The night sky above Valderath burned with the glow of fires and the twisted shadows of Eryndor Malcath’s forces. Siege engines rumbled forward, each impact shaking the crumbling city walls, while a sea of undead swarmed at their base. At the center of this chaos stood Eryndor, towering above the battlefield, his obsidian armor glinting faintly beneath the infernal light.

From atop the battlements, defenders froze as Eryndor raised his sword, Nightbane. Its crimson glow flared, pulsing in time with the groans of his shambling legions. The Warlord’s voice boomed over the cries of the dying, carried by an unnatural force that sent chills through the hearts of the living.

“People of Valderath!” His tone was calm, yet laced with unyielding menace. “Your city is broken. Your gates splinter, your soldiers falter, and your gods are silent. There is no salvation coming for you.”

He began to pace, his figure unnervingly graceful amidst the chaos “But I offer you a choice,” he continued, gesturing to his undead horde. “Kneel and swear your fealty to me. Serve, and I will grant you mercy. Resist…” He paused, a cruel smile curling across his face as flames roared higher. “And you will serve me in death.”

The silence that followed was more terrifying than the battle itself, broken only by the grinding of bone and steel as the undead crept closer. Eryndor turned his piercing violet gaze toward the city walls, his voice softening yet growing sharper.

“Choose, Valderath,” he sneered, lowering Nightbane. “I am not a patient man.”