The Rift screamed. It began with a high, piercing wail that was barely audible to most, but every mage on the wall winced as if struck between the eyes. The tear in the earth, jagged and pulsing with unstable energy, had been growing for weeks. But now, something had shifted.

  A crack of magic split the sky. It struck the Rift like lightning hitting dry timber. The wound widened. The ground trembled. Black fire spilled out in long, oily tendrils as the air itself fractured under the strain.

  From the depths, the storm erupted. Wings, claws, and screams filled the sky. Dozens of flying beasts surged upward, scaled monsters and twisted wyverns with long tails and serrated fangs. Riding on their backs were demons in warplate, spined and horned, armed with spears of bone and dark steel.

  The skies over Vaelthorn darkened as archers on the battlements began firing volleys, their arrows glowing with magic. Several of the flying beasts shrieked and crashed, spilling gore onto the scorched earth below. Cheers erupted from the wall, but it was brief because more than a few managed to break through.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  The remaining beasts turned south, their wings stirring up strong gusts over the already chaotic battlefield. In moments, they vanished into the storm clouds above, heading straight for the capital. On the ground, the demons pressed forward.

  The Rift trembled again, and a massive figure emerged, taller than any ogre, dressed in armor that seemed crafted from despair itself. Horns curled around its skull, and in its clawed hand was a hammer that dripped molten ruin. A demon general.

  It raised its weapon and roared a single, guttural command in a language that made the stones quiver. The demon horde obeyed.

  They battered the walls of Vaelthorn with relentless fury. The kingdom had held its position for weeks, but this time was different. This wasn’t a raid; it was warfare. And the skies had already turned against them.