Commander Arlen Voss, Dawnhaven

  I've led the king's forces into battle seventeen times in my twenty-three years of service. I've fought woodland trolls and marsh hags, repelled border skirmishes with the northern barbarians, even survived that nasty business with the animated corpses three winters past. I thought I'd seen everything worth seeing on a battlefield.

  I was wrong.

  The abandoned deepvault mines loom before us, massive stone archways carved into the mountainside centuries ago by dwarven masons whose secrets died with them. Four hundred of the Dawnhaven's finest stand in perfect formation, awaiting my command. Heavy infantry at the front, archers positioned on the rocky outcroppings to our flanks, royal mages prepared with their defensive wards.

  A formidable force by any reasonable standard.

  "Scout report, Commander," my lieutenant says, saluting crisply. Darren's a good man, steady under pressure. "Beast tribe forces spotted approaching from the southeast. Estimated six hundred warriors, primarily minotaurs and gnolls, with shaman support."

  I nod, unsurprised. Intelligence had warned us the tribes were mobilizing, drawn by the same rumors that brought us here—a powerful fragment extracted from the sealed vaults by some tribal stone-shaman with unusual abilities.

  "Still heading straight for us?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

  "Yes, sir. Marching directly for the mine entrance. No attempt at stealth or circling around our flanks."

  Typical beast tribe tactics, direct and brutal. They rely on overwhelming force rather than strategy, which is why the Dawnhaven has successfully held them at bay for generations despite their superior numbers.

  "Prepare the men," I order. "Standard counter-charge formation. Archers to focus on their shamans first, then heavy infantry to engage their front lines while our flanks envelop."

  As my officers relay the commands, I take a moment to observe the abandoned mines. The massive entrance has partially collapsed, but remains accessible. Whatever fragment lies within—assuming the rumors are true—could significantly alter the kingdom's standing among regional powers. The king had been explicitly clear: secure the artifact at any cost.

  The first beast tribe warriors appear on the horizon, massive minotaurs towering above their gnoll counterparts. They advance at a rapid pace, their battle cries carrying across the rocky terrain, primitive but chilling.

  "Archers ready!" I command, raising my sword. "Prepare volley on my mark!"

  The line of beasts grows closer, their numbers now fully visible—a seething mass of fur, horns, and crude weaponry. At their center, I spot several figures adorned with fetishes and talismans. Shamans, undoubtedly, including perhaps the one who breached the vault.

  "Loose!" I bring my sword down, and four rows of archers release their arrows in perfect sequence. The sky darkens momentarily as hundreds of shafts arc toward the advancing horde.

  The volley falls among them with deadly accuracy, dozens of warriors dropping in their tracks. But the beast tribes press forward without hesitation, absorbing the losses as if they mean nothing.

  "Second volley!" Another wave of arrows, another collection of bodies, but still they come.

  "Infantry, advance!" I command as they draw within engagement range. Our heavy infantry moves forward in disciplined lines, shields locked, spears extended in a bristling wall of steel.

  The collision is thunderous. Beast tribe warriors crash against our shield wall like waves against a cliff, raw power meeting disciplined defense. Men scream as minotaur axes cleave through armor, but our lines hold, infantry working with the coordinated precision that is the hallmark of Dawnhaven military training.

  For nearly an hour, the battle seesaws across the rocky terrain before the mines. Our disciplined tactics counter their superior strength and numbers. We kill three minotaurs, they break through and slaughter five of our men before we can seal the gap. We push forward twenty yards, they counter and force us back fifteen.

  A stalemate in blood and steel.

  I'm considering committing our reserve cavalry to break the deadlock when the ground beneath our feet begins to vibrate. At first, I attribute it to the thundering hooves of the larger beast tribe warriors, but the trembling intensifies, becoming a distinctive rhythmic pattern.

  "Commander!" Darren points toward an area of flat ground to our right flank. "The earth—it's moving!"

  Before I can respond, the ground erupts in a shower of rock and soil. A massive mechanical drill emerges, easily fifteen feet in diameter, its surface a polished black material that absorbs rather than reflects light. Behind it, the earth continues to split as more devices surface—smaller drills, segmented metal constructs resembling armored centipedes, and finally, figures in crystalline armor that gleams with internal light.

  "The Obsidian Enclave," I breathe, recognizing them from intelligence briefings. An Underrealm faction rarely seen on the surface, known for their advanced technology and territorial aggression.

  They waste no time with declarations or demands. The moment the last of their forces emerges, they attack.

  Their weapons defy conventional understanding—crystalline staves that emit beams of intense energy, cutting through armor and flesh with equal ease. Their frontline soldiers wield shields that shimmer with protective fields, deflecting our arrows as if swatting away insects. The mechanical centipedes skitter across the battlefield with unnatural speed, seizing men in metallic pincers and literally tearing them in half.

  "Reform defensive positions!" I shout, but it's already too late. The Enclave forces drive directly into our flank, shattering our formation. Men die screaming as energy beams slice through multiple soldiers at once, leaving cauterized cross-sections where once stood whole men.

  The beast tribes fare no better. A group of minotaurs charges the Enclave's front line, only to be met by a wave of crystalline energy that reduces them to charred, smoking husks in seconds. Gnoll shamans hurl primitive magic against the invaders, but their spells dissipate harmlessly against those shimmering shields.

  "Fall back to the secondary position!" I order, knowing we've lost any hope of holding our ground. "Defensive retreat, maintain formation!"

  My men try to comply, but the battlefield has devolved into chaos. The Enclave forces press their advantage mercilessly, their exotic weapons leaving bloody swathes through our ranks. I watch in horror as one of their larger constructs corners twenty of my infantry against a rock face, its multiple limbs ending in spinning blades that reduce my men to a fine red mist and scattered fragments of armor.

  Within twenty minutes, my disciplined force of four hundred has been reduced to scattered pockets of resistance, fighting desperately just to survive. The beast tribes, for all their numbers, fare little better—their warriors either fleeing or dying in increasingly small clusters.

  An explosion rocks the battlefield as the Enclave deploys some kind of crystalline explosive device, instantly killing thirty men and beast tribe warriors caught in its radius. The shock wave throws me from my feet, a sharp pain lancing through my leg as I land on broken ground.

  "Commander!" Darren appears at my side, his face bloodied, armor dented and scorched. "We must retreat! They're overwhelming us!"

  He's right. This isn't a battle anymore—it's a slaughter. The Enclave forces move with mechanical precision, systematically eliminating all resistance as they secure the mine entrance. Their objective is clear: the fragment that brought us all here.

  "Sound the retreat," I order, wincing as Darren helps me to my feet. "Get as many men out as possible. Head for the eastern ridgeline."

  We manage to gather perhaps sixty survivors as we withdraw up the rocky slope. From this elevated position, I have a clear view of the devastating scene below. The Enclave forces have all but secured the battlefield, their crystalline soldiers methodically executing wounded stragglers from both our forces and the beast tribes. Several of their larger drilling machines are already positioned at the mine entrance, clearly preparing to enter and claim their prize.

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  "All this for nothing," Darren mutters beside me, binding a wound on his arm. "The king will not be pleased."

  "The king will understand we faced an enemy beyond our strength," I reply, though without much conviction. King Aldric isn't known for his forgiving nature.

  As I watch the Enclave securing their victory, a new sound reaches us, a distinctive roar that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. It carries tones I've never heard before, vibrating through the very stones beneath our feet.

  "What in the name of the nine hells is that?" one of my soldiers whispers.

  The answer comes from above.

  A dragon descends from the clouds, but unlike any dragon recorded in Dawnhaven bestiaries. Its scales aren't the expected leathery hide but appear to be made of actual crystal, refracting sunlight into prismatic patterns that dance across the battlefield. Each massive wing looks like translucent crystal somehow rendered flexible, spanning easily seventy feet from tip to tip.

  "Dragon!" someone shouts unnecessarily. But as the creature banks toward the mines, I see something even more unexpected, a rider on its back.

  "Not just any dragon," I correct, my voice hollow with the realization. "That's the Monster Lord's crystal drake."

  The legends have spread even to our kingdom—tales of a human who commands evolved monsters, who has established a territory in the distant swamplands. We'd dismissed most of it as exaggeration. No tamer could possibly command the number and variety of monsters described in those stories, let alone evolve them beyond their natural limitations.

  Yet the evidence soars above us, magnificent and terrifying.

  The crystal drake circles once, then lets loose another roar, this one focused directly at the Enclave forces. The sound carries visible harmonics, creating ripples in the air that shatter several crystalline shields on impact alone.

  And then, emerging from the southern passes, comes the Monster Lord's army.

  From our elevated position, I can see them clearly, and they bear no resemblance to the disorganized monster hordes I've faced in the past. These creatures move with military precision that would make our royal drill instructors weep with envy.

  At the forefront march what must be two hundred evolved hobgoblins. Not the hunched, scrawny creatures that occasionally raid border settlements, but seven-foot-tall warriors with natural armor that gleams like polished metal in the sunlight. They advance in perfect formation, rectangular shields interlocked, weapons held at identical angles. Behind them come a hundred orcs unlike any I've seen, their skin bearing metallic patterns that pulse with internal light, ritual scars forming complex geometric designs across their bodies.

  Most disturbing of all is the contingent of what were once hagravens, now transformed into something else entirely. Twelve of them, each radiating magical energy so potent I can feel it even at this distance. They move with predatory grace, their evolved forms combining monstrous power with an unsettling beauty.

  "That's not possible," Darren whispers beside me. "Monsters don't organize like that. They don't... evolve like that."

  "Apparently they do," I reply, "when the Monster Lord commands them."

  The Obsidian Enclave reacts immediately to this new threat, redirecting their forces away from the mine entrance to meet the approaching monster army. They deploy in a defensive formation, their crystalline weapons charging with visible energy, mechanical constructs positioning themselves at strategic points.

  What follows can only be described as systematic annihilation.

  The evolved hobgoblins meet the Enclave's front line without breaking formation. When the crystalline energy beams strike their shields, instead of melting through as they did with our steel, the shields absorb the energy, glowing briefly before releasing it back in concentrated bursts. Enclave soldiers collapse as their own weaponry's energy is reflected into them, their crystalline armor shattering from within.

  The metallic orcs wade into combat with methodical brutality. One particularly massive orc catches an Enclave soldier's energy staff between metallic palms, the weapon's discharge doing nothing but making the orc's ritual scars pulse brighter. With a casual twist, the orc snaps the staff and drives the broken end through its owner's faceplate, black ichor spraying in an arc as the crystalline helmet shatters.

  Nearby, three orcs surround one of the mechanical centipedes. The construct's pincers close around one orc's arm, but instead of tearing it off, the limb holds firm, the orc's metallic skin patterns flaring brilliantly at the point of contact. The other two orcs drive fragment-enhanced weapons into the machine's joints, their blades penetrating where our finest steel couldn't scratch the surface. The construct shudders, black fluid gushing from the wounds before it collapses in a heap of twitching limbs.

  But it's the evolved hagravens that prove most devastating. They move in perfect coordination, each one's magic amplifying the others'. When the Enclave deploys another crystalline explosive device, one hagraven makes a complex gesture, creating a shimmering field that contains the blast entirely. Another extends taloned hands, and the very earth liquefies beneath a group of Enclave soldiers, swallowing them in seconds before resolidifying, leaving nothing visible but a few crystalline helmets protruding from suddenly solid ground.

  The largest hagraven—clearly their leader—demonstrates power that defies comprehension. When three Enclave energy cannons target her simultaneously, she doesn't dodge or shield herself. Instead, she catches all three beams with outstretched hands, the energy coalescing into a pulsing sphere between her palms. With a sound like reality tearing, she compresses the sphere before hurling it back at the largest drilling machine. The resulting explosion doesn't just destroy the machine—it erases it, leaving a perfectly hemispherical crater where tons of advanced technology once stood.

  Above it all soars the crystal drake, its breath weapon more refined than any natural dragon's. Instead of simple fire or acid, it exhales crystalline energy that transforms everything it touches. A squad of Enclave soldiers caught in the blast doesn't burn or melt—they transmute, their bodies becoming crystalline statues that shatter when they topple to the ground.

  The rider—the Monster Lord himself—directs this unprecedented force with precise hand signals and occasional commands that carry across the battlefield with unnatural clarity. Each gesture brings immediate response from his evolved forces, the entire army operating with a cohesion I've never witnessed even among our kingdom's elite royal guard.

  Near the mine entrance, I spot movement, a beast tribe shaman attempting to flee the carnage, clutching something that pulses with brilliant light. The fragment, it must be. The shaman makes it perhaps fifty yards before the crystal drake descends directly in his path. The Monster Lord dismounts, confronting the shaman directly.

  Even from this distance, there's something unnerving about his casual confidence. He stands before the massive minotaur shaman without visible weapons or armor beyond a glowing crystal pendant at his chest. The shaman towers over him, yet hesitates, clearly sensing something dangerous about this ordinary-looking human.

  Their confrontation is brief. The shaman attempts to use the fragment's power, raising it high as it flares with blinding light. The Monster Lord simply extends a hand, and the light transfers between them, flowing from the fragment into his pendant in streams of visible energy. The shaman collapses, the fragment dropping from nerveless fingers into the Monster Lord's waiting hand.

  "They're not just winning," Darren says beside me, his voice hollow with shock. "They're... they're playing with them."

  He's right. The Monster Lord's forces are dismantling the Obsidian Enclave with such overwhelming superiority that it barely qualifies as combat. It's execution, delivered with military precision.

  An Enclave officer attempts to rally his remaining forces for a desperate charge. Twenty crystalline soldiers form up around him, energy weapons primed for one final assault. The Monster Lord glances in their direction and makes a small gesture. His evolved hobgoblin forces part like a curtain, revealing five particularly massive orcs with metallic skin that covers them completely, giving them the appearance of living statues.

  The orcs charge as one, moving with speed that shouldn't be possible for creatures their size. The Enclave's energy weapons discharge in a concentrated barrage that would have vaporized conventional forces. The beams strike the orcs directly—and are absorbed into their metallic skin, causing the patterns to glow white-hot. The orcs don't even slow down.

  They hit the Enclave formation like a battering ram striking rotted wood. The crystalline soldiers shatter on impact, their advanced armor proving no more effective than glass. The officer manages to land a blow with his energy staff directly on one orc's chest, the weapon discharging at point-blank range. The orc's metallic skin ripples with absorbed energy, then releases it in a concussive wave that reduces the officer to bloody fragments scattered across twenty feet of battlefield.

  Within moments, nothing remains of the Enclave charge but crystalline shards and pulverized remains. The entire confrontation lasted less than thirty seconds.

  "We need to leave," I tell my surviving soldiers. "Now, while they're occupied with the fragment."

  We begin our withdrawal, moving as quietly as possible along the ridgeline. I glance back one last time at the battlefield below. The Monster Lord stands amid the carnage, examining the recovered fragment. His evolved lieutenants gather around him while his forces secure the perimeter with mechanical efficiency. Hundreds of dead, both our Dawnhaven soldiers and the Obsidian Enclave's forces, litter the ground around them.

  Yet the Monster Lord's army appears largely intact. I count perhaps a dozen casualties among their ranks, compared to the near-total annihilation of two separate armies they faced.

  "Commander," Darren asks quietly as we retreat, "what are we going to tell the king?"

  I consider this as we move further from the most one-sided battle I've ever witnessed or heard of in my twenty-three years of military service.

  "The truth," I finally answer. "That we've all underestimated what the Monster Lord represents. That's not just a powerful tamer with unusual pets. That's a military force unlike anything in the Dawnhaven's history, commanded by someone who can evolve monsters beyond their natural limitations."

  Darren's face pales slightly. "The king will never believe it."

  "He'd better," I say grimly. "Because if the Monster Lord decides to turn his attention from fragment hunting to territorial expansion, I'm not sure anything on this continent could stop him."

  As we disappear into the mountain passes, I find myself hoping the Monster Lord remains focused on whatever mysterious purpose drives him to collect these fragments. Because based on what I've witnessed today, if he chose conquest instead, the kingdoms of men would fall like wheat before a scythe.

  And judging by the casual efficiency with which his evolved monsters dispatched his enemies today, he might not even consider it a particularly difficult endeavor.