I inched forward on my belly, the snow crunching softly beneath my wiggling body and churning knees, then stopped at the edge of the rolling hillock, overlooking Glome Corrie, nestled in the valley below. Slowly, carefully, I lifted the bronze spy glass to my eye, breathing out a wispy cloud of steam, which immediately fogged the lens. I grunted, readjusted my position, and wiped the lens clean with one thumb. I slipped the spy scope back into place. Much better. It was deep night, but the moon overhead was full and brilliant, casting silvered light over the city of spires.

Glome Corrie was a dark, brooding place. A hard city much like the frozen wastes surrounding it and the Risi who called it home. But despite the harsh lines, the blocky utilitarian homes, and the black, weathered stone, the palace at the center was a grand sight: a sprawling complex with a myriad of slender obsidian spires jutting up like glittering pieces of jagged, broken glass. One central tower, circular and monstrously tall compared to the rest of its brothers and sisters, stood out against the purple horizon studded with stars. That was where I needed to go—where the city’s control room was located.

Getting in, however, would be no mean feat.

I shifted the spy glass, this time focusing on the high walls of the formidable Risi capital. Well, it had been the Risi capital, right up until the Vogthar had taken the city during their initial invasion of Eldgard.

Now, there was hardly a green-skinned warrior in sight.

Instead, Vogthar shock troops patrolled the ramparts, torches clutched in raised fists as they searched for any signs of intrusion. Invasion. They were intimidating creatures, each one vaguely humanoid, all standing over seven feet tall. The standard Vogthar had dusky, gunmetal skin heavily tattooed with sharp, angular black script that gave me chills when I looked at it. They had pinched, gaunt faces that lacked noses and fishlike mouths positively bristling with serrated black teeth. Matte-black horns protruded above pointed ears, curling up toward the sky.

On the snow-powdered ground in front of the domineering walls were the Vogthar heavy hitters: monstrous Cyclopes, twenty feet tall, and prowling Ragna-Wolves, each as large as a school bus.

But as disconcerting as the Vogthar were—and they absolutely were—it was the occasional pockets of humanity that really left me unsettled. A handful of Wodes here. A squad of Risi there. I craned my head upward and watched as the silhouette of a winged Accipiter zipped past the face of the moon before being swallowed by the night once more. Some of those warriors were Dark Converts—empty shells now hosting Vogthar souls—but not all. A substantial number of players and NPCs alike, had decided to willingly join Thanatos, and his right-hand man, Aleixo Carrera who was the living incarnation of Serth-Rog.

Darklings.

And each of those Darklings carried black-steel weapons, etched with cancerous green runes of power that radiated a foul miasma of death and decay. Malware Weapons, infected with the Thanatos Virus, capable of permanently killing enemy players.

As far as I was concerned, those people down there were cold blooded murderers.

The soft rustle of a bush caught my ear as Forge scooted up next to me, likewise flat on his stomach. The big Risi, decked out in heavy plate mail edged in gold, regarded Glome Corrie, his brow furrowed, deep creases of anger worked into the lines around his mouth. Smeared across his face like war paint was a crude, bloody warhammer, which stood out bright and stark and grim. The sign of the Malleus Libertas, the Hammer of Freedom. Forge’s crew.

His fingers curled around the haft of his rune-etched battle axe, which glowed with an unnatural bloody-red light. “The Òrdugh an Garda Anam have taken care of the Vogthar lookouts and the aerial element is ready to rock and roll, Hoss. Don’t know about the Imperials”—he said the word like a curse, clearly no love lost there—“but the Alliance is ready to bring the thunder. Just say the word.”

“And the rest of the Libertas?” I asked, feeling a tinge of nervousness. Everything hinged on them, and, of course, on Cutter’s tenuous alliance with the Glome Corrie Thieves Guild. If they’d been compromised this whole battle would turn into a colossal shitshow.

“In place,” he replied. “So far, so good. No sign the Vogthar are on to us.” He grinned, moonlight dancing in his eyes.

I pushed my worry back since there was nothing more we could do at this point, and slapped him on the shoulder. “They won’t even know what hit ’em,” I offered while pulling up my interface and toggling over to the Officer Chat. “Osmark, you ready down there?” I asked in a muted whisper.

The Artificer’s voice clicked on in my head a moment later. “Obviously,” came his terse reply.

Things between us had been better since our time in the Realm of Order, but there was still an underlying tension that was hard to shake. Yeah, maybe Osmark wasn’t the outright monster I’d once assumed him to be, but I had no illusions that our tenuous truce would hold after the Vogthar were dealt with. Every city we retook, every stronghold we captured, every corrupted dungeon we pacified brought us one step closer to war.

But that too, was a worry for later.

I closed out of the chat log and selected the regional messaging system—one of the many perks provided by the Stratagem Faction Ability. I took a deep breath, stilling the tremble in my hands, a sure sign of nerves. And for good reason. People would die tonight. Real people. Real death. No respawn. And if things went south … well, that failing and those deaths would be on me. The burden of responsibility. I grimaced and pushed back my fear. We’d done everything right. We’d laid our plans well, and now was the time for action.

I scrolled down and sent out the first in a series of predrafted Regional Messages, waiting on standby:

Regional Faction Message: Glome Corrie

Alert!

The Soulbound have secured the perimeter and incapacitated the forward Vogthar scouts, and the Imperial Legion is in position. Commence the first wave of operations. Good luck and be safe out there—you all know what’s on the line!

—Faction Commander, Grim Jack

A beat later, the message was gone, distributed to every Crimson Alliance player in the Glome Corrie region. The Imperials wouldn’t get the message, but Osmark knew his cue and it would be nearly impossible to miss. For a long moment I just laid there, spy glass pressed to my eye as Forge shifted nervously beside me. It was silent, save for the chirping and crooning of night bugs flitting about in the air. But then, in a heartbeat, the clarion call of a horn broke the night, coming from the ramparts below.

The horn sounded again, followed by a second and third, all ringing from the walls of the breathtaking city. The message was clear: emergency, emergency, emergency. Get your asses in gear, we have trouble on our hands … And boy did they. I swept my spy glass to the right, searching the sky. A thick pocket of cloud cover dissipated as if by magic, revealing a massive steam-powered zephyr, The Hellreaver, screaming toward the city. Cutter was at the helm, cackling like mad as wind slapped against his face and ruffled his blond hair.

The zephyr was a massive thing, easily the size of a naval destroyer, the blimp above built from thick canvas, reinforced with wooden bows and struts, all fastened together with heavy brass rivets. The ship itself dangled from the blimp, suspended by great iron chains, each link the size of my fist. A great steam-powered engine sat at the ship’s stern, belching greasy smoke into the air as Cutter worked the wheel while adjusting an assortment of levers and switches.

A double fistful of formidable cannons jutted from each side of the vessel, ready to unleash a barrage of firepower, while a steam-powered Gatling gun adorned both the bow and stern. Though Cutter was piloting the vessel, he was far from alone. Ari Glitterfleck—a Barbie doll-sized Pixy Berserker and emissary of the Realm of Order—sat on his shoulder, staring daggers at the Vogthar below. Amara the Huntress manned the rear Gatling gun, ready to unleash fire and fury at the pull of a trigger. Cutter’s new second in command, Jake the Shadowblade, prowled the deck, barking off orders at a crew of squat, green-skinned goblins.

The goblins scampered about the rigging, adjusting sails, or manning weaponry as the ship dropped lower and banked in hard, bringing the port-side cannons to bear on a group of Vogthar working a heavy-duty ballista.

The Hellreaver’s cannons roared, vomiting out plumes of blue-gray smoke and thick metal cannon balls which ripped into black stone and tore through gray bodies.

The aft and bow Gatling guns opened up, strafing the defenders with rounds of hot lead. Ari was working the front gun now, the muzzle flashes lighting up her waifish facial features.

The Vogthar were entirely unprepared for the sudden and unconventional assault; demonic bodies toppled from the walls, bloody holes peppering their inhuman forms. A spattering of enemy arrow fire finally flew in response, but Cutter was already climbing out of range, the great steam-engine roaring as he gained altitude.

A squad of Risi sorcerers in flowing black robes—Vogthar sympathizers, deserving of no mercy—stormed out of a conical turret connecting to the rampart, throwing their hands out as they lobed powerful spells toward the retreating blimp. The crew of the Hellreaver was ready. The zephyr’s rear loading hatch popped open, revealing a cargo hold full of Alliance troops. Warlocks and mages set about their work, chanting in unison, hands flicking through complex rituals as they summoned spell-shields to absorb the incoming attacks.

And while they conjured, the assassins secreted away within the hold descended on fast ropes built from gossamer spider silk.

Those were members of Cutter’s new personal guard, the Cheeky Bastards. Recently—and mostly at the insistence of Amara—Cutter had taken on the esteemed position of Gentleman of Rowanheath, and being the chief thief came with certain perks. Like loyal, half-crazed underlings. Between the Bastards and the goblin crew manning the Hellreaver, Cutter damn near had his own army. Not that he wanted his own army, of course. He wanted to drink and eat and gamble, but he had his own army anyway. And boy were they fiercely loyal.

The Bastards slid down the ropes like greased lightning, landing as gracefully as cats upon the cobblestone walls, then blasted off toward the enemy spellcasters. They disappeared in shadow, only to reappear seconds later among the Risi mages, their blades sinking into exposed backs or slicing through chanting throats. In seconds the Risi were dead, their bodies hurled over the walls as the Bastards dispersed. From there, half would sneak off into the city, burning buildings, mercing stray guards, and generally sowing chaos in their wake. The other half would connect with what remained of the Glome Corrie Thieves Guild, who would secret the Forge’s boys into the city through a little-known access pipe.

Still I waited, watching everything unfold through the spyglass.

Cutter wheeled the Hellreaver around again, ready to take another run at the siege weapons lining the top of the wall when the first wave of Vogthar aerial defense launched from the towers of the great city. Darkling Accipiter lead the charge, quickly followed by lumbering [Vogthar Abami]: huge, inhuman bat-like creatures, covered in scaly flesh and sporting wicked fangs, wooden bucklers, and short swords, perfect for crippling aerial fighters. About time, I thought with a sigh of relief.

Amara turned her Gatling gun on the incoming wave of attackers, brass shell casings raining down as Cutter guided the ship upward, drawing the creatures higher into the cloud-covered sky.

I triggered the second Regional Message.

Regional Faction Message: Glome Corrie

Alert!

Flyers, do your thing!

—Faction Commander, Grim Jack

The Hellreaver’s Gatling guns thundered while the starboard cannons erupted, swatting incoming creatures from the air like pesky mosquitos, but those noises were quickly drowned out by the flapping of wings and the warcries of a hundred Alliance and Imperial warriors, all mounted on winged beasts of every shape and size. Abby lead the charge, flying on the back of her new pet, granted to her as a special favor by Sophia the Overmind. An ultra-rare Golden Hoardling Drake.

Valkyrie.

Valkyrie was female and just a hair smaller than Devil, with shimmering golden-red scales, an arching serpentine neck, and brilliant crimson wings. Jay Taylor, a Runic Blood Monk and Osmark’s go-to thug, rode to her right on his Flame Sphinx—part tiger, part eagle, all badass. General Caldwell, the leader of our Accipiter Reconnaissance unit, flanked her on the left, his tawny wings beating at the air. Madness engulfed the skies over Glome Corrie as the two aerial forces smashed into each other like a wave meting the seashore.

Fireballs flashed.

Lightning arced.

Punishing winds smashed into the unwary.

Arrows flew and steel rang against steel.

Bodies plummeted from the air—Vogthar, Imperial, and Alliance alike.

But this was only the start, the opening salvo designed to draw attention away from what was coming next. The real invasion. I stood and extended a hand, helping Forge to his feet. Though we were skylighted on the hilltop, I had no worries that we’d be spotted by the sentries manning the wall; they had their hands full at the moment and a pair of shadows in the distance was the least of their concern. “Be safe in there, man,” I said to the Risi warrior. “Seriously. There’s a target on your head, now. They’ll be gunning for you with Malware weapons.”

He grinned, shrugged unconcerned, and twisted his heavy axe. “Let ’em try. I’ll show ’em why you don’t mess with a Marine. Especially one with a grudge and an actual battle axe to grind.”

I gave him a tight-lipped smile then turned and summoned my own ride, Devil, with a flick of my hand. Sooty smoke filled the air as the murder-machine Void Drake slipped through the veil between the planes in all his awesome, terrifying glory. He was twenty-five feet of black scales, gleaming spikes of purple bone, leathery wings, and glowering demonic eyes. Six of them, all burning with malice and hunger. Devil was not cute or cuddly—he was the equivalent of a teddy bear made of razorblades and spite—but seeing him was a sight for sore eyes.

I ran a hand along his snout, earning me an indulgent nuzzle of affection. He hated pretty much everything, but he tolerated me. “Good to see you, buddy,” I said, grabbing the dark leather reigns and pulling myself into the custom saddle. “Time to rock and roll.”

Let us crush our enemies, Devil’s gruff voice said inside my skull. Let us show these weak, pitiful, twisted creatures the power of true darkness.

With that, the dread lizard chuffed and broke into a sinuous run, building speed and momentum before launching us into the air from the top of the hillock, his huge wings thundering as we took to the skies. The battering wind caught my cloak and it flared out behind me, tugging at my shoulders as we streaked toward the battlefield. Despite the chaos engulfing the city, a lone sentry spied us from the walls, a Vogthar wearing dusky black armor covered with angular metal studs. The creature pointed a claw-tipped finger at us and barked something at a nearby compatriot.

A trio of bat-winged Abami spun mid-air and bolted toward me while a pair of Wode Darklings on the wall wheeled around a heavy ballista and took aim. The siege weapon lurched, releasing a heavy, poison tipped bolt longer than my arm. I was hands down the most wanted man in Eldgard—though Osmark was a close second—and these creatures would do anything to take me out. Unfortunately for them, I was no low-level newb, ripe for the plucking. I was a level 49 Shadowmancer, Champion of Order, and leader of the Crimson Alliance. And I sure as hell wasn’t about to be taken out by a missile and a handful of Vogthar Abami.

I gave them a lopsided grin and a wave then triggered Shadow Stride, exerting my power down, drawing Devil with me through the veil between worlds. Time shuddered to a halt as color leeched away from Glome Corrie, replaced instead with monochromatic grays and whites, stained by the occasional splash of purple. In the Shadowverse, everything was quiet and still, the battlefield frozen. We cruised past the incoming ballista bolt, banked slight left, and flew into the Abami, phasing through them as though they were ghostly specters.

There was still twenty seconds left on my countdown timer by the time we reached the walls, but there was no reason to draw out my time in the Shadowverse. Kill as many as you can, I sent to Devil, swinging one leg over then slipping from the saddle.

I will not kill as many as I can. I will kill all of them, he replied confidently, jaws salivating, eyes flaring brightly. I will show them the power of my kind. Teach them fear. And then I will feast …

Nothing at all unnerving about that. But these were monsters, I reminded myself. If anyone ever deserved to be eaten alive, it was the Vogthar and the Players who had traded their humanity for power by siding with them. No mercy.

I patted him one last time then dropped toward the ground, plummeting like a stone. I slipped into the Material Realm while I was still fifty feet from the ground. Time and motion and sound crashed back down on me as I fell, but I blocked them all out, focusing instead on one of my specialty abilities. Arguably, my rarest of talents: Avatar of Order. The pinnacle of my Champion of Order Skill Tree.

With a deep breath, steeling myself for the pain to come, I triggered the ability.