struck from the coast, Malekith riding Seraphon, a shadow cast over his kin’s ancestral home.
The ground shook as a Dread Saurian crashed into the Skaven flank, swallowing Rat Ogres whole. But for every thousand rats crushed, ten thousand more surged forward.
stood in shimmering ranks of silver, their Phoenix Guard silent as statues.
The sky over the Great Vortex bled a bruised purple, torn open by the relentless chanting of the Grey Seer Thanquol. High atop the Star Tower, Teclis of the High Elves felt the winds of magic fraying like a rotted rope. He knew the ritual was failing—or worse, succeeding for the wrong masters.
Below the shimmering spires of Ulthuan, the world was a meat grinder. The Clash of Empires
Teclis raised his staff, the Moon Staff of Lileath. He didn't just cast a spell; he wove the very fabric of the continent into a shield. White fire erupted, vaporizing the front line of the Witch King’s Executioners. Yet, in the distance, he saw the twin-tailed comet streak across the sky. It wasn't a sign of hope. It was a countdown. A Bitter End