ell me again why were you so casual, and not angry at your father for not being there when you needed him? Had my father done that, I'd never have forgiven him."

"He was always there," Vil replied, "not physically but..." Mey offered him a death stare, "...I know, in a couple days I'll get angry about how he wasn't there when I needed him (at least not physically), and then you'll have to comfort me, that is how I am, if you met me yesterday."

Mey laughed. "Your personality has become a meme as of late."

"I'm aware of it," Vil rubbed the sweat off his tense brows, "anyway, we're back."

Vil pointed towards the valley in relief, it had been a tough week and they could use some rest. But at least on their way back they saw the moon-elf settlement abandoned and ruined, so that was good news: one less enemy to worry about. I wonder if the skali know who the Oracle is, Mey wondered, if they've served together, they should recognize him with ease.

But alas, it seemed fate didn't inscribe rest for them. The two of them trekked through the wastes for so long, trying to find a way back, only to find their camp smoking.

Vil was taken by shock: Did daemons follow him? Or did the skali betray them? Questions poured into his mind like a violent thunderstorm, scattering his wits about.

And the worst: the sounds of battle still pervaded, from afar they could see the backs of the high-elf warriors turned towards the enemy, holding their shieldwall against their foe.

"My lord," a skali squire ran up to him, "you've arrived just in the nick of time, we have been under attack for two hours now."

"Oh no, not good," Mey barged in, "how did they find out? Where are your warriors?"

"A great many have fallen," the skali answered darkly, "but they bought your troops enough time to mount a defence of the last few islands, allowing us to retreat safely into the deeper corners."

"Last few islands?" Vil squirmed in fear, "how many of the islands have been taken?"

"All our villages," the squire replied, "they fell faster than leaves in autumn, but luckily we saved most of our villagers, and that is all that matters."

"What matters is our survival," Mey replied, "we must find a way home, even if it is through the gates of hell. Get the women and children-"

...

He hushed, neon curls of light emanated from behind them: a portal opened right in between the island. Vil and Mey unsheathed their blades, ready to face off an ambush, but no.

Out stepped Raucion, his hands raised into the air.

"Raucion," Vil responded in immeasurable joy, "brother, what are you doing here?"

"I thought you needed aid in battling the daemons," said Raucion, "so I brought a host of them with me. Also, father wants you to know: a portal cannot be powerful enough for an entire legion to pass through without the strain killing your infants, you need to use a warpgate."

"Ah," Vil sighed, half of relief and half of concern, "so our only choice is to defeat the daemons?"

"Worry not, it's doable, but there are some instances which he can't predict."

"As in?"

"Let's just say the hordes are not your biggest problem," Raucion said in apology, "the Hand of Morthaur: the Master of Change, he is upon you now, Vil. His master has tasked him to hunt you down and destroy you, and he will not stop unless defeated."

Vil breathed a sigh of fear, one of the most powerful daemons in the world was after him.

"Don't worry, Vil," Mey stood in his defence, "if he wants to get to you, he'll have to go through me first."

"Like you can mount a viable defence, brother-in-law," Raucion laughed, "but do not fear, father did tell me of something that can help."

"Like what?"

"An ancient ally," Raucion replied, "an angel of the ancient world: a friend beyond any you have ever known, and a foe to our foe. But hold tight, brother, it will take a couple hours for me to conjure her."

"Well, get to work, fire away," Vil said, painfully suppressing his laughter. "Pun intended."

Raucion laughed, "I'll start the warping spell, it's bound to get us somewhere."

Vil laughed back, Mey looked at him in annoyance. "Damn it, you and your half-brother have the same, wicked, dark sense of humour."

*****

Horns bellowed back and forth, mingled amongst the shrieks and screams of mortals and immortals, like a sea of dread the daemons fell upon the shields of the legionnaires of Vilyánur, but they could not cleave a hole in the wall.

The daemons fought on, their morale dropping with every subsequent charge, their fragile vessels withering away into the void. The wall of red shields stood as a bulwark: a flammifer of hope, skali and wood-elves arched their missiles over it and unto the horde of foes. For two hours the daemons carried on, but their assaults were futile.

And the elves struck back: knights rode through the gaps, striking disunited bands of raiders with the force of an express train, trampling through them like a bolt of lightning. Wood-elves and skali followed behind, charging at the rabbles with swords and axes, bearing a zeal of courage and power, and the daemons fled ere they could be mown down.

Finally the battle had ended, the last daemons were on the run, all the islands were freed from the corruption. Cheers of joy ran around the camps, but Vil knew this was not over yet.

Like an eagle his eyes focused at a distance, peering at the darkness that swelled there, going from a dark purple to a bright red and then searing yellow, patches of brown blocked out of the shadows, slowly forming into hands and feet and a monstrous figure.

"Vil," Mey stood beside him, "what do you see?"

"The Master of Change," he whispered, "there he comes."

...

At first it came like a roar, shattering the serenity of the blood-red skies, silencing the joy of the elves and skali. And then it came.

RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!

They ran, retreating into the dark corners of the island, trembling in fear of the lord of daemons. All of them fled, all save one: Vil stood there, waiting for his foe to arrive.

Like dusk it came: a beast draped in dark flame, as tall as an elephant, embroidered in dark scales, horns curled around his face, a cloak of flames around him, his eyes burning red with the hottest fires. He had the body of an elf, head of a lion, snout and tail of a snake, horns of a ram, hooves of a deer, and the wings of a ravenous dragon. Like a terrible storm he laughed, bringing about him the sable grimace of his truth, towering over Vil with power.

For long the elves and skali looked upon him, prayers flew like doves: some of power, some of safety, most of mercy.

Cold be the hand that burrows deep,

swift be the wind o'er fen and field;

I shall not fear, though my end is near,

for the power of my people I wield.

So Vil chanted, his voice was muffled by fear. "I wish I believed in the gods," he said to himself, "at least I would've had someone to pray to."

A ripple of fear cast up his spine, yet he daren't act weak. His legionnaires were looking up to him; he was a fabled hero of yore who slew a daemon-king, who was to stand up now if not him? No . . . he would fight here and die gladly, and join his cousins in the afterlife.

"Away, you fell beast!" he warned, his black sword gleaming pale in firelight, "take not me for a meagre fool, for I shall be more than enough for you alone."

Hearing his words, the Master of Change cracked a dread laughter. "Ignorant fool, you cannot stop me! Die now!"

And so he moved forward, the very ground shaking alongside him. Vil struggled to stand amid the earthquake, but then he realised. As the daemon approached, passing over the bridge, it collapsed under his weight, dragging him down into the watery abyss.

"That should do it," Mey approached beside him, "he should be dead by now."

But no, just as they began to rejoice, the daemon crawled up the cliff, rising like a bolt of fire, onto the island where Vil stood. "Run," Mey urged him, but Vil would not move.

"It's no use, he can fly anyway," Vil replied, "single combat is the best decision now."

And so he looked back at his foe, glancing at his dark visage in fear. "You are brave!" the daemon responded, somewhat low on sarcasm and high in respect. "Still, too weak to face me."

"Still," he replied, his voice reverberating. A storm gathered on his head, his body gleamed pale blue and eyes red. Giving in to the immense arcane energies around him, he took the form of a spirit of lightning, hovering high in the air as seminal energies whirred around him.

And the daemon struck many times, and Vilyánur responded. Back and forth they went, exchanging blows at each other. But at last Vil grew weary, and the daemon struck him down with a blast of fire. With a dying breath he cursed the Master of Change, and shut his eyes in grief and torment.

His bodyguards looked in an aura of fear, but suddenly it was dispersed by a roar louder than any other. A skeletal dragon warped before their eyes: an ancient enemy of the daemon-lord, ready for a rematch.

And once again the Master of Change roared out a river of fire, but the chilling breath of his foe doused it along his fires. Thence she assailed her with claw and fang, tearing off his iron scales, one by one ridding him of his defences.

At length a blue star peeked from the horizon, shedding light over the wounded combatants, commencing the end of the battle of monsters – both of them fell together, damaged beyond reckon.

"Now is the time!" screamed Mey, "Raucion, strike his wounds so he may die, and banish his soul to Ngaath once again."

"No!" the daemon pleaded, "Please not, I beg of you."

"Why not, daemon? Why should we listen to you?"

"Because I fear Ngaath, as do all the daemons. Strike me down now and I shall be gone for a thousand years, but I will return one day. Instead I have a proposition, which I think will be beneficial to the both of us."

"And that is?"

"As the Master of Change, I shall grant ye three wishes, and in exchange I want you to release me. For I have learned my lesson and found redemption, and now I want to leave this plane for good, I want to attain salvation from this imprisonment."

Mey looked at him in awe, he couldn't believe what he was hearing. He glanced at Raucion, only to meet a cold nod from him: he was telling the truth, he wanted freedom.

"Very well," Mey shook his head, "first: I want Vil, a shorn hero on the doors of death, restored to health."

"So be it," he replied, waving his hand again. And lo, Vil woke up as healthy as prior, much to everyone's joy.

"Secondly: I want a warpgate to Alledoria opened here."

"So be it," said the daemon. With the wave of a hand he opened a warpgate.

"And third: as I release you, the daemons you command shall be ours to command."

The Master of Change smiled, "so be it."

*****

But no. Ere he could cast the spell, a bolt of lightning struck his back, his spirit banished in an instant for Ngaath: shot down by Nixior, his moon-elves turned undead by chaos energies, he himself a former shadow of his past, garbed in black and green, sprouting dark wings on his back.

"Nixior! You fucking traitor!" Mey snarled at him.

"Finally, his daemons are mine to command! Fear me now: I am your bane."

The sounds of fire pervaded around, daemons rose from the shadows and to Nixior's defence, but suddenly were doused by the laughter of Vilyánur. "You fool; you are naught but a mere hindrance to us."

The retinue of Vilyánur approached, flanked by the daemons of Raucion.

Nixior looked at them in scorn and disdain, but he knew he had no choice but to flee. Thus with a dainty scorn he fled, but not to quit but reinforce his ranks. "I will kill you! My daemons will take you down like flies before frogs. You cannot escape!"

"Do not fear," said Raucion. "We have our own daemons to fight."

Nixior raised his arms into the air, Raucion did the same. From both sides daemons began to fly out, and the elves and skali retreated away. Like two waves they clashed, but it merely ended in a stalemate at the frontline.

...

Four hours passed by, but neither side gained the upper hand. "We can just leave," insisted Vil.

"No, Nixior is a threat," Mey responded, "I'd want him dealt with."

"Does it look like this battle will end anytime soon?" questioned Vil, "Nixior will keep spamming daemons and so will we, there will be no end to this."

"Not unless we destroy their portals," said the skali warlord, son of the chieftain, "if we can somehow manage to destroy their portals, we can stop their spam and confront Nixior for ourselves."

"Aye, that we can, but how do we do that?"

The warlord looked at him with gleeful eyes, "my father died fighting valiantly, and I don't want to run away, he wouldn't have wanted that."

Vil and Mey looked at him with eyes of sympathy, "what do you mean, friend?"

The warlord turned behind, "follow me."

And so they travelled to the chief's hall: a ruin now, but a stone foundation that still remained as strong as ever. He opened a trapdoor, revealing a hidden stash of arcane mines.

"The Oracle gave it to my father," said he, "I think now is the time that we put this to good use."

Both of their eyes widened in horror, they knew what he was about to propose, but how would he even deny him?

"Lord Vilyánur, can you make me invisible for a short while?"

"I can, but it will run out before you can set the trap and return."

"You do not know me," he said with a smile, "go ahead, do it."

Vil nodded and cast his spell on him, turning him invisible to the naked eyes. Their emotions concealed, they could only watch as he disappeared into the red, out of their sight.

Ten minutes passed by, no skali warlord returned from the other side of the field, but the tide of battle was turning: the daemons of Raucion were ploughing through those of Nixior, the elves following.

And thus it was: Nixior watched in horror as the battle-lines fell back, going from between the two bases to right at his doorsteps. And more he watched as the elves and daemons together brought down his other portals, ending his plight once and for all.

"NO!" he wailed out in dismay, "you promised me, Morthaur!"

"He is gone," Mey said to him, loud and clear, "he has abandoned you, and so has my father. Nobody is yours anymore, and your evil plans have been foiled."

"You cannot defeat me, I will return!" he screamed. "And I will have my revenge!"

"Watch the skies!" Vil yelled, Nixior looked behind to see him with a ballista in his grasp.

With a pull of the rope, Vil let fly a bolt towards Nixior, but missed once. Nixior hovered around, laughing dreadfully, only to not see the other ballista bolt headed towards him. By the time he saw it, it was too late.

The bolt went right through his heart and with him in its grasp, plummeted down into the black void, leaving a trail of shadow and roar behind as he fell. Thus was the end of Nixior, and the demise of his House.