Dawn breaks over Volaire, painting the besieged city in hues of pale gold and bruised purple. Despite the Leib Olmaiin forces encroaching upon the borders, the city clings to the stubborn, comforting rhythm of mundane life. Citizens hurry through the cobblestone streets on their morning errands, and the local tavern roars with the familiar din of the breakfast rush. It is, by all accounts, just another morning.

Until the ground begins to tremble.

It starts as a deep, subterranean rumble that rattles cups on tavern tables and vibrates through the soles of boots. Then, a terrible, agonizing creaking rips through the crisp morning air.

At the edge of the city, the wrought-iron gates of The Cemetery of Lost Souls begin moving. The ancient, thick ivy that had bound the iron shut for years snap and tear like brittle bone as the massive doors force their way open. The metal scrapes and shrieks—a menacing herald of what was to come.

From the widening black maw of the cemetery pours a thick, heavy mist the color of freshly spilled blood. It does not drift; it cascades along the ground with an unnatural, fluid grace, moving faster than any natural fog. Within seconds, the crimson tide floods the streets of Volaire, turning the cobblestones red and swirling thickly around the ankles of the paralyzed citizens.

Through the bloody veil steps Valyrie Dreadmage.

The Lich of the Graveyard moves with an effortless, lethal elegance. Her long burgundy hair caught the morning light, contrasting starkly with her deep green tunic and dark pants. In her hand, she holds a wicked staff, using it casually as a walking stick. She does not walk alone. 

To her right stands a woman shrouded in a heavy blue cloak, her long dark hair falling like shadows. To her left looms an imposing, hulking suit of heavy armor, and beside the steel giant stands a deceptively small girl with long pigtails. And behind her, two other small females stand at the ready, resembling elves. Their hair is different but they look much the same as though they were twins.

Valyrie pauses, her gaze sweeping over the stunned, mist-drowned city. A knowing grin curls her lips.

“Shalltear. Cocytus,” the Lich commands, her voice slicing through the heavy silence. “You will lead my army and assist the Baroness of Seshtau in the defense of Ariad.” She strikes the butt of her staff against the stone, the sound echoing. “Eliminate Leib Olmai and The Shifting Scales.”

The towering suit of armor, Cocytus, bows deeply, its heavy plates grinding in grim obedience. Beside it, the girl in pigtails beams with a terrifying, innocent delight.

“As you wish, Master!” Shalltear chimes cheerfully.

“Aura, Mare. You have your orders.” Valyrie says and the twins look to one another with wide grins and giggles before they slowly fade into the shadows.

Valyrie raises her staff high, and the cemetery behind her erupts into motion.

A nightmare tide pours from the open gates. Skeletons with rusted blades, shambling zombies, ancient vampires, and drifting, ethereal wraiths flood the streets of Volaire. Yet, as the massive legion of the damned surges forward, they completely ignore the terrified, cowering citizens. Moving with calculated, lethal purpose, the horde immediately splits into two distinct columns.

The giant armor, Cocytus, turns his heavy steps toward the Seshtau embassy, an elite guard of the undead falling into perfect formation behind him. Shalltear pivots towards the city outskirts, leading a ferocious swarm toward the front lines.

As her undead army crashes like a necrotic wave against the forces of Leib Olmai and The Shifting Scales, Valyrie watches on. The Lich stands amidst the red mist with her lone companion remaining at her side, and smiles.