At dawn the ships arrived, shattering the silence of the mid-winter morning with fire and steel, bringing war upon the enemy's shore, but only to fall upon the cold steel of opposition. The sun had merely risen, but the Dark Tower fell under the shadow of war.

The outer cities fell first as the elves secured a beachhead, bothered not by the ice-cold waters, nor by the wind that smothered them to their deaths.

In a flash of lightning the city was breached, fighting took place on the streets. And the enemy responded with heavy mobilisation, leaving next to no soldiers to guard the main port.

A right chance, thought Meneldir as he fidgeted amongst the bushes that lay near the bottom of the walls, his nimble fingers wound around the oak of his trusty longbow and the left hand holding his quiver in place.

His eyes pale and keen scanned the walls above glowing with a hue like fire as he watched the shadows appear and vanish from his line of sight, his ears twitched as he heard the footsteps and distinguished them from the sounds of the sea and the sounds of battle.

He loaded his bow with an arrow and took aim, letting it loose with his breath to strike a guard down to the ground, then another arrow he shot and took down a second guard, and a third one.

"The coast is clear," he said at last, signalling to his companions: Vil, Aeresil and Vareth behind him with two other templars, and four of his archers led by Daeron, now captain of the Woodland Guard. Like a serpent they trailed along the stony ground, trekking right above the shoreline and beneath the castle walls.

"That rock over there," Aeresil said, "there's a tunnel there that leads you under the walls and into the castle."

"But won't it be easy to defend?" asked Daeron, "we'll be trapped if the enemy is ready."

"I do not think they know it exists," Vareth replied, "we didn't until it was time to flee the tower three millennia ago."

"Oh well, here's to hoping."

...

The passage was long and took the toll as they had to swim through a sea of shadows and shoggoths, but ultimately welcomed by the light of morning and sounds of struggle.

The host of Morthaur tried to ring the alarm but the daemons of Raucion cut them down before they could. The engagement was short and silent, swiftly was the host of defenders slain.

"Alright, so we have to act quick," Vil reminded them, "it's just the twelve of us against who knows how many, and the worst thing is: we may have to fight the tower itself."

They all nodded in unison, albeit there was fear in their eyes.

"Chances are: by the time we're halfway through, they'll have found out about our presence, and they'll send troops our way, hopefully the troops will be able to hold them down long enough that we can proceed well into the chasm. Does anyone have any questions?"

"Yes," replied Aeresil, "do you know how foolish your plan sounds?"

"I do, but what else can you do?" asked Vil, "it's either us against a weakened version of Morthaur, or all of us against an unstoppable force that can singlehandedly obliterate our world."

"I know, just saying," Aeresil replied, "anyway, let's head in."

*****

Passing through the labyrinth that was the Arcaneum was a challenge, especially now that most of the portals were non-functional. Vareth and Aeresil led the way, and the others followed. Lizard-folk awoke from their millennia-long slumber as they passed by, joining them against the daemons and moon-elves whenever threatened.

Half the tower was scaled through without much trouble, the lizard-folk took the brunt of the force and delivered well, protecting their lords from harm as much as possible.

But then it happened: in the Hall of Conference, wherein once the lords of yore sat and chatted, the daemon-tide attacked in full force, slaying the lizard-folk with a barrage of foes relentless and bloodthirsty.

"Contact!" screamed Vareth, his axe ready to cleave through the enemy. "Stand back, I and Aeresil shall take care of this horde."

"I don't think you can," Mey replied, "look who commands them."

As they looked at the far end of the room, they saw who commanded the daemons. He was no elf, but a hideous spider construct which connected to a mutilated chaos-elf head, his four legs firmly placed on the ground and a turret atop his raised abdomen shooting bolts of energy at them.

Though for the large variety of daemons that they had seen, this would usually be nothing out of the ordinary, but what was unnatural was its head – his head was not of a spider, nor that of any regular chaos-elf general kept alive by cybernetics, but of their arch-nemesis – the moon-elf Nixior.

His smirking face instilled a hatred unimaginable in the heart of Meneldir, he wanted to do nothing more than sever his skull into two parts.

"You thought you could bring me down?" he barked, "I am immortal, you fool! Cut off my body, I will return as a cyborg. Cut off my mind, I will return as a zombie. Cut off my spirit, I will return as a ghost . . . but I will return. There is no stopping me!"

"Damn it, does this guy know to quit?" scoffed Vil in annoyance.

Vil's bodyguards charged first with a furious cry, but a bolt of chaos slew the first, and the second was slain by Nixior's spider-leg as it impaled into his chest through armour and bone.

Meneldir dismantled two statues and hurled them at Nixior with his powers, one of which he dodged and the second he crushed by his chaotic bolts. As a storm of dust encircled him, Mey leapt at him blade in hand, growling with feral rage like a panther.

Nixior tried hard to fend him off with his cybernetic legs, but Mey was fast and agile. But though he bested him in speed and skill, his slashes and stabs fell vain before Nixior's iron-thick exoskeleton. At last Mey's strength waned; he landed on the floor staggered by a bolt of chaos to his face.

...

Vil had a heart attack, but something stopped him from making a move – it was intentional.

Nixior sunk his legs down into Meneldir, but hit nothing but the stone floor below, Mey had already warped away long ago. "What?" whined Nixior, "not you too!"

"Surprised, Nixior?" he smiled, invoking wrath upon Nixior's face. "You see . . . Lord Lindrúin is not as useless to me as you think him to be."

"Oh, no matter..." shouted Nixior, "...you will all die regardless!"

"Try it," Meneldir taunted him, Nixior's head filled with blood, and his turret with energy. With a deafening noise and blinding light, Nixior struck Meneldir with all the energy he had left. Though Mey blocked most of it, he fell to his knees in pain and agony as the energy overwhelmed his meagre potential.

"I win," Nixior laughed, nearing Mey at a slow pace. "You see," he whispered, "I could have chosen to stand by your side, but I decided: if I cannot get you, then no one should."

There was a smirk on Nixior's face, until Mey arose with a similar smile. As Nixior's eyes shifted to his hands, he learned to his horror that the prince was merely feigning a wound.

His smile disappeared and turned into a gaze of horror and hopelessness, that was the last thing he remembered before being stabbed through his mouth by Mey's sword. Nixior's mechanical body burst into flames, and his face burned to a skull, his spirit banished to Ngaath.

"Finally," sighed Vil, "good riddance."

"Indeed," Mey laughed. "It was your tactics that worked."

"Well, at least it came to some use," Vil smiled. "I'm-"

Suddenly an arrow struck the window of the tower where they were at. "What was that?"

Daeron looked out of the window, ever so luckily dodging another arrow that came flying towards him. "Damn it, we've been discovered!" he screamed, falling to the ground behind him.

"Fuck," Mey threw his head back, "what do we do now?"

"The only thing we can do," the wood-elf archers spoke, the five of us, Lord Daeron included, can hold the enemy back for long enough so that the rest of you may fulfil your desires.

"Damn it, you want us to die?" scoffed Daeron, engulfed half in fear and half excitement.

"Yes," the archer replied, "any other ideas?"

"Well, obviously not," he laughed, "Prince Meneldir, Lord Vilyánur, you go on without us, we'll hold them back for as long as we can. Try to find Morthaur and end all of this so our sacrifice goes not in vain."

"We'll make sure, thank you," Mey replied as they scurried off.

*****

Half the tower had been trekked, but all the enemies it seemed had been cleared. For an hour they climbed, until at last they happened upon their destination: the Grand Tower, upon whose peak the storm gathered.

As they looked down from the top, they saw enemies surrounding the castle, heavy in fear and under siege by the elves. Maybe if everything went right, Daeron could still be saved. Ultimately, they were so close to their destination now, hope seemed to grow with every tick of the clock.

They were now right outside the Halls of Summoning, inside which stood the cultists who toiled day and night to bring Morthaur into this world, still halfway done in their ritual, their vicinity unguarded save for one acolyte.

But it was that one acolyte: a figure of great mystery, a mark of claw branded across his face. They had met him before; he tried to stop them at the satyr village, only to be clawed by Vareth in the face.

"Greetings," he replied, "I am the Gatekeeper of Morthaur, none shall pass me and live, and none shall pass whilst I must live."

"Alithir?" asked Vareth, his axe lowered at the sight of his old friend. "What did they do to you?"

"I am sorry, old friend," the elf lamented, "my master wants me to defend him, and I must do it."

A strange horror filled Vareth, slowly turning into wrath. "Stand back, you four," he said to them, "I shall fight him alone."

The others stepped back as Vareth readied his axe, Alithir pulled out his sword and charged thereafter. There was a clash of thunder and fire – bear and wolf, echoing through the unholy halls with great force. Vareth's strikes were slow but each of them counted, whilst Alithir's strikes were nimble and inflicted little to no wounds on Vareth.

...

Time swept by faster than they expected, and at the end both their weapons lay sundered, but their spirits not. Vareth took on the form of a bear and Alithir a wolf, and thus their battle resumed.

Every once in a while Alithir jumped at Vareth, biting into his armoured hide, cleaving little to no injuries whatsoever; Vareth struck with swipes of his claw, standing up on his hind legs to greaten his figure and cast down his foe, to little use as his foe was immune to fear and nimble on his feet.

Seizing the right opportunity, Alithir leapt at Vareth, plunging his teeth into his vulnerable neck. Vareth let out a cry of terror, shaking him off but his windpipe torn, the ground was flooded with his blood, much to the dismay of everyone else.

But as Alithir smiled evilly, Vareth struck back with a massive blow of his paw.

The sound was clear like thunder, Alithir's senses were knocked out of him, another scar on his face, mirroring the first one, just this time it was far heavier. Blood seeped out of his wounds, his eyes shut and fell numb, and so did the rest of his face. At first the left side, then the entire body.

Alithir tried to let out a cry in terror, but his failing nerves did not comply. They both fell to the ground together, equal in life and in death.

"Captain Vareth..." Vil knelt before him, horrified and doom-struck; Vareth looked back with a smile, tear-laden yet wiping away Vil's.

"Do not cry," said Vareth, "you're a strong boy, do not give in to tears. You have a god to defeat, you have fame to attain, you have a lover to live for."

"Please," Vil grasped Vareth's hand, "you're one of my only friends, you've protected me since when I was a child, you and Aeresil have been my shields. What will I do without you?"

"Nay, do not give in to tears, Vil," he replied, "I'm glad to see the elf you've grown up to be. Sooner or later everyone dies, do not be sad about it. I don't want you crying to be my last memory."

In his heart, Vil sobbed like a child, but outside he tried his best to hold his own. In his mind he remembered the giant who used to carry him around, who would protect him from his bullies, who would teach him how to hold a shield properly – he was living proof that even the toughest things can have a soft interior.

And so with a dying breath, Vareth passed away, Vil broken at his death.

"We should be going now," Mey placed his hand on Vil's shoulder, "we need to prove that he did not die in vain."

"Yes, let's go," Vil replied, wiping away his tears, rising up once again, "are you with me?"