Master Caliburn gripped the edge of the eastern rampart, his threadbare robes whipping in the wind. Below, chaos reigned in the courtyard of the besieged fortress. Twisted beasts and snarling orcs surged through breaches in the crumbling stone walls, clashing with a dwindling force of defenders. The acrid stench of blood and sulfur hung heavy in the air, mingling with flickering torchlight that cast grotesque shadows across shattered battlements.
His trembling hands rested on an ancient altar—a slab of stone etched with forbidden glyphs that pulsed faintly under his touch. Arcane energy thrummed beneath his fingertips, resonating with the desperation that filled his heart. This was his last resort: a summoning ritual he had sworn never to use, for its consequences were as perilous as its power. But dawn was far away, and the fortress teetered on the brink of annihilation.
Days ago, whispers of doom had reached him—rumors that Malachar, the Dark King who styled himself as the Shadow King, had begun opening rifts across Avalion. These portals unleashed unspeakable horrors upon the land. Caliburn had felt it—a foul disturbance in the currents of magic, confirming Malachar's growing influence. If unchecked, Avalion would drown in darkness.
Now, with enemies battering at their gates and defenders falling by the minute, Caliburn's duty was clear: if he could not stop Malachar's plan outright, perhaps he could twist it—redirect its power to summon champions for Avalion instead of monsters for Malachar's armies.
He steadied himself and began chanting in the Old Tongue, voice quivering but resolute. "Spirits of this realm," he intoned, "if Malachar's rift must open, let my invocation seize it. Let this fortress claim champions meant for his armies—ones who might save us."
The shimmering light above the altar began to swirl—a pale blue vortex streaked with violet threads. Caliburn felt a sickening pull within his chest as if his spell were tangling with distant energies beyond comprehension.
From a stairwell to his left came guttural roars. Three orcs burst onto the rampart, their crude weapons gleaming in torchlight. One swung a rusted axe; another hefted a spiked club. Their burning eyes locked onto Caliburn and his ritual.
"Hold them off!" Caliburn gasped to his two acolytes.
One apprentice raised a trembling hand to cast a firebolt, but it fizzled out before reaching its target. The orcs charged mercilessly—one smashing through the acolyte's staff while another sent him sprawling lifelessly against the wall. The second apprentice dropped his weapon and fled toward cover.
Caliburn forced himself to ignore their screams and focus on the spell. His palms burned as raw magic surged through him, illuminating the ancient runes on the altar with blinding light. If he could just finish—if he could summon even one champion—it might be enough to turn the tide.
The vortex overhead erupted in dazzling brilliance with a thunderous boom that shook the ramparts. Orcs stumbled backward in shock; one toppled over the edge with a shriek. The surviving apprentice shielded his face from the blinding light as three silhouettes emerged within its swirling depths.
Caliburn squinted through pain and exhaustion at these figures—strange warriors clad not in gleaming armor but in unfamiliar garments. They held sleek black rods that glinted ominously under torchlight. Their movements were sharp and disciplined; their presence commanding.
An orc lunged at them with a roar—and one of these strangers raised his black rod in response. A deafening crack split the air like thunder; blood sprayed as the orc collapsed mid-charge. Another beast rushed forward only to fall under rapid bursts of mechanical firepower.
Caliburn staggered back against the altar, ears ringing from this unfamiliar sorcery—or was it technology? No incantations accompanied their attacks; no glowing runes framed their weapons. Yet they wielded death with precision unmatched by any spellcaster he had ever known.
As defenders below witnessed this display of power from above, hope flickered amidst despair for the first time that night. Knights rallied behind broken shields; archers redoubled their efforts against waves of attackers pouring through shattered gates.
Caliburn tried to speak—to plead for aid—but darkness overtook him before words could form fully on his lips. He crumpled onto cold stone as exhaustion claimed him.
The three strangers wasted no time assessing their surroundings amidst chaos: the courtyard ablaze with firelight and acrid smoke; defenders fighting desperately against overwhelming odds; banners torn and trampled into mud beneath monstrous feet.
One knelt beside Caliburn's unconscious form while another scanned for threats with practiced vigilance—their black rods smoking faintly from repeated use. The third positioned himself at an advantageous corner of the rampart and unleashed controlled bursts into clusters of orcs below. Though these soldiers knew neither Avalion's language nor the source of this sudden war, they acted decisively—like men long schooled in survival.
And somewhere far away—in another fortress steeped in shadow—Malachar felt his portal's energies twist unnaturally against him like threads unraveling from an intricate web woven tightly around dark ambitions unfulfilled yet seething still beneath deadened eyes aflame now only with fury:
Someone had dared steal what was meant solely for him…
Only time would tell if Master Caliburn's desperate gambit—his forbidden summoning—had indeed brought Avalion its salvation.