapped peak in view, and I can feel the temperature has dropped significantly.”

Rookard chuckled. “Good to hear. We’re coming from the opposite end.” He hesitated. “This…enemy. I am worried that it will feed on so many people–they keep saying the same thing. That it hungers. For both the living and the stillness–the dead. I’m not sure of its unnatural power, but we must find a way to stop it.” Morwen replied, “Faith in Arawn’s wisdom should be enough to protect us against death energies. For everything else, we have frost and blades. But it sounds like the best thing we can do is remove or deny its food.”

“I’ll have to leave that to you when it comes to the big battle. I see several armies marching toward the necropolis with captives. We are going to try to intercept, but we’re unsure whether they will face us or not. Turon seems to think the…unnatural one will appear at any moment. Be prepared, and send up a flare if this…thing appears, and we’ll do the same.”

“Will do. Several armies marching on your side, you say? There’s not much on our side of the mountain, so we will rush to capture these enemies. Good hunting, Rookard.”

She ended the communication with Rookard and then turned to Bedwyr. “We must pick up the pace, Husband. We wouldn’t want any of these betrayers getting away or feeding this…thing that hungers, now would we?”

“Very well. We shall increase the output at the cost of some of our mana.”

As they flew over the mountains, the cold winds became even more biting, a pleasant feeling for Morwen and the rest of the emberborn. However, as they passed over the larger peak, there were some structures, including a large monolith, sitting in a valley between the mountains.

Morwen brought out a viewing glass and looked closely at the monolith, which they were going to fly past if they hadn’t noticed. They could see this supposed necropolis, numerous aged stone buildings, with a large monolith in a stone-tiled plaza.

There were numerous clergy from the Church of Mortem, and they were praying and directing energy into a giant shadowy figure of some kind on a platform in front of it.

There were thousands of undead and living chained, their energy being drained into it as well. Morwen said, “Oh my. Now what is this?”

Bedwyr brought his out and did the same and hummed. “It looks like a ritual in front of a grand monolith. They are bringing the sacrifices here. Both living and undead.”

Morwen smiled. “Concerning, but it looks like we are lucky. It means we can disrupt their plans. How did our scouts miss this, I wonder?”

“Look at the edges. The frost is unraveling the wards.”

She saw what he meant–a distortion near the edges of the hole in the mountain, with small obelisks lining the top of the canyons. “So it is. A welcome boon. We might have gone straight for the enemy armies and missed the ritual. Now, they may not even know we’re coming.”

Morwen noted as she watched the ritual, “They do seem quite busy with this ritual of theirs. Let’s make use of it.”

She made a quick command to change the heading of the flotilla. There was motion on all ships as they made preparations for their attack, paladins and priestesses of Arawn and their numerous servants, as well as many of the immortal legion, casting buffs and preparing their magic circles. They released a chilled fog around their ships, preventing them from being easily spotted as they floated slowly toward their intended target miles away.

The beastkin took to the air, ready to make their aerial assault. It was then that they finally received the Framework prompt.

[Aspect of Eternal Night detected (Incomplete). Defeat for Reward.]

Morwen then reached out to Rookard once more. “Rookard, do you read?”

Rookard was a bit breathless, and she could hear him firing his bow in the background. “I’m a little… busy fighting at the moment, Morwen, and we could use your help. Where are you?”

“Yes. We’ve found their ritual; they are sacrificing and sending energy for summoning… something here in the necropolis. We are going to see if we can interrupt it, sneaking up on them from behind. Do you require our assistance?”

Rookard hesitated. “We’re fine for now, I think. As it stands, a horde of monsters rushed out of the necropolis, joining their armies, and we are now fighting both monsters and necromancers. Though I see those armies with captives are still heading back toward the necropolis. Perhaps to speed up this ritual you’ve discovered.” He chuckled. “They may see that fighting us is not going to go well.”

“Then we will continue with disrupting their plans. It looks like they are summoning an Aspect of Eternal Night. We should have it in hand, but…if we send up the signal flare, can you take to the skies and rush some warriors here? We will do the same for you.”

Rookard replied, “If it’s just this much, we won’t be the ones signaling. I’ll keep some elites close to me and be ready to rush toward you, but we’ll also push hard knowing this is merely a distraction. Take care, Morwen.”

Morwen let out a breath as she looked at her husband. “Aspect of Eternal Night is a surprise, is it not, dear? Not Balor, and it felt like their greed was appealed to. Greed would have been my guess if not him.”

Bedwyr shrugged. “All of the Evil Divine are willing to mislead, usurp, betray, and defile. Some, like Balor, just take more pleasure in doing it or are…more efficient at it.” He turned toward Stenos and nodded at him. “In this case, I think Tartarus saw a path to bring about this world’s doom. Even if the goddess may not like the how of it, tricking weak betrayers, she will enjoy the result just the same.”

“True enough.”

From what the Alliance knew of the Evil Divine of Tartarus, unlike the Divine of the Framework, they were forced to do its bidding. They may make choices and have their own agenda, but in the end they took marching orders directly from the entity at times. The Framework’s guidance on a Divine’s involvement were mere suggestions.

Morwen went over to the group of ex-Church of Mortem undead and their undead legion on the ship. Stenos now wore robes fitting of a Servant of Arawn instead of his original garb.

She asked him, “Are you ready now, Stenos? You and your brethren will need to help guide your ancestors. They are not likely used to disembarking from airships, but their bodies can take it when empowered by the miasma. Then, we may require your help to convince the opposing undead to turn on their minders.”

Stenos smiled broadly as he looked over the many undead, along with the other Morvalis Servants of Arawn. He cast several minor cantrips, simple magical commands that directed the undead with his death mana mixed with spirit mana, which they responded to–testing his capabilities.

The man also held a spellbook, one issued to Priestesses of Arawn and members of Hearthtribe. He was leafing through the pages and trying them out.

He replied, “I’ll do my best. That stop at the Nexus Node was most fulfilling, and this book is useful. They seem more responsive, and when I speak to them, it’s as though the response is at the tip of their tongues. I can feel it, and that spell you taught me even lets me hear it! The connection is far greater now. Why is this? Is it because I am dead?”

“I’m sure part of it is your affinity with death mana, as well as your body’s ability to store it, has improved over your original body’s. But the main reason is that the Framework has layered itself over their souls, like a special scaffolding, enhancing them. It is just a minor improvement, but it sets the groundwork for them taking power from the Great Enemy–Tartarus.”

“Does that mean…they will become more conscious, more memories returning as they kill the enemy? If we win this war, they will become more like me? You? Does this not go against death’s cycle?”

“Yes and no. The Framework does delay the cycle to fight this evil, but it does not fully destroy or subvert it. As they fulfill their lingering purpose, the reasons for their egos to remain will disappear. Most will desire to return to the stillness after the war. Only the spirits whose purpose goes far beyond just protecting their immediate descendants may continue the vigil once the war is won.”

“I see. How sad.” He gestured to an immortal legionnaire in front of him, a warrior decked out in ornate armor. “Commander Legias here is a true hero. He died defending our city and has continued to serve in death, protecting and saving thousands. His presence is reassuring. To all.”

The commander actually gave a small, slow smile and stood straighter, as if responding to Stenos’s comment proudly.

Morwen smiled in return, noticing this sign of their ego. “I’m sure most of those that stuck around to aid us, those that pledged to fight and save this world, are all heroes. But even a hero–or perhaps, especially a hero–deserves his rest. His reward. Surely, the gates of Annwyn would welcome such a selfless warrior. You would not deny him this, would you?”

Stenos was thoughtful, looking at Legias for a moment. “I guess not. I suppose… when he is ready to move on, I will be proud to perform the release ritual. It won’t be a sad moment, but a happy one.”

“That’s the spirit. So now, we have a rough fight ahead of us. Be prepared.”

Stenos looked back to his book. “A–Alright. I’ll focus on the unliving empowerment to help with disembarking even from greater heights. It…won’t take me long. I’ve recorded the spell, just…haven’t had much practice.”

Bedwyr spoke up from the forward bow of the ship, “It looks like they have now spotted us.”

Morwen went back to the front of the ship to see how the enemy had reacted. They already began peeling a number of those chanting and were preparing to direct the undead legion, probably to drain what remained of the captives life force as a final sacrifice.

A steady farm of resentment, pain, and torment–a series of negative emotions often powered the enemy’s connection to the world and empowered these rituals much more than a single act of sacrifice.

“We’ll have to advance quickly. I hope Rookard can rush past those armies, or that we won’t need him. So far, it looks like we outnumber them. If we can control the undead like before…it won’t be an issue.”

Stenos spoke up, “I think those higher up than Arivel had their own special artifacts, and…more than one. They likely have much more power and will be more challenging to overcome. If…their claims are true.”

“Noted.” She turned to the bow and pondered how best to go about their assault. The focal point was definitely the large monolith powering the ritual, the leylines of the world being directed through it. Hearthtribe had used the array of flags to redirect and alter the flow, as well as steal much of it away. However, it was impossible to stop and transform all of it, as even the monolith itself would be drawing it from the core of the world directly.

A shadowy figure was at the center of the ritual, a giant ghost or specter of some kind that they could see now that they were closer.

“What is that figure there? Do you see it, Stenos? It appears to be some kind of…specter. Is this it? This creature that hungers?” She handed him the hand telescope, and he looked through it.

Stenos’s eyes widened as he pulled back from the lens. “Specter…that hungers? There have been some reports of some kind of ghost that has been feasting upon villages. We found empty villages, nothing left but bone. I was… unsure if it was real. But seeing it…”

“That is alarming.”

Thankfully, a large part of the Church of Mortem’s efforts appeared to be converting the cold mana back into death and feeding it into the ritual. Hearthtribe’s flags had likely slowed their energy gathering down significantly.

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Unfortunately, close to the massive monolith, it may be difficult to get the full usage of their mana fonts–it would certainly overpower them a little. She would need to counteract this, and it was certainly a bonus that it would disrupt their ritual even further.

Morwen ordered the Battlegroup, “Mobile forces–place the array flags in a wide formation around us and go now. Airship pilots, prepare a full assault on the monolith with the ballistas. Use the explosive bolts.”

The airships headed toward the ritual askew and angled their ballistas to fire. Mages charged the bolts with mana, the runes lighting up on the large ammunition. More than a dozen snaps rang out as they fired, the bolts crashing into the monolith and exploding.

Plumes of flame rocked the structure, sending stone and debris flying with each explosion. Giant chunks were taken out of the tall slab, and it began to crumble and tilt after their second barrage. It fell toward some of the cultists, who ran out of the way just in time. Unfortunately, it did not fall on top of the creature being summoned or hit the main platform, but they had completed the task nonetheless.

The energy within the ritual went haywire, black tendrils violently lashing out and killing several people–living and dead alike. Now, they would need a new source of energy.

A leading figure in ornate robes and a large hat, likely this ‘grand bishop,’ shouted, “No! Hurry, we must finish the ritual. The True Mortem is nearly ready to awaken! Slay the sacrifices.”

Just as before with Cardinal Arivel, Morwen took to the sky with her husband on his mount’s back, along with a dozen other priestesses and paladins of Arawn and beastkin. The airships with the immortal legion began to lower their altitude, and the priestesses of Arawn’s magic circles began spreading their domain of cold and death to support their casters. The area was already cold, the chilling wind feeling wonderful on Morwen’s skin–but now, the temperature dropped further.

The grand bishop flashed a wicked smile. “Your tricks won’t work here, for we have total control over the power of death.” A dark aura gathered around him and several other figures, a profound stillness mixed with a malevolence Morwen had felt many times. They were ready with their terrible artifacts, and the black energy spread wide to cover much of the undead.

The undead began to cut into the chained people immediately, and before Hearthtribe could truly arrive and intercept. However, beastkin arrows and javelins struck the undead, blasting them back and buying them a little more time.

Some attacks went straight for the Grand Bishop and other clergy, but the enemy was much more prepared for battle. Black barriers materialized, denying the attacks against them. Bedwyr swung his war scythe, sending a blast of cold in a line, but it too was rejected, the line of cold merely freezing numerous members of this immortal legion and locking them in place.

Morwen addressed those around her as her husband’s mount landed between the legion and the sacrificial captives. The cold and deathly domain wrapped around the outskirts of the undead army, allowing her to send a pulse of her will. “Immortal legion, before you are the very descendants you vowed to protect. Defend them once more against this usurper.”

Those not covered in the black aura froze as Hearthtribe’s cold and deathly domain mixture enveloped them, protecting them from the enemy necromancers’ wills. Their army finished positioning, and the Servants of Arawn joined the Morvalis Natives in their defense against the immortal legion.

Hearthtribe’s forces were equal or greater, and now that the domain pushed up against the malevolent aura of the Grand Bishop’s, they now controlled nearly half of the battlefield and the immortal legion. The airships still had their dedicated pilots, ready to fire more ballista bolts as well.

She leaped off her husband’s mount, and she brought out the mana font, and she triggered it to draw the cold mana in through their network of array flags. The mana rushed into the area, the cold expanding even faster than before. It was clear that Hearthtribe had the upper hand, and would soon be pushing to destroy the barrier.

The grand bishop’s eyes narrowed. “At this rate… I see. Your mastery of death and cold is formidable. The voice did prepare us for dealing with you false lords of the dead. It will only buy us a few minutes…but that should be all that we need.”

He brought out another item, a silver orb with black filigrees on a chain.

Stenos shouted, “The Censer of Vigilance... Lady Morwen, that is our church's most sacred relic! It was designed to repel the Fog of Ages, to help our oldest Immortals retain their memories!”

The Grand Bishop laughed. “And the True Mortem showed me its true potential! Why repel the fog of the mind when you can weaponize it? If you will not bow to the True Mortem, I will strip away the minds that dare defy me! I will harvest you all hollow!”

He swung the censer, and a soundless black pulse rang out before a grey fog rolled out of the censer with unnatural speed and eerie silence. It bathed the entire ritual grounds in just a few breaths of time, even rising upward into the airships.

When the fog struck the Framework-joined immortal legion by Stenos, their weapons clattered to the ground. Their eyes went vacant, and Stenos fell to his knees.

As Morwen was bathed in the pulse, her body went still. Her thoughts slowed, like her mind was covered in the very fog that filled her view. Morwen felt her current identity–her name, her husband, her role as Arawn’s High Priestess–slip beneath the heavy blanket of the fog. She was left standing in the silent grey, completely devoid of context.

What was going on? She thought. Where was she?

She looked at the ornate staff covered in odd glimmering script she held in her pale hand, propped against the ground.

…Who was she?

The physical fog faded away, but her mind was still blank.

The Grand Bishop laughed. “There. Now those are obedient undead. Finish the ritual. Slay the living–those that still move. The True Mortem hungers!”

A wave of magic washed over the undead soldiers, and all of them began to move, albeit slowly.

The beastkin and other alliance members were unaffected by the fog, and they fought back, defending the living, despite being vastly outnumbered now. The Framework undead were unresponsive, just like Morwen, Bedwyr and Stenos, and the malevolent will pressed down on their minds, trying to make them obey as well. The Framework protected them from this, but their memories were gone, confusing them and making them listless.

The voices of the weak and innocent reached the nameless woman’s ears–cries and begging for mercy as the skeletal army marched, slaying chained, defenseless people and drawing a black energy toward the shadowy figure in front of the monolith.

Despite not knowing what was happening or why she should care when others were being hurt as she was being ignored, something within Morwen stirred, screaming out to her at the injustice.

A cold flame flickered in her chest, and a series of images and emotions played out in her mind. A bountiful forest of green, covered in flames. An elvish woman stood at the front of a large group of people, raising her staff, protecting the weak against a horde of monsters. Her elven husband stood near with his swept blades, facing the tide in defiance.

Wherever and however she was…she knew that this was who she was. That she would stand between the wicked and the weak, and she would not allow this slaughter to continue. And then she would make them pay for it if she could.

The cold flame roared in her chest with conviction, and she felt a powerful connection to the surrounding cold. She didn’t know how to use it, but it answered to her beck and call. It was different from what…she remembered. A blast of wind or vines full of life force felt right to her, but the cold and…something more tickled her skin, feeling like an old friend somehow.

Somehow, this area beneath her…it was hers. She could feel it. Why?

Full of desire and will to protect, she raised her staff. With all her mental might, she drew all the mana in the area, an immense amount of it being drawn into a large orb at her beck and call. Her will was righteous, and she even felt vindication at its response. The magic danced to her will, just as it did in her memory.

“What? Impossible! It should have lasted at least ten minutes, not only one!” The man in robes shouted before pointing at her. “Get her! Stop her at once!”

Several skeletal warriors rushed toward her, bathed in darkness and malevolence. But an armored man on a horse got in their way, slicing into them with his war scythe and shouting out an elvish battle cry. Something warmed her heart at this, but she continued gathering her spell, using the time bought for her.

She wasn’t sure what to do exactly at first, but she wanted to protect the weak and those who also fought to do the same. Letting out a cold breath and channeling the magic, it was like she knew the words. Ancient words of power that predated even the Framework, etched into the very core of her soul.

“By the silver light of the Tylwyth Teg, I call upon the ancient stillness,” her voice rang out in elvish, echoing with a dual resonance–the melodic chime of a fae guardian, layered over the chilling authority of the underworld. “Let the winter preserve the innocent as it does the sleeping seed! Rise, Caer Wydyr! Let the Glass Fortress stand between the living and the dark!”

She slammed her staff on the ground, sending the massive orb of mana surging into the earth, her spirit straining from the monumental task of casting it alone. The silence of the grey fog was instantly shattered by the deafening crack of shifting tectonic frost as an apparition of the glass fortress appeared over them.

A ring of deep, blue-white glacial ice erupted upward, tearing through the stone plaza. It grew to nearly two stories in size, a towering wall of jagged, impenetrable frost separating the hundreds of captives and the undead legion from the cultists who sought to harm them.

The sudden drop in temperature and spiritual energy from the spell hit like a physical shockwave, blowing the Grand Bishop's suffocating grey fog away into nothingness. And that wasn’t all. As the words of power hung in the freezing air, recognition came to the other Emberborn's eyes. The cold flames in their chests ignited violently, burning away the last wisps of the unnatural fog like beacons in the dark.

Even if their minds couldn’t parse and remember everything instantly as the fogs lifted, their souls remembered their duty. They channeled mana into their magic circles, expanding their domains alongside hers, pushing against the Grand Bishop’s tainted domain with a vengeance toward the stage. The wall now encompassed the vast majority of all the undead and the captives, filling much of the plaza. Only the Church of Mortem and the shadowed figure were left out of it, as they had marched to slay the captives.

The fog in their minds began to lift, and as she looked at the man on his horse who protected her smiling, she felt a familiarity.

This man was different from the man in her memory…but he was the same, she knew. He reached out his hand.

“My love? It is…dangerous here. Stay close to me.”

The cold flame in her chest flickered as she smiled at him as she took his hand. “Of course, my dear. I am starting…to remember. The battle is not yet won. This evil, we must stop it.”

“As always, you have my blade. Even if it…feels different.” He frowned at his war scythe and pale horse, inspecting his runed armor and infusing it with mana.

He pulled her up onto his mount behind him, and they rode to the top of the barrier, where spells and weapons were crashing against it uselessly. Some skeletal soldiers climbed or attempted to leap over, empowered by deathly strength, but the defenders held the line.

Morwen didn’t know their names, but her spirit recognized the vibrant energies they wielded. The beastkin fought with feral, thumping vitality, their animal traits flashing as they pushed the undead back. Beside them, martial cultivators and martial artists moved with disciplined grace, their blades glowing with focused, heavenly light.

A talisman arrived on Morwen and Bedwyr’s back from a shrine maiden, releasing a pulse of spiritual magic. Her mind and spirit were reinforced, and she remembered who she was–Morwen, High Priestess of Arawn. The images and emotions from her past…she didn’t fully remember it, but shadows remained.

Her will wrapped around the immortal legion, her clergy’s domain pressing against the Church of Mortem’s barrier fiercely. The tainted death energy that exited was gradually subsumed, the energy spent to empower their domain running out. Their frost energy was constant, like an endless spring coming from the world itself. Nearly none of the undead legion was under the enemy’s control now.

Morwen began to draw up the mana for another spell. This time empowered by her priestesses’ faith, and not her own. “Are you ready, Husband?”

“Always. For you or the Lord of Annwyn. It is time for us to hunt these betrayers of the world.”

He began spinning his polearm over his head, the energy being drawn to him as he prepared his Icy Hunt. While the enemy still had countless undead, they were useless when the bishop would lose control over them.

It was only a matter of time before the barrier shattered, and the Grand Bishop knew it. “No! You ruined everything! I was supposed to bring the True Mortem into this vessel. And then I would command–”

“That is not the True Mortem; it is an Aspect of Eternal Night,” Morwen interrupted, her voice ringing with absolute, freezing authority. “A great enemy of all those living and dead. You have betrayed the very souls you were charged to protect. If you drop your wards now, you may still find penitence for your sins.”

“Never!” He whirled toward the shadowed figure coalescing on the stage, black tendrils feeding into it from the ritual. “It hungers! It must feed and become whole so that I can become the true master of death. You give me no other choice!”

The Grand Bishop drew a jagged, bruised-purple artifact from his robes. The malevolence wafting off it was nauseating. He thrust it high, perhaps expecting to bind the entity. Instead, the swirling void of the Aspect pulsed. The black tendrils snapped away from trying to eat the captives and whipped violently toward the Grand Bishop and his remaining clergy.

The Grand Bishop's triumphant grin melted into skeletal horror as the tendrils pierced his chest. There were hundreds of corrupted clergy within the barrier, but the Aspect sucked the life, mana, and tainted faith out of them in mere moments. Artifacts clattered uselessly to the stone as the men crumbled into dry, lifeless dust. The Aspect devoured the Bishop's soul without a second thought, swelling in size as it turned its eyeless gaze toward the rest of the caldera.

Seeing the opening, Bedwyr’s spectral horse leaped into the air. Faith and mana flooded into the paladin as an apparition of the Lord of Annwyn appeared above him, complete with two massive hunting hounds. Bedwyr brought down his war scythe with a devastating swing. The spectral hounds howled, traveling with the arc of the blade in an instant, crashing through the remnants of the black barrier and tearing toward the shadowy figure.

But as the hounds struck the Specter, they didn't bite flesh. The black tendrils lashed out, absorbing the kinetic and magical energy instantly, dispersing the hounds into nothingness.

The creature released an ear-piercing, hollow shriek. It wasn't a sound, but an absence of it–an agonizing vacuum that caused the living to cry out and clutch their ears. The unnatural stillness carried an intense, suffocating pressure, filling anyone without Arawn’s protection with primal terror.

The Aspect floated upward. It was incomplete, yet it felt like a black hole tearing through the fabric of Morvalis. Morwen's breath caught. This was no mere monster; its density placed it firmly in the Third Tier–a Raid Boss-level entity meant to be faced by an entire army.

The beastkin fired volleys of arrows, and the cultivators launched spiritual manifestations that tore at the shadowy mass. But a tendril lashed out, casually draining the spiritual energy from a trapped immortal legionnaire. The meager damage done to the Aspect vanished instantly as it fed. It drifted slowly toward Morwen's barrier, an inevitable tide of erasure.

Stenos, finally shaking off the last of the mental fog, arrived at Morwen’s side alongside Commander Legias. “High Priestess... there is too much innocent food here. If it eats the captives, it will become unstoppable. What do we do?”

He cut to the heart of Morwen’s fear. She had every confidence Hearthtribe's elites could kill it, but they couldn't fight a war of attrition if the monster constantly healed by eating the defenseless.

Morwen drew the spell-rod flare from her pouch. Infusing it with a burst of her mana, she aimed it high. It shot into the brownish-orange sky, releasing a brilliant, piercing blast of blue light that shattered the gloom–a beacon visible for miles.

“Everyone! Fall back to the captives, and reinforce the circles!” Morwen’s voice boomed across the plaza, amplified by her domain. “Airship pilots, abandon the ships and get inside the perimeter! We cannot feed it. We will lock it out and let the wolves hunt it down!”

As the last of the living and the dead sprinted behind her icy perimeter, Morwen planted her staff into the stone. She channeled everything she had, pulling the frigid mana from the leylines, and from her clergy’s faith.

“Rise, Caer Wydyr!”

The walls of frost groaned and surged upward. Thick, translucent glacial ice arched inward, meeting high above their heads to form a massive, impenetrable dome. The Glass Fortress sealed shut just as the Specter descended.

The monster wailed, its tendrils battering against the dome. The ice shrieked under the pressure of its hunger, but reinforced by the magic circles of the Emberborn, the sanctuary held. Inside, bathed in the soft blue light of Arawn's protection, the living wept in relief while the dead raised their shields, holding the line.

Morwen looked up through the thick ice at the swirling black void above. She had built the anvil. Now, it was up to Rookard to be the hammer.