Thomrik stood alone at the edge of the shimmering rune wall, its glow flickering like a heartbeat stretched too thin. The Warhammer of Aegis was braced before him, both hands resting on its haft, its runes still faintly pulsing with the strength he had left to give. Beyond the barrier, the horde waited—twisted silhouettes pressed against the magical shield, clawing, shrieking, bodies writhing over one another in a desperate attempt to break through. Black ichor smeared the glowing surface where their claws scraped and struck, leaving streaks like shadowy wounds in the magic.

It had been so long since he'd been truly alone. Not since the day of his exile. Not since he had turned from the gates of Khazrundar with his father's warhammer slung across his back and no home left to return to. But then he had met Danio. A mouthy bastard with a knack for thieving and a nose for trouble. And over the years, Thomrik had come to rely on him—loud and irritating as he was. They'd survived countless scraps together, built something of a life.

But now, Danio was gone.

They all were.

Raelyn, Hovan, Benji. They weren't just traveling companions anymore. He had grown used to the sound of their banter, the comfort of their presence. Thomrik had belonged with them. Found a home in them.

Even the elves—Lira and Sylvy—he hadn't known them long, a week at most, but he felt the absence of them like a chill at his back.

He turned his gaze to the warhammer clutched in his hands, runes faintly glowing in rhythm with his breath. His father's hammer. The last piece of a man who had given everything to forge it. It had waited too long for a worthy battle. Thomrik's grip tightened around the shaft, grounding himself in the weight of it.

Raelyn had trusted him. Given him a place in their quest. She had given him purpose. A chance at redemption. They had been with him through trials and terror, laughter and loss—and now they were gone. He was alone again.

He wasn't afraid.

They had been by his side through joy and hardships. But now, once again, he was alone.

He looked at the barrier wall flaring with golden runes before him, where deformed claws dragged lines across the magic. On the other side, the horde snarled and writhed in frustration. And still, Thomrik stood, bracing the shaft of his warhammer against the mud, planting his boots in deep.

He wasn't afraid.

Not of the monsters. Not of the pain that would come. Not of death.

He'd wanted this—this battle, this moment—for a long time. A chance to be part of something larger. To do something that mattered. 

And what greater purpose was there than giving his friends a chance to live?

What greater honor than holding the line so they might one day save Unevia?

The barrier flickered again, and a fresh wave of snarls rose from the horde.

Thomrik smiled faintly, stepped forward, and set his heels deep into the earth.

Let them come. He would not move.

The wall shuddered again—runes flickering, their golden light pulsing erratically under the strain of the onslaught. Beyond the barrier, the horde slammed against it with renewed fury. Twisted claws screeched over the arcane surface. Horns battered the invisible bulwark, and the sound was deafening.

Baragor's voice rose over the chaos—a cold, cutting command that pierced even the storm.

"Break through that wall! Before the girl and that blade vanish!"

The horde answered, slamming harder into the barrier, their snarls morphing into frenzied shrieks. The rune-light dimmed under the assault, flickering like a dying lantern.

Thomrik grunted, bracing harder into the mud, both hands wrapped tight around the haft of his warhammer. The runes carved into the weapon's head glowed faintly, flickering like candlelight in a storm. He could feel it in his bones—that tremor in the ward's pulse. It wasn't going to hold forever.

His legs trembled with effort. His arms felt like lead, every muscle overworked and raw. The battle on the hill, the clash with the direwolf, the rush of their escape—it had drained him. He had almost nothing left to give, and the magic he poured into the wall was pulling from marrow now, from sheer will rather than strength.

Baragor spoke, this time sharper. "Fiovana. Break it."

The air shifted. A new presence rippled through the ranks like a dark tide. Thomrik's eyes narrowed as he witnessed her approach—pale as bone, black-eyed and terrible, her hands already lifted to summon her cursed power. Darkness bled from her fingers like smoke, coiling at her sides as the demons parted to let her through.

Fiovana's power churned with a force far beyond petty spells. He had watched her clash with Lira—seen the writhing mass of shadow tendrils strike against torrents of water summoned by elven magic. The storm between them had warped the battlefield itself. That hadn't been posturing or flourish. That had been raw, unchecked magic—darkness given form and hunger. He could feel it again now, pressing against his skin like a creeping frost, gnawing at the edges of his runes, seeping through cracks in his will. 

He braced his stance and gripped the hammer tighter, but deep in his chest, he knew. If she unleashed her full strength here, if she brought that same fury against his barrier—it wouldn't hold.

And then he heard it.

"Thomrik!"

It was faint, difficult to hear over the snarling of the demons in front of him and the roaring of the storm. But he recognized Raelyn's voice.

"You're my friend—my family! I'll never forget you!"

And then, softer still—shattered and sincere—"I love you."

His heart thudded painfully. His lips parted into a small smile.

"I love you too, lass," he murmured, voice barely audible over the storm.

He couldn't turn to look. He couldn't lose focus. But he held her words close, tighter than the haft of his hammer.

Fiovana stepped forward.

The air darkened around her. Black tendrils that twisted into the sky like serpents. She raised her arms. The darkness between her hands surged, spinning into a vortex of shadow and hate.

Thomrik knew what was coming. He had seconds—maybe less.

He clenched his jaw and adjusted his stance. His shoulders screamed in protest. His knees ached. But he bent his back and let out a growl that rose into a bellow.

"Not yet!" he roared.

His warhammer glowed brighter, the runes on its head flaring like molten metal. The barrier shimmered, the runes in the earth pulsing with a golden light as Thomrik forced more magic into the shield. It flared, strengthened.

Fiovana struck.

A ray of black smoke, thick as tar, launched from her palms and collided with the barrier. The impact lit up the wall with violent color—gold and violet sparks sprayed outward as light met shadow.

Thomrik screamed.

It was not a cry of pain, but of resistance. Of raw, defiant fury. The barrier trembled beneath the pressure, and Thomrik felt something inside him tear. Blood spilled from his nose. His arms shook, his muscles locking and failing by turns. The hammer in his hands grew heavier. His vision blurred. The taste of copper filled his mouth.

His friends depended on him. Raelyn, Hovan, Benji, Danio, the elves. They were out there now, running through that storm because he held the line. Because he kept the wall standing. Every second he could hold the line would be vital to their escape.

He would not yield. He would hold the line—for them, for her. For the future she carried on her shoulders. Raelyn's words had given him the strength to push through, to go beyond his capabilities.

The shadow surged, pushing harder, curling against the barrier like a living thing. Thomrik roared louder, driving the base of the hammer deeper into the mud, channeling every last ember of strength he had left.

The light flared again. Then, at last—Fiovana faltered.

The shadows shuddered. Her magic wavered.

And then, as suddenly as it had come, it faded.

Thomrik collapsed to one knee, breath ragged, arms trembling so violently he nearly dropped the hammer. Blood dripped from his nose and lip, running into his beard.

Across the field, Fiovana staggered backward. Her hands shook. She looked up at Baragor, her voice thin, stunned.

"I can't break through."

Thomrik coughed, barked a hoarse laugh that hurt his ribs.

"Then try harder," he said, rising slowly to his feet. "I'm not done yet."

He lifted the Warhammer of Aegis, holding it like a banner. His chest heaved with every breath, but his stance was straight.

"I am Thomrik Shieldthane, son of Thalgrim," he said, his voice loud enough to cut across the hilltop. "And this is the Warhammer of Aegis—crafted by the greatest smith my people have ever known. There is no dwarven weapon mightier."

His gaze swept across the demon horde before locking eyes with Baragor.

"And I will not let any of you monsters pass."

Baragor stood unmoving at the far end of the battlefield, his long cloak soaked and clinging to his frame. The black stone atop his staff pulsed with slow, growing light—like a heart made of shadow preparing to beat. His cold gaze swept across the battered hilltop until it landed on Thomrik.

"You've held longer than I expected, dwarf," Baragor called, voice rich with false praise. "But this has gone on long enough. If you want something done right..."

He raised his staff.

Thomrik's grip tightened on the Warhammer of Aegis. He could feel the power curling in the air, dark and bitter, drawn to the black stone like stormlight to a blade. The rune wall shuddered in front of him. He could already tell—there was no way he could hold it against what was coming. Every last ounce of his magic had gone into blocking Fiovana's attack. It was a miracle the barrier was even still standing, though it flickered dangerously.

Just as Baragor began to draw his arm back to fire—a scream rose from over the far hill. It was Raelyn, though he couldn't discern what she was screaming.

The air changed. The wind shifted. And then came the mist.

It rolled down the slope like a living thing, thick and fast, swallowing broken bodies, curling around the battlefield in coils of pale white. It moved too deliberately to be natural. No—this was Raelyn's magic.

A grin broke across his bloodied face.

"That's it," he murmured. "Go, lass. Disappear."

He couldn't see them, but he could feel it—distance. Safety. They were slipping through the cracks while he held the line.

Baragor's expression twisted with irritation. The swirling dark in his staff flared brighter, rising to a pitch of magic so thick it pressed against Thomrik's ribs.

He couldn't stop what was coming. But he could still give them more time.

He lifted his hammer and with a roar, he slammed the hammer into the barrier.

The runes surged outward in a wave of golden force, ripping through the mud and air in a concussive blast. Demons that had been climbing and clawing at the wall were thrown backward, flung like rag dolls into the earth. They hit the ground with snarls and screeches, some colliding mid-air, others crushed beneath the weight of their own kin.

It bought him some distance between him and the horde of demons now struggling back on their feet. But this time there was nothing separating them. No barrier to keep him safe.

Thomrik stood alone now, the light of the runes fading, steam hissing off the head of his warhammer. His breath came heavy and slow. His arms trembled. Blood still dripped from his nose, and the taste of iron coated his tongue. But his grip didn't loosen.

Thomrik closed his eyes.

This was his final stand. His last breath would be spent on this hill, surrounded by monsters and mud. The demons would get past him eventually but by the gods, he'd make them earn every step they took.

He bowed his head, just for a moment, and whispered to the storm.

"Uzzah," he said, voice rough with fatigue, "give me the strength to keep fighting."

He breathed in deep, rain soaking into his beard, lungs burning with effort.

"Forget the dwarf!" Baragor roared. "Get me the girl! Get me the weapon!"

The answer came in a cacophony of snarls and howls. The horde stirred as one—claws tearing through mud, fangs bared, red eyes blazing as they turned toward the slope where the mist had swallowed Raelyn and the others.

But Thomrik stepped forward.

His boots squelched in the churned earth, and he gritted his teeth, the burn in his limbs ignored. 

"Azazel," he whispered. "Witness me."

He inhaled sharply, a steadying breath that filled his chest with fire.

"For Unevia!" he bellowed, voice rising like a battle-horn. "For Raelyn!"

Thomrik took off. The Warhammer of Aegis gleamed with the last of its magic as he charged into the horde, the thunder of his steps lost in the rising wind.