The morning sun hung low in the bleak, gray sky of the Forgotten Shore, filtered through the constant haze that never seemed to lift from this damned land. Cold wind whispered over the black stone walls of the Bright Castle, carrying with it the scent of sea salt, ash, and steel.
It has been a few months since Konrad had that conversation with Nephis in the war council room. The winter solstice came and went. But no sleepers came to the Forgotten Shore. Kai checked it.
All though they had a very unpleasant conversation, the cooperation and alliance between their factions hasn't broken down. Even though Konrad and Nephis didn't meet eye to eye, they decided not to kill each other as they have a common goal, a bigger enemy to kill.
***
Konrad stood still in the courtyard of the castle, elevated above the gathered soldiers on a platform of scorched stone. His presence loomed like a specter from old mythical tale of the waking world. The red cape wrapped around his broad shoulders whipped in the wind, revealing glimpses of the midnight blue armor beneath. Its surface was marked with faint etchings of battles past, scratched by the claws of nightmare creatures and the blades of traitors. A polished skull with hollow eyes was fixed to his chest plate, glaring like a silent omen of death.
In front of him, stabbed into the cracked ground, stood a massive zweihander. The blade gleamed faintly, runes along its length catching the morning light. The sword was not merely a weapon—it was a promise.
Below him stood his legion. Twelve companies. Over three hundred veteran sleepers—hardened, disciplined, lethal. They had bled, burned, and buried too many comrades to be anything less. Each soldier wore the insignia of the Night Lord Legion, that haunting white skull with its twin crimson bat wings. A symbol that struck dread in monsters and men alike.
Each company captain stood proudly in front of their unit. Talos, Izanami, Sevatar, Gunlaug, Tessai, Gemma, Seishan, Marvin, Harus— all had proven their worth in blood and fire. There was no room for weakness here. Not anymore. Not when they were staring at the abyss.
This was the first time Konrad had summoned all of his forces into one place. Until now, there had been no need. Until now, they had fought in shadows, in scattered squads, striking from hidden alcoves of the dark city and beyond. But now, the time had come. Tomorrow, they would march on the Crimson Spire.
Konrad scanned the faces of his soldiers. Some were stoic. Some defiant. A few bore the subtle edge of fear in their eyes. But all stood firm.
He stepped forward, voice cold and commanding, yet alive with force. It echoed across the silent courtyard.
"Brothers. Sisters. Soldiers of my legion, Night Lords!"
The wind howled through the broken battlements above.
"For years, we have survived in the black jaws of hell. We have walked paths soaked in blood, and slept beside death. Each of you has faced nightmare creatures, hunted horrors born of madness, and carved a place for humanity in this cursed land."
His voice grew louder, more intense.
"We were cast into the dream realm to die. We were abandoned by the world, bt fate, by destiny. We were told we had no choice but to serve. To kneel. To bleed. To die."
He paused.
"But we did not. We did not break. We endured. We killed. We survived."
His hand reached out, gripping the hilt of his blade.
"Tomorrow, we march on the Crimson Spire. The heart of the Forgotten Shore. The last great fortress of this realm's dominion. Our door to waking world. Our hope. Our Salvation!"
A heavy silence fell. Even the wind seemed to still.
"Most of us will die. That is a certainty. But we will not die on our knees. We will not die as prey, or pawns. We will not die forgotten. We will not die forsaken. We will die because we choose to. Because we want to."
He pulled the zweihander from the ground with a harsh clang and lifted it high, its edge gleaming with menace.
"We will burn our names into the stone of that Spire. If we fall, we fall as legends. As wolves. As warriors."
His voice dropped, quiet and razor-sharp.
"I offer you no false hope. No promises of salvation. I offer you pain, blood, and death. But also...
... A choice. A chance. A chance to shatter fate. To spit in the face of the world that has forsaken us."
He looked down at them, at every scarred and worn face.
"This is our last march. The final war of the Night Lord Legion. If we are to die, then let us die with swords drawn and teeth bared. Let us make the darkness fear us."
"Remember! We are a humans! We are orphans of murdered war! We are the sharpest talons of humanity. We are Justice! We are Vengeance! We are Death! We are Night Lords!"
He slammed the blade down again, embedding it deep into the stone.
"WHO ARE WE?!" he shouted.
"NIGHT LORDS!" the legion roared back, the ground trembling with the force of their voices.
"WHAT DO WE BRING?!"
"DEATH!"
"WHAT DO WE FEAR?!"
"NOTHING!"
The soldiers stood as one, fists over hearts, blades raised in salute.
Konrad looked out over them, and a rare, almost invisible flicker passed through his eyes. Pride? Remorse? Pity? No one could say. But whatever it was, it vanished as quickly as it came.
He turned.
"Prepare your gear. Write your last words. Say your goodbyes. Tomorrow, we leave nothing behind."
Then he descended from the platform, the crimson wings of the skull on his armor shining bright as the wind howled once more.
***
In the months leading up to the siege of the Crimson Spire, both the Night Lord's Legion and Changing Star's faction prepared for the greatest battle the Forgotten Shore had ever seen, would ever see.
Konrad's forces moved with ruthless efficiency. The Night Lord Legion, now a cohesive war machine of twelve companies, drilled relentlessly in the ancient courtyards of Bright Castle. The clang of steel and the barking of drill captains echoed through the ancient halls day and night. Konrad had transformed the once-scattered remnants of humanity into a disciplined army.
Each cohort had been reorganized, outfitted with the best armor and weapons the castle's blacksmiths could forge. Apothecaries worked round the clock, brewing combat stimulants, healing salves, and emergency rations. Old soul shard caches were tapped, the dozen echoes distributed among elite units. Even the dreaded seventh company, the Bloody Hand, trained in silence, their eerie discipline unmatched.
New formations were practiced: assault defense, pincer movements, and withdrawal tactics. They practiced combat drills, surviving the melee, countering ranged ambushes, and engaging larger-than-life foes. Konrad personally trained his inner circle—Talos, Sevatar, Harus, Izanami, Tessai, Gemma and Gunlaug —testing their mettle and adjusting strategies based on each one's strengths. Sevatar honed his uncanny sixth sense to act as a forward scout and trap detector. Talos refined his predictive foresight to coordinate battlefield flow. Izanami trained her elite assassins for surgical strikes against key targets.
Meanwhile, Changing Star's cohort brought a different but equally valuable strength. Though smaller in number, they were legendary in spirit. Nephis, Sunless, Effie, Cassie, Kai, Caster— each member of her cohort commanded respect. They worked tirelessly to unite the fractured groups from the outer settlement. Those who had once fought against Konrad's rule were now given roles in the upcoming war. The tension was thick, but Nephis's leadership held them together.
Nephis's faction spent the past months venturing into the darkest corners of the ruins of the dark city, recovering soul shards and memories. They killed nightmare creatures, retrieved memories, and brought soul shards. Sunless had deciphered half-buried fragments of forgotten lore, while Kai and Effie had built rapport with the previously isolated remnants of sleeper enclaves. Their contribution was not raw numbers, but information, strategy, and morale.
Joint training began one month before the siege. Initially, there was tension. Legionnaires sneered at the so-called rebels. Nephis's loyalists bristled under Konrad's authority. But shared purpose soon forged bonds stronger than pride.
They constructed siege engines from the bones and coral of the dark city. Ballistae made from scavenged monster sinew and bone —primitive but powerful weapon of war. These were tested in controlled environments outside the city. Massive drills, powered by echoes, were designed to bore through the ranks of the monsterous defenders of the Spire.
Konrad and Nephis met occasionally, sometimes with their generals, sometimes alone. Their discussions were brief but heavy with consequence. Plans were laid. Routes were drawn. The shard bearer was assigned. Seven shard memories had been gathered. They had what they needed to breach the Spire. Now, they needed to survive the storm outside.
Morale fluctuated. Some feared the unknown. Others burned with ambition. But none doubted that something great—something final—was coming. The Crimson Spire was not just a fortress. It was the end of the road. To ascend it meant death, glory, or freedom.
And so, as the final days passed, the castle grew quiet. Soldiers made their final preparations. Some wrote letters, most prayed, others drank in silence. Konrad stood on the battlements, his gaze fixed on the crimson spire rising like a dagger from the far horizon, grey light of the sun shinned on his figure, casting a big shadow. Behind him could hear Nephis giving her war speech to her followers.