The walls of Sunspire Bastion trembled beneath the fury of the Dominion’s assault. From the parapets, golden banners bearing the sigil of the Phoenix Accord fluttered against the smoke-cloaked sky, their radiance defiant even as the forces of undeath gathered beyond the gates.

  Within the heart of the bastion, Vaelthas the Undying stood, watching as the shadowed tide swelled beneath the blood-red moon. His presence alone commanded both reverence and fear—his form wreathed in the cold fire of his eternal existence, his armor gilded with ancient Solari runes. He had once stood against Malakar in life. Now, in death, he stood against the remnants of his heresy.

  The undead legions of the Dominion of Ash stretched across the valley, an endless host of skeletal warriors, wraith-bound horrors, and deathless champions. At their head, Vhalzaren, Hand of Malakar, raised his staff, emerald flames licking at the sky as the first wave of specters rushed forward.

  The air quivered as the Phoenix Accord answered.

  From the bastion’s walls, Solari war-priests called upon the divine flame, their chants resonating through the citadel. Arrows wreathed in consecrated fire rained upon the approaching dead, searing bone and turning shadows to cinders. Wraithbound knights, bound by oath and honor, charged through the breach, their blades alight with holy radiance.

  Vaelthas strode onto the battlefield, his voice like thunder.

  "Hold the line. No darkness shall claim these walls."

  His command rippled through the ranks, and his warriors—both living and undead—fought with unwavering resolve. The Phoenix Accord was not merely an army; they were the last remnants of a fallen empire, bound by faith, duty, and the burning need to see Solari rise again.

  Steel clashed against spectral claws. Holy fire met necrotic fury. The night burned with the fury of gods and monsters alike.

  At the gates, Varokh the Hollow, Vhalzaren’s enforcer, shattered the warding sigils with a crushing blow of his rune-etched greataxe. The barrier flickered, then failed, and the Dominion surged forward.

  Vaelthas turned to his captains. "To me. We make our stand at the inner gate."

  The Phoenix Accord fell back in disciplined formation, drawing the battle into the bastion’s narrow corridors. If the Dominion sought to claim Sunspire, they would pay for it in blood and bone.

  The war for Solari’s soul raged on.

  The breach had been forced. The golden halls of Sunspire Bastion, once a beacon of Solari’s undying will, now burned with eldritch fire. Spectral wraiths and armored revenants clashed against the Phoenix Accord’s wraithbound knights, their battle an endless churn of steel, sorcery, and unyielding conviction.

  Vaelthas moved like a storm through the fray. His blade cut through the undead, his every strike laced with the radiant fire of Zarathion. Around him, the Accord’s champions held the line, their discipline unwavering even against the inexorable tide of the Dominion of Ash.

  But for every revenant slain, Vhalzaren raised another.

  The lich stood amidst his forces, untouched, his skeletal fingers weaving necrotic sigils into the air. Shadows coiled at his feet, twisting into grasping specters that pulled the wounded screaming into oblivion. His power was not brute force—it was inevitability.

  “Futile.” His voice echoed through the chaos. “You fight to preserve an ember, Regent, while the storm is already upon you. Yield, and I will grant you purpose beyond this defiance.”

  Vaelthas snarled. “We do not yield.”

  With a raised gauntlet, he called upon the Phoenix’s fire. A wave of golden flame erupted outward, consuming the encroaching undead in a flash of purifying light. Their bones blackened, their wails fading into silence.

  “The Accord will break before we do,” Varokh growled, gripping his cursed axe. “Let me bring the revenant-lord to his knees.”

  Vhalzaren considered it. Vaelthas was powerful, but not invincible. If they could strike him down, the Accord’s morale would shatter. And yet—he could feel something stirring in the depths of the bastion. Not fear, not weakness, but resolve. The same unyielding will that had kept them fighting for centuries.

  He turned away from the battlefield. “No. Not tonight.”

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  Varokh’s hollow eyes narrowed. “You would have us withdraw?”

  “We do not need to take Sunspire in a single night,” Vhalzaren said, his voice as cold as the grave. “Let them believe they have won a victory. Let them hold to their illusions of hope.” His gaze returned to the distant bastion, where Vaelthas stood among his warriors, his blade raised in defiance.

  “This war is far from over.”

  With a final, silent command, the Dominion’s forces began to fall back, fading into the shadows of the ruined valley. The Phoenix Accord did not pursue; they knew better than to chase the dead into the abyss.

  The night stretched on, the flames of battle still flickering along the walls of Sunspire Bastion, but the Dominion of Ash had pulled back. Vhalzaren’s forces melted into the shadows, retreating with eerie precision. The Phoenix Accord stood victorious—for now—but the taste of victory was bitter.

  Vaelthas stood atop the crumbling battlements, his gaze fixed on the valley below, where the remnants of the Dominion’s undead army had vanished into the night. The silence that followed was oppressive, a heavy weight on his chest. They had not won. They had only bought time.

  "Regent," a voice interrupted his thoughts. It was Captain Aldira, her face grim. "What now? They will return, and next time, they will not hesitate."

  Vaelthas turned toward her, his expression unyielding. "We will stand our ground, as we always have. We cannot let the Dominion take Sunspire, nor let it fall to shadow."

  But just as he spoke, a sudden tremor ran through the earth, and the walls of the Bastion rumbled as if the mountain itself had been struck. The ground cracked, the air crackling with strange energy, and the sky above darkened, as though to shield the land from the light of the dawn. Vaelthas’s heart raced.

  Before he could give command, a sharp cry echoed from within the Bastion. A soldier, breathless and wide-eyed, ran toward him, clutching a scroll.

  "Lord Vaelthas, you must come quickly—there’s something... something moving beneath us. A force like none we've ever seen."

  Vaelthas’s blood ran cold. The Dominion's retreat, their sudden absence, made sense now. They were not fleeing. They were waiting.

  "Where?" Vaelthas demanded.

  "Below. In the vaults... deep beneath the Bastion," the soldier gasped, his eyes wide with terror.

  Vaelthas turned to Captain Aldira, his voice steady, though the unease in his chest gnawed at him. "Gather the council. Prepare the defenses, and send for the Solari priests. We need to find out what stirs beneath us."

  As they descended into the depths of Sunspire Bastion, the air grew heavier, the echoes of their footsteps growing hollow against the walls. Every corridor felt colder than it should have, every shadow stretching longer. They reached the central vault, a massive chamber built into the heart of the Bastion, once a place of reverence and hope.

  But now, the vault was... wrong. The symbols on the walls, the protective wards, all seemed to flicker like dying embers. A low, growling hum filled the air as the ground beneath their feet trembled again—this time, with far more force. The chamber’s entrance began to warp and crack, as though something ancient was trying to break free.

  Vaelthas strode forward, his hand gripping the hilt of his blade, but before he could make it to the center of the chamber, a sound like thunder cracked through the vault. The stone floor beneath them split open, sending chunks of debris flying into the air. A terrible, writhing shadow—neither living nor dead—began to claw its way from beneath the earth, its form shifting and undulating like a serpent born of darkness.

  It was... something old, something forgotten. A creature of power, its eyes glowing with a malevolent light.

  And it was not alone.

  From the broken earth, more shapes began to rise, their forms dark and twisted, like nightmares given flesh. The vault was no longer just a vault. It was a prison, and the prisoners had escaped.

  "To arms!" Vaelthas shouted, his voice steady but filled with a weight he had not expected to carry. "We must hold them here!"

  But before they could raise their weapons, the rumble of distant movement echoed through the Bastion. Another tremor shook the earth, but this one was different—it felt purposeful. Like something—or someone—was coming for them, and the rest of the Bastion was not safe.

  From the shadowed horizon, a figure emerged, cloaked in the black mist of night. Its form flickered like a shadow, yet there was a terrible presence in the air as it approached. Vaelthas narrowed his eyes, watching as the figure moved with an eerie, deliberate pace, like a predator drawn to its prey.

  The darkness around them seemed to twist, as if the world itself were being reshaped. The battle, the horrors beneath them, all seemed secondary to this new arrival.

  Vaelthas's grip tightened on his sword. This was no longer just about the Dominion, or even the Bastion. There was something else at play—something darker than either. And whoever—or whatever—stood before him would decide the fate of Sunspire.

  He didn’t know whether this was the beginning of the end, or the end of the beginning.

  But he knew one thing.

  He had to act.