The end had come.

The sight couldn’t be more cataclysmic. The countryside around Lyonesse was ablaze for miles; a sea of fire and smoke consuming even snow. Hordes of monsters and men converged towards the walls, giant runes, and wards activating as they closed in. Some simply detonated, blasting the battle lines apart, but other, yellow signs, drove the attackers insane. Soldiers entered berserk rage, killing each other in sickening displays of gore and violence.

Nid—Walter had summoned a storm of lightning and stars to harass the invaders. Giant stones fell from the skies, killing dozens, if not hundreds upon landing; thunderstorms fried beasts and wolves the size of elephants. The defending mages unleashed all the spells they could from the safety of the ramparts, their projectiles hitting magical shields while the Calamities’ armies marched forward.

Everywhere, the cracks widened, fire pouring through alongside streams of lava. The sons of Muspelheim, fire giants as tall as their cousins from Jotunheim, powered through them; unlike the barbaric ice giants, they all wore heavy metal armor, fiery weapons, and even carried heavy artillery. Instead of rushing at Lyonesse’s moats and fortifications, they took position for a bombardment; clearly, they intended to create holes in the walls from two sides, overwhelming the defenders in a pincer attack.

Lady Yseult watched it all from the tallest watchtower in Lyonesse alongside Hagen, using divination to provide him with accurate information about the battlefield. The Dullahan observed the scenery with an eerie silence, a white rat on his shoulder.

Having derived most of her power from ‘Balder’ for years, the contrast with her current source of power couldn’t be starker. Her connection to Balder had felt warm and welcoming, even if now she understood it as a pretty illusion without substance. Her connection to Tye was cold, a bond made of bones and ice. Every prayer spell cast felt like kissing an open grave. She had exchanged false comfort for the true, but sinister power of undeath. Even the spells she could cast had changed, her divinations using ghostly mirrors, her summons calling giant undead worms rather than angels.

Yet, there was no mistaking on which side she fought. She had accepted the burden of a dark power to save the world from Ragnarok; when under Balder, she unwittingly hastened it. There was irony in that, but Yseult didn’t have the energy to spare on pointless thoughts.

Even the World Tree Yggdrasil itself seemed to shudder in the horizon, its endless trunk shifting, its leaves rotting. The very source of all life in the Nine Realms felt death crawling at its roots.

The initial defenses did their work, delaying the invaders; the traps and mines littering the countryside stopped ground forces and collapsed the tunnels of underground denizens trying to move through the dungeon below. Above, the tempest prevented flying enemies from approaching.

All changed, however, with a mighty display of druidic magic; the greatest use of [Geomancy] that the priestess had ever seen.

For miles, the land shifted, stones rising up below the dirt and the mud. Rivers, trees, trenches split apart, as a wide trail formed between them. A paved road, overcoming all obstacles and leading straight to Lyonesse’s main gates.

Lady Yseult recognized the caster as the Fianna member Lughaid Stronghand; the undead warrior had taken the shape of a giant, demonic tree, channeling his magic through the roots while guarded by two undead: a lich-like creature in priests garb and a jester wielding a sword and dagger carrying the power of thunder.

The Calamities’ armies regrouped and made use of the road, especially the cavalry. An undead knight wielding a fiery spear commanded undead and humans from the front, followed by an enormous ghoul berserker and a ghostly bard leading a pack of giant wolves. Bypassing all obstacles on the ground, they moved at full speed towards Lyonesse, while fire giants began to bombard the walls from afar with artillery.

In answer to this turn of events, a large crack appeared above the city. To Yseult, it appeared as if the blackened sun itself cracked open like an egg; a fiery eye peered through, its hellish gaze driving fear into all mortals’ hearts.

Surtr.

The Lord of the Fire Giants, who would defeat the forces of order and drown the Nine Realms in flames. The unconquered Calamity, who would cast down the World Tree, only to be consumed by the inferno he himself started.

Yseult could only catch a glimpse of his armored visage, but the sheer size of his mere eye terrified her. The creature was probably over five hundred feet tall, a titan whose mere footsteps would flatten cities. And the crack increased in size with each second; maybe even allowing the titan to force his hand through within a few hours.

A sound came out of Hagen. The low, twisted echo of human emotion, the rattle of a dead man facing his impending demise.

“You are laughing,” Yseult realized, disturbed. “You are laughing.”

“Why shouldn’t I? Is the sight not wonderful?” Hagen replied, utterly, blissfully happy. “Brothers fighting brothers, an age of wolves and steel! This is the time I have been waiting for all my life!”

The mask of sanity and stability had slipped, revealing the cruel killer beneath; a man who delighted at the pain and suffering of others. A man who found the end of the world entertaining. The shoulder devil to Annie’s angel, each a side of Tye’s life. One embodying his remaining embers of humanity, fighting to stay alight in the dark; the other, the cold and merciless undeath he had embraced.

Yseult half-expected Hagen to strike her down and join the invaders, but he did none of that. Instead, he muttered a few words to the white rat, then summoned his ghostly steed, preparing to ride out in battle against the invaders.

In the end, in spite of his wickedness, the Dullahan was loyal to his friend. He had been ordered to hold the line no matter what, and he would.

In spite of her misgivings, Yseult couldn’t approve more.

Meanwhile, the lich Asclepius teleported in the midst of the invaders, attacking the druid and his defenders. The second he appeared, the ancient archmage bombarded them with green rays and fire blasts; the priest created a shield to protect the druid, while the jester attempted to assault the lich in close combat. Undeterred, the Pale Serpents’ Grandmaster engaged the three Fianna in battle, intending to collapse the geomancy effect and prevent the rest of the enemy army from reaching Lyonesse.

Unfortunately, it was already too late for the first wave. Riders and monsters reached the gates and climbed the walls, attacking the defenders or moving through the holes opened by the artillery. The disruption in the defending mages’ bombardments allowed flyers to brave the storm and reach the city, wyvern and pegasi riders moving towards Nastrond’s entrance; Undead, immortals, and summoned monsters defended the fortifications; adamantine and flesh golems moved to cover the breaches; rogues led by Mockingbird fought side by side with militia like Percy.

It was chaos, and battle raged everywhere.

To Yseult’s horror, it became impossible to distinguish the living from the undead. None of those who went down stayed down; instead, the immortals rose back to their feet, their flesh mending itself to fight another round. Percy was cut in half by the berserker’s axe, only for both halves to reattach and continue to battle. His arrows bounced off the enemy’s skin, but this time, the squire refused to run away.

“Each day they fight in the golden halls,” Hagen cackled. “Dying in battle, only to rise again with the sun.”

Yseult listened, knowing what he referenced. Once, she would have accused him of blasphemy, but learning the gods’ true nature had cooled her feelings on the subject.

“This,” Hagen laughed, raising his mace, “this is Valhalla! Walter, you gave us Valhalla!”

Was that the afterlife so many had died for? An eternity of battle, a few brief moments of respite that ended in blood and steel?

It had never been worth it.

Neither Valhalla nor Helheim nor the realms of the gods. None of them had been worth the cost. She saw that now, even as the world came to an end.

What was left to fight for?

Life, she thought, before casting buffing spells on herself. “[Flight].”

“Shall we go?” Hagen asked. “This soil demands spilled blood.”

“I never thought I would fight side by side with an undead criminal,” Yseult said, seizing the [Horn of Jotunheim] which Tye gave her. She sounded it, giving the signal to their troops in the city. The ghost of an ice giant appeared to answer the call, ready to defend the city he died trying to destroy.

“Strange,” Hagen replied, his phantom steed leaping over the watchtower to reach the frontline. “I thought the same about priests!”

It was a close call, but Gwenhyfar made it in time.

She had gathered every man she could, every knight willing to fight to survive, every magician still loyal to Avalon and its last princess, every crusader eager to die in battle rather than await the inevitable. They were precious few for such a purpose; fifteen thousand. Far from the grand army of Avalon at its peak.

But it would have to do. The army she managed to gather were true crusaders, who didn’t fear death; they desired it. She had them march for hours so they could reach Lyonesse in time, Walter having provided them a route to bypass the traps in the countryside.

Now, as she observed the situation from a hill, the task ahead daunted her. Even including the city’s defenders, the Calamities’ forces outnumbered them more than ten to one, and they had already reached the walls. Their hordes of giants and monsters poured by the thousands through rifts, an endless tide of flesh and steel.

It was suicide, plain and simple. If she gave the order, everyone at her back, every hero who dared answer her call, would die.

She could feel the eyes of her soldiers on her back, waiting for her call. Yet Gwen felt something else looking at her; a gaze from the worlds far above, from brilliant Asgard and Vanaheim. The gods were holding their breath, and Tyr still granted her power.

Was Odin watching too? Certainly. Would he bar the gates of Asgard, watching mortals die in his name while he remained safe?

Gwen would fight either way.

And yet, surrounded by thousands, she never felt more alone.

Her family was gone, wiped out by Medraut. Her friends and teammates had died or raised as abominations under Hel’s command. Her home, the city of Camelot, had been razed and annihilated. Even if she somehow survived, she had nowhere to go; she would have to carry on and rebuild.

Even Annie, her most loyal friend, the one who had always argued in her favor, had chosen Tye over her in the end.

Gwenhyfar had somewhat realized her dream. She was now in control of Avalon, as it crumbled; led an army, because there was no one else left to take command; and replaced Arthur as Avalon’s last hope, after failing at every turn. And it gave her no satisfaction.

Was that where her ambitions led her? Loneliness and empty fulfillment?

She only had her convictions left… but it was still enough to push her forward.

“Your Majesty, reports say that the ocean is rising in the east,” a spellcaster warned her. “The Midgard Serpent is stirring below the waves. If this continues, it’s but a matter of time before the region sinks beneath the waters.”

The prophecies were true. Almost literal. Ragnarok had come.

A headache set her mind on fire, her vision turning dark. A malevolent cold filled her brain, a dark influence taking hold in her soul.

“Go, my thrall…” Hel’s voice echoed in the princess’ mind. “Do your duty. Destroy the undead, all of them. They are the true enemies, in this world and the next.”

“Begone!” Gwen hissed in response, her mind hardening as she tried to force the goddess’ words out of her mind. “Begone!”

“Do you wish to see your brother returned to you? Your better brother, whose shoes you can barely fill?” Hel chuckled. “You know you are only the placeholder.”

“Get out!”

In a second, Gwen snapped back to reality, although Hel’s cold laughter echoed in the distance. Her commanders looked at her in silence, a bit surprised by the outburst.

Tyr made her a Paladin, Hel made her a monster. She would never feel at peace.

Gwenhyfar turned to face her army, bowmen, cavaliers, spearmen, and mages. She had dreamed to command these forces like her brother did, leading them to victory. Now her wish was fulfilled, for the first and last time.

Fate had a sense of humor.

“This is the end!” She raised her blade, spellcasters enhancing her voice to speak to the entire army. “Today is the last battle! Not the last battle between Avalon and its enemies, but between life and death! The forces of the Calamities have risen to claim the soul of Midgard, and blanket the world in darkness!”

They listened to her with rapturous attention.

“If they succeed, we shall perish!” Gwenhyfar continued. “Your wives, husbands, sons, and daughters, will perish! All will die in the eternal flames! The skies will fall, and Ragnarok will consume all! Even if we prevail, we shall not live to return home. This will be our final hour. But I promise you this: tomorrow, we shall dine in Valhalla!"

Her men shouted in response. While Gwenhyfar had lost faith in the gods, many hadn’t; so long as they believed in something, she would call upon their belief to rouse them to action.

“Attack the Calamities’ forces, but ignore the city’s undead defenders,” she ordered, which caused some whispers. “I know your confusion, and I share your disdain. The lesser evil is still evil… but the greater evil is still greater. This is not a fight between good and evil, but between those who wish to fight for this world, and those who would rather see it gone! Choose your opponents well, and let us show Loki and his kind that Avalon’s people shall never be conquered!”

She turned back on the battlefield, pointing her weapon at Lyonesse.

“Now, to battle!”

The armies of Avalon shouted and charged, with Gwenhyfar at the front.

They had breached the walls.

Tye had focused on maintaining his storm and long-distance attacks for the past hour. He invaded the minds of commanders and drove them to madness, forcing them to attack their own men and disrupting the chain of command. He rained meteors, raised the dead, brought men and beasts to their knees.

Yet they were simply too numerous. An endless tide that would overwhelm the surface in short order, with the aerial forces already on their way to the hole leading to Nastrond. The defenses wouldn’t hold for long, for even immortal soldiers would be trampled by the onslaught.

And now, Gwenhyfar was here, coming from the east like the giant Hrym. Good. He only had to wait for Medraut, Hel, and the Death Heroes to show up, and the stage would be set.

None of them would take Nastrond from him. His lair would be their tomb.

But for that, blood had to flow. More blood than it had ever been spilled in one place; an ocean of bile and guts. A carnage to sicken even the gods high above.

“Annie,” Tye said, stepping out of the cathedral as he cast every buffing spell in his arsenal. His apprentice had been busy spellcasting herself, summoning as many gargoyle defenders as she could. “Prepare to evacuate at my telepathic signal.”

“You’re going?” Annie asked, worried.

The undead god nodded, glancing at the hole while holding Apophis in his hands. “They will not pass,” he promised. Or if they did, they would pay dearly for it.

“Tye,” Annie said bluntly. “Survive.”

Short and to the point. Tye appreciated it; neither of them had time for long sentimental speeches. “So will you, Annie,” he said. “So will you.”

And with these words, he took flight while in [Ghostform], the specter of a colossal serpent slithering towards the heavens. Flocks of aerial monsters followed him, alongside swarms of vermin and ghosts.

Tye had shed his humanity, and the forever serpent had emerged from the husk.

While his monsters spread around the city, Tye floated as high as he could, until he reached the clouds and oversaw the entire city. A horde of monster riders flew at him, led by two members of the Fianna; an undead knight riding an armored wyvern, and a ghost commanding a blackened pegasus.

They raised their weapons in silence and tried to attack him, like moths to a flame.

Tye simply stopped time, interrupting the battle. For a second, the world was quiet and peaceful, silent like the grave. Only the necromancer’s words echoed in this frozen moment, the promise of doom for all challengers.

“[Superflare], [Accelerated Superflare],” Tye cast, again, and again, and again. “[Superflare], [Accelerated Superflare]...”

When time resumed, a flash of light colored the skies white. A mighty explosion spanning all of Lyonesse vaporized the winged cavalry, its mighty commanders included. The Fianna may have survived the barrage of magic, their flesh seared to the bone, they had to retreat. Their men fell to the ground below, at the mercy of swarms of white rats.

Legendary or otherwise, they were mere men in the end.

And Walter was a god.

He was worth an entire army, and it would take the Death Heroes or all the Fianna assembled to threaten him. So long as he remained standing, Nastrond would never fall.

The flapping of great wings answered his mental boast.

The two Fianna hadn’t retreated; they had rejoined their master, announcing his coming.

He emerged from clouds of smoke, riding a black, monstrous wyvern almost fifty feet long. The beast had rubies for eyes, breathing blue flames while carrying the remains of an adamantine golem in its sharp claws. The rider had used a spell to grow in size, becoming the equal of Walter himself. His armor was ablaze, his skeletal visage alight with nihilistic determination.

A fiery knight had found himself a mount worthy of him.

“You won’t stop me, Walter,” Medraut said, his blade shining like the sun, the surviving Fianna flying behind him, their wounds regenerating. “I will end it all, today.”

They had been mistaken. Walter thought the Death Knight would command from the rear, waiting for his troops to clean the path; instead, his old friend intended to force one himself. Madman he may be, Medraut was no coward.

Neither was Walter, who didn’t move an inch.

“Over my corpse,” Walter replied, incanting a spell. “Nobody will die, Medraut. Not even the world.”

“You could never listen,” the [Death Knight] replied, with a mix of fury and sadness. “To the death it is, then!”

Walter unleashed a freezing blizzard, Medraut’s mount retaliating with a torrent of flames. Both attacks collided, staining the skies with fire and ice.