Nightblade (Darkest night)

"It’s hopeless...utterly hopeless"

Morgan swayed on his feet and for a few moments, the world seemed to spin.

Despite their valor, the royal guards were being systematically slaughtered. They fought with honor, with blood, with screaming lungs—but the silver-eyed warriors fought with absolute, emotionless perfection.

Every parry was calculated, every insidious strike was fatal. They did not bleed, they did not tire, and they most certainly did not hesitate.

For every step the royal guards managed to reclaim, the pale tide drove them back two more, turning the once-glorious heart of Elaris into a churning sea of broken armor, severed limbs, and dying whispers.

Steel rang throughout the capital in a deafening chorus. Strram of violet magic erupted across the cobblestone streets—arcs of lightning tearing through the air, bursts of shadow fracturing the marble, and waves of force rattling the surrounding towers.

Morgan drew his own blade almost instinctively, his muscles coiling as he prepared to hurl himself into the chaos once more.

Before he could move—a firm, heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

His father.

King Aldren hadn’t turned around. His golden aura flared brightly, his broad back standing as an unyielding wall between Morgan and the descending army. His gaze remained locked on the enemy commander.

"Protect the Vault," Aldren said.

Morgan blinked, the sheer absurdity of the order stalling his momentum. "What?"

"The city can be rebuilt," his father stated, his voice impossibly calm amidst the surrounding carnage. "The palace can be rebuilt."

The king tightened his grip on the hilt of his golden sword, the knuckles of his gauntlet turning white.

"But what sleeps beneath this mountain..."

He paused, a heavy tremor passing through his voice before he mastered it again.

"...must never awaken."

Morgan’s heartbeat quickened, hammering frantically against his ribs.

Awaken.

Again. Everything in this nightmare seemed to connect back to that single, cursed word.

"Father—"

"No questions," Aldren cut him off sharply.

For the first time since Morgan had entered this memory, King Aldren sounded entirely stripped of his regal majesty. He sounded not like a monarch addressing a prince.

He sounded like a desperate father trying to save his son.

"If I fail..."

Morgan froze, the cold blood in his veins turning to ice. The memories of Modric, the real Prince Mordric resonated with him and in that moment Morgan felt a pang of dread and deep seated fear.

"If I fail..."

The king finally turned his head, looking back over his shoulder. There was no fear in his golden eyes. There was no panic, no hesitation. There was only absolute, terrifying resolve.

"You must succeed where I could not."

The words struck Morgan with a strange, jarring weight. They reverberated through his mind, carrying an eerie, unnatural resonance.

It was almost... as though those words weren’t meant for Prince Modric at all.

Instead, they were meant for him.

For Morgan.

Across the fractured plaza, the stranger noticed the subtle exchange. His ancient, silver eyes narrowed ever so slightly, shifting away from the king to lock directly onto Morgan.

"...Interesting," the stranger whispered, his voice cutting through the noise of battle as if he were standing right beside them.

He stared straight into Morgan’s soul, peering past the illusion of the memory, past the flesh of the prince, straight to the intruder hiding within.

"So that’s why."

King Aldren immediately stepped between them, his towering form blotting out the stranger’s gaze. The golden light surrounding him flared into a furious, blinding wall.

"You will not touch my son," the king growled.

"No," the stranger replied quietly, his tone maddeningly soft. "I won’t."

His pale expression became entirely unreadable, stripped of mock friendliness and cold malice alike.

"Not yet."

Before the king could strike, a brass horn echoed from the eastern wall—a long, wailing note of absolute disaster.

Then another horn blew. Then a third.

A royal captain staggered into the plaza, his ornate silver armor drenched in dark, fresh blood. His helm was missing, and a deep tear across his chest exposed raw bone.

"Your Majesty!"

The captain fell violently to his knees, his sword clattering onto the cracked marble.

"The eastern barrier..." The captain’s voice broke, choked by terror and blood. "...it’s gone."

A terrible, suffocating silence swept over the plaza. The clash of steel slowed; even the silver-eyed warriors paused, their cold composure slipping for a fraction of a second.

The stranger himself looked genuinely surprised, his brow furrowing as he glanced toward the eastern horizon.

"I didn’t order that," he muttered, his confidence wavering for the very first time.

Then, the mountain trembled.

It was not the localized shake of a spell landing, nor the vibration of marching boots. It was a deep, fundamental structural shift.

The movement came from below.

Morgan felt it through the soles of his boots—a massive, rhythmic vibration traveling up through the miles of solid granite beneath the city foundation.

A deep...

Rhythmic...

Pulse.

It hit like the heartbeat of something impossibly vast, a leviathan stirring in the deep dark of the earth.

The palace shook violently. Pillars that had stood for three centuries cracked along their bases. Long, jagged fissures raced across the marble plaza, swallowing dead guards and broken weapons whole.

Across the lower terraces, citizens screamed in terror as the grand towers of Elaris began to tilt.

The silver-eyed warriors stopped fighting entirely. As if driven by a single, collective instinct, every single one of them turned their heads toward the palace steps.

The stranger’s expression changed completely. The calm, arrogant composure he had worn since the beginning shattered.

It was not a look of triumph.

It was pure, unadulterated concern.

"No..." the stranger breathed, his voice barely a whisper.

The pulse came again.

THUMP.

It was stronger this time, a kinetic shockwave that threw dozens of fighting soldiers off their feet. The ground beneath the main palace steps split wide open, swallowing the grand stairwell into a gaping, pitch-black chasm. Dust and white powder erupted into the sky like smoke from a volcano.

Far below, in the lightless abyssal depths beneath Elaris...

Something ancient answered the call.

A sound rose from the black void beneath the city—a single, colossal hiss that echoed across the entire kingdom.

It was a sound of absolute hunger, of ancient hatred, vibrating through the stone, through the air, and directly through the bones of every living creature in the plaza.

Morgan fell to his knees as the memory around him began to fray and shatter like wet paper. The golden light, the falling stars, the bloodied plaza—everything began to dissolve into cold currents of swirling ash.

As the world collapsed into darkness, Morgan looked up one last time.

The stranger was staring down into the dark chasm, his pale face drained of all color, his lips moving as he whispered a single, terrified word into the void.

"Nythrakar..."