ilyánur held back as Prince Soren and the daemons engaged, holding back the daemon-tide with all his might. His bodyguards stood by his side, their large shields forming a bulwark of iron and blood.

"Vil, flee!" screamed Soren, his voice narrowed by the sounds of battle, overwhelming Vilyánur. He watched as his cousin and his companions held the line back.

"Do not remain standing, flee! That's an order!"

A pain grasped his heart, he knew he had to flee, but to where he knew not. Who was he if not for those who looked over him? Should he leave now, he would never see them again – he knew that.

"Yes, comrade legate!" he said, his eyes brimming with tears, and scurried like the wind, heeding to the call of the now-legate Soren, son of Aiwind. Once again he looked back, and in the shadow witnessed the green fires engulf them. In a heroic last stand, the last squadron ceased.

"Soren!" he gasped in a shrill voice, such a terror he had not felt in centuries, arguably ever before. What was he to do? What was one soldier to do? Who was he if not for his cousin, his uncle, his teacher, and all those who had died in this one battle? He could not fathom: all those faces fair and dull, faces he ate with, faces he slept with . . . he shall never meet them again, not in this world at least.

But now was not the time to despair, the last defenders had fallen; he had to either run or die. And so he rushed: fumes of burning flesh choking his lungs, straying black wisps of smoke dampening his eyes, and voices of his deceased comrades still ringing in his head.

Just as his vision returned, he felt a strong tug to his face: the blade of a knight passed through his veil of rings, tearing it apart like cloth. He almost fell to the floor, if not for his shield which he used to stand up.

One by one his foe's aggressive strikes continued, but Vilyánur stood strong with his shield angled, his foe's might fell in vain and vigour lowered, and so Vilyánur struck him with his blade, but dealing nothing but meagre damage.

Sixty times his foe struck his shield, and thrice Vil struck his barren breast, cleaving heavy wounds each time. And a fourth time he struck, but his foe caught the blade. Ere long he held onto it, the shortsword snapped and fell below, leaving Vilyánur disarmed.

Again his foe lunged upon him, breaking his shield and knocking him to the ground, but ere he could land a last blow, a red blade plunged out of his neck.

"Prince Vilyánur!" Grand-Centurion Carrus called for him, "are you hurt?"

"Nay," Vil replied, standing up. "Glad to see you alive, Grand-Centurion."

"Do not be glad," Carrus replied, "the battle is over, we have lost."

Vil looked in dismay, "such is the fate of our legion: the fate of our world. Now with our fall, shall Krayn enter out into the world above, and bring with him his numberless hordes, bringing about the end of the world as we know it."

"No, comrade, we will not let that happen." He put his hand on Vil's shoulder. "We cannot let the world suffer the same fate as us. I need you to go back and find Sareth, start the warpgate with him. That is the only tool now that can defeat a Daemon-King."

"The warpgate?" questioned Vil, "how?"

"The warpgate at full power can warp a whole army, such power is enough to take down the strongest of daemons. Should we find a way to lure Krayn into the room, we can walk him into the trap, and end him once and for all."

Vil nodded, "so what will you have me do, Grand-Centurion?"

Carrus looked at Vil, then looked back into the abyss that was a corridor cloaked in shadow, and then looked back at Vil, with a smile as bright as the afternoon sun. "Please tell my wife and children I love them."

Vil was stunned, what was Carrus planning to do? He thought he knew, but his mind would not have it.

"Now go!"

"Yes, comrade centurion!" he said at last, thereof scurrying off. The last thing he saw was a Grand-Centurion walk into the shadows, a mere mortal challenging a seraphim.

...

For long Vil trekked through the shadow, reaching the warpgate much sooner than expected, or maybe it was the gloom that sped time for him. It was a large room with great contraptions surrounding the dark ceiling. And Sareth was already there.

"Sareth," Vil jumped in joy to see his cousin, rushing to embrace him, only to his horror to find him bleeding, grovelling on a table. "Sareth!"

Vil caught Sareth in his arms ere he could collapse, pressing on the cavity on his stomach to stop the blood, but there was no blood to stop, he had already been bled dry. Vil cried, his shoulders supporting Sareth.

"Vil," he said almost in a whisper, his hand wiping Vil's tears off.

"Sareth!"

"Vil, would you please finish what I started?"

"You did well," said Vil, picking him up onto his lap and taking him into the storeroom next to the portal. There he placed him on the ground, scurrying off into the other rooms. For a couple minutes he toiled there, until at last he returned to Sareth, resting his head on his lap.

"Do not think of death," said Vil, tears filling his eyes, "think of home, think of your family, think of the shires of the countryside. Recall the taste of royal banquet, recall the melody of harps, recall the sweet moments of life."

And so it came, first a shadow on the wall. Though Vil could not see him directly, he could hear a fell voice, he could see the shadow through his blurring vision. And he saw as the warpgate fired up, and a blinding flash of light as bright as the sun took over the world, washing the dark tombs with brilliant aura. Three pairs of eyes shut at once, two of them to never open again.