The first step onto Nacarath’s scorched earth sent a wave of heat through Darius’ armor. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of distant embers and the iron tang of old blood. Smoke coiled through the dunes, dragging long shadows across the worn canvas of the war camp. The flickering torchlight barely cut through the haze, casting a golden sheen against the silver clad armour of the assembled soldiers.

The moment he emerged from the portal, all eyes turned to him—silent nods, brief acknowledgments from the gathered officers. His presence carried weight, and his armor, bulkier and more adorned than any around him, made it impossible to ignore. The High Judicator had come in person.

Garrett awaited him just outside the central war tent, his posture straight, sharp. His armor, lighter, more structured, carried the same authority, but not the same burden. The golden cross upon his chest gleamed faintly in the dim torchlight, his robes moving with controlled precision rather than flowing freely.

"You’re late," Garrett said, voice level, but not without its usual bite. His fingers brushed against the battle map that had been stretched over a wooden stand, held down at its corners with iron weights. "The scouts returned not long before you arrived. The fortress' walls are as we expected—heavily fortified, entrenched defenses. Their patrols are frequent, but their movements seem… calculated."

Darius exhaled, stepping to the table, eyes scanning the inked lines of their siege plan. "Gharaak is no fool. He would not waste his forces on mindless skirmishing. He’s waiting for us to commit."

Garrett inclined his head. "And when we do, he’ll crush us in a single sweep if we aren’t prepared."

Darius knew the risks. He had seen the way Gharaak’s empire moved—efficient, unyielding, a force that had withstood the weight of the Order’s faith-driven conquest for longer than any other. But they were righteous. The Clergy’s will was absolute. And he was the sword that would bring justice upon these heretics.

Beyond the tent, the camp stretched in rigid formation, dozens of soldiers moving through their final preparations in disciplined silence. They were the Penitential Order’s footmen—trained, hardened, unwavering. No priests, no battle-blessed warriors, only the steel-clad faithful awaiting their High Judicator’s command.

Garrett studied him, quiet for a long moment before speaking. "Eric’s already stationed further along the ridge. He’s been watching the fortress—says there’s something strange about how the garrisons are shifting."

Darius didn’t respond immediately. His grip on the edge of the table tightened. He trusted Eric’s instincts, but doubt had no place here. "We move at dawn," he said, his voice a steady command. "Double the watch on our flanks. I want every contingency prepared. Gharaak won’t have the luxury of surprise."

Garrett nodded, but there was something in his expression—hesitation, perhaps. Darius ignored it. There was no room for uncertainty.

Beyond the camp, the two moons of Nacarath were little more than pale ghosts against the smoke-choked sky.

Tomorrow, they would march.

Tomorrow, the Penitential Order would claim victory in Kathyrne’s name.

---

The war camp buzzed with quiet urgency, the final moments before the march settling into a heavy stillness. The smoke-clad sky above Nacarath’s wastelands swallowed all but the faintest hints of the twin moons, their glow barely cutting through the dense haze. Soldiers of the Penitential Order moved in practiced silence, preparing for the battle ahead, their minds focused on duty, on faith, on the war they were meant to win.

Yet in this vastness, two figures stood apart from it all, isolated in the darkness cast between the lantern-lit tents.

Darius Fairwillow turned as Eric approached, the other Judicator moving with the measured steps of a man who had fought long enough to recognize a trap when he saw one. There was no hesitation in his expression—only resolve, tempered by an unshakable weight of experience.

“We need to stop and think about this,” Eric said, his voice quiet but firm. “You know it. This is too perfect. Too clean. Everything Gharaak has done, every move he's made—it’s been deliberate, calculated.”

Darius regarded him in silence, the flickering torchlight catching the polished edges of his heavier, gilded armor. His expression remained unreadable, but he did not turn away.

Eric exhaled sharply, eyes narrowing. “I’ve seen traps before. So have you. But this—this is something else. We have one last chance to stop, to reconsider, to prepare for something worse than any of us are expecting.” He stepped forward, gaze unwavering. “I will follow your lead. I will fight for this cause. But I need you to be certain, Darius.”

Darius closed his eyes for a brief moment. He was certain. Certain in Kathyrne’s will, certain in the righteousness of their mission, certain in the judgment that was to be delivered upon Nacarath. Yet, he understood Eric’s concern. He had always respected it, relied on it, even.

When his eyes opened again, they held no doubt.

“I am grateful for your counsel, Eric,” he said, voice steady. “You see the battlefield with clarity that many do not. And I do not take your warnings lightly.” His fingers curled into a loose fist. “But we march. We have waited long enough. Whatever lies ahead, we are prepared.”

Eric studied him for a long moment, then let out a slow breath, nodding. “Then let’s make damn sure we don’t get killed before we can do what we came here for.”

Darius’ lips pressed into the faintest ghost of a smile. “Agreed.”

No more words were needed. The decision was made, and both men knew the weight of it. They turned together, stepping out of the darkened space between the tents, back into the dim firelight of the war camp.

The march would begin soon.
---
The earth trembled beneath the synchronized march of the Penitential Order’s forces, the rhythmic sound of armored boots against scorched sand filling the air with an eerie certainty. The smoke of distant fires coiled into the thickened sky, blotting out all but the faintest silver glimmer of Nacarath’s twin moons.

Darius led from the front, the Einval held high in his grip, its divine light pulsing like a heartbeat in the darkened expanse of the battlefield. Though the other Judicators had split off to command their own respective operations along the battle lines, it was here—at the center, at the forefront of the charge—that the Order’s faith would be tested.

The Denethari stood ready, their disciplined ranks set upon hastily fortified ground, siege weapons lining the ridges behind them. The fortress loomed beyond, a dark and impassable behemoth of stone and steel, yet still distant. For now, the battle would be won—or lost—upon this narrow stretch of bloodstained earth.

Darius raised his voice, cutting through the mounting tension with an unshaken command.

"Brothers! Sisters! The light of Kathyrne stands with us! Let none falter! We bring judgment upon the faithless—let their false idols burn in the fires of our righteousness!"

The Einval blazed as he slammed it into the ground, its light surging outward in a cascade of radiance that spread through the ranks of the Penitential soldiers. A wave of divine energy rolled through them, seeping into their armor, strengthening their flesh, their resolve. A holy aura ignited their weapons, the golden cross upon their tabards glimmering like embers in the night.

And then, the charge began.

Darius moved like a force of nature, advancing alongside his warriors with unrelenting purpose. His blade swung in arcs of divine fury, cleaving through the first line of Denethari defenders with ease. Each stroke of his weapon was precise, deliberate—an execution of skill and faith in tandem. The ground beneath him pulsed with residual light, the very air around him crackling with the power of the Einval’s blessing.

A Denethari warrior lunged, his crimson skin slick with sweat beneath the weight of his scaled armor. Darius caught the blow mid-swing, parrying the curved blade before bringing his own weapon down in a brutal counterstrike. Holy fire coursed through the wound before the warrior could even fall, searing through armor and flesh alike.

Another came from the side—Darius twisted, stepping into the attack and driving his knee into the Denethari’s chest before following through with a downward cleave.

Then, one—bolder than the rest—saw an opportunity. A Denethari swordsman, his expression one of hardened defiance, surged forward, his blade flashing towards the High Judicator’s flank. For a split second, it looked as though the strike would land true.

The blade met his armor.

And it simply stopped.

A pulse of golden light rippled outward from the point of impact, like a stone thrown into a still pond. The steel vibrated violently, as if it had struck something unshakable. The Denethari’s face twisted in disbelief—his strike had bounced off as though striking the very air itself.

Darius turned his gaze upon the warrior.

A single, fluid motion. The Einval carved through the air, slicing through flesh and armor alike in a divine arc. The Denethari collapsed, his last breath escaping as embers flickered from the wound, his lifeblood evaporating in the holy heat.

Darius barely acknowledged the kill.

The Penitential Order surged behind him, emboldened by his power, pressing forward with relentless force. The Denethari line held firm at first, their discipline unwavering, but under the hammer of divine magic and sheer martial might, cracks began to form. The outer fortifications shook as the Order’s forces overwhelmed their first defensive positions, siege crews falling beneath the blades of the righteous.

For now, the battle favored them.

And yet, Gharaak had not shown himself.

Darius pushed forward, his mind set on the fortress beyond. They would take these fortifications, they would storm the gates, they would root out the enemy’s leader and bring his tyranny to an end.

This was the moment they had been waiting for.

And yet, something in the distant wind felt wrong.

The clash of steel and the roar of holy incantations still filled the air, the battle raging with relentless momentum. The Penitential Order's forces surged forward, bolstered by the divine light Darius had unleashed. For a moment, it seemed as though victory was within reach—the Denethari ranks breaking beneath the relentless advance of the Judicators and their soldiers.

And then, the world split apart.

A deafening CRACK rang through the battlefield as the ground shuddered and split, a force unlike any before ripping through the sand and stone of Nacarath. A chasm—wide, deep, and utterly impassable—carved the battlefield in two, severing the Order’s forces from their High Judicator in a single, deliberate stroke.

Darius barely had time to react before he saw him.

Gharaak.

The towering figure stood at the edge of the rift, his presence swallowing the battlefield. Ebonshatter, the massive warblade of legend, was embedded into the earth at his feet, black flame licking at its jagged edges. The sheer weight of the weapon’s impact still rippled through the ground, and even across the battlefield, the Judicator could feel it—a presence that pulled at reality itself, as though the world strained beneath its existence.

Darius exhaled, rolling his shoulders, adjusting his grip on Einval. He had been prepared for this. For Gharaak himself to stand before him was only natural.

“You hide behind your walls no longer, then,” Darius called, his voice carrying over the battlefield. The golden light of Kathryne still shimmered across his armor, casting a brilliant contrast against the abyss that now separated him from his army.

Gharaak remained silent at first. Then, slowly, he raised his head, those smoldering, ember-like eyes locking onto Darius with a gaze that was neither rage nor hatred. Just… understanding.

A slow, deliberate chuckle rumbled from Gharaak’s chest.

“I was waiting,” he said, his voice like distant thunder, low, patient, amused. “You are late.”

Darius narrowed his eyes. “I go where I am needed.”

Gharaak tilted his head slightly, gaze unwavering. “And yet, it is only now, only after so many battles, that you finally stand before me.” He reached down, grasping the hilt of Ebonshatter and tearing it from the ground with terrifying ease, the greatblade screeching against the stone as it rose. “I would have preferred you sooner.”

Darius stepped forward, lowering Einval into a ready stance. “Then you will have me now.”

A flash of golden light surged across his armor, the shimmering divine aura forming like a living shield around his body. Power rushed through him, surging in his veins like fire. The very ground beneath his feet cracked beneath his presence.

Gharaak exhaled. “Then come.”

And Darius did.

Darius did not hesitate.

Light erupted. Holy magic poured from his form, a golden inferno roaring forth as he raised Einval, his twin-bladed halberd gleaming with righteous purpose. A sweeping arc. A divine blow.

And then—nothing.

The magic dissipated before even touching Gharaak, fizzling into nothingness, the radiant glow scattering like dying embers; Darius' eyes widened. Gharaak did not move, did not flinch, did not acknowledge the attack at all.

The massive gem embedded in the center of his chitinous, blood-red armor pulsed once—like a heart, absorbing the magic as though it had never existed.

And then, at last, Gharaak moved. Ebonshatter rose to meet Einval’s strike, the two weapons clashing with a sound that shook the sky. Sparks flew, steel screaming against steel—Darius pushed, but Gharaak did not yield, another strike. Another; Darius was relentless, driving the assault forward with divine speed, his faith burning bright.

And yet—every attack was met. Every strike deflected. Then, Gharaak stopped blocking entirely; a vicious downward swing—Darius aimed to cleave through his enemy's torso—

And Gharaak caught it.

With his bare hand.

A hand.

Darius stared, his breath catching in his throat.

The edge of Einval, a weapon of blessed steel, a weapon that had felled kings and demons alike, was held fast in Gharaak’s clawed grip; Darius pulled—nothing, but it would not move.

Gharaak sighed. Then, with a single sweeping motion, he knocked Darius backward.

The High Judicator staggered, his footing nearly lost. He dug his heels into the earth, teeth clenched. Gharaak exhaled, his expression unreadable. “Give me the Halberd.” His voice rumbled with something almost akin to boredom. “Leave this place, and you will be spared.” Darius' grip on Einval tightened. “Never.” Gharaak’s demeanor shifted. His expression, once distant, now hardened—not in anger, but in something else. Regret. Disappointment.

And then, behind them, the portal collapsed.

The shimmering gateway the Penitential Order had marched through, their lifeline back to safety, twisted into itself and shattered.

A sudden silence fell over the battlefield.

The Order was cut off.

Darius' breath was sharp, fast—but unshaken, if anything, the loss of retreat only emboldened him.

With a roar, he launched forward, all hesitation gone. Holy light blazed around him, Einval burning with power, his absolute faith turning to fury; this time, he was not holding back.

This time, Gharaak would fall.

He struck with all his might—

And then, suddenly—his magic died.

The glow around Einval flickered—then vanished.

And for the first time, Darius felt it.

The air split.

Not from an impact.

From a cut.

Pain exploded through him as his entire body jerked violently.

His vision blurred.

His arm—his sword hand—was gone; His breath caught, his balance failed, and for a moment, he did not understand what had happened. And then... he saw it; his severed limb, still gripping Einval, hitting the ground.

The battlefield was silent. Gharaak had only struck once and it had been enough.

Darius' knees hit the dirt, his breath ragged, but his resolve did not break.

Slowly, his remaining hand reached for Einval—his fingers closed weakly around the shaft.

His body screamed in agony, but his voice did not falter.

“Kill me.”

The words rang sharp, defiant. Final.

Gharaak’s gaze lowered.

And then, with an almost disappointed sigh, he responded.

"I do not kill whelps.”

Then, in one swift, brutal motion, he grabbed Einval from Darius' grasp—And kicked him in the chest, the force sent him flying. But not to his death, not into ruin.

Back into the Penitential battle lines; the Order’s forces barely had time to react, catching the crumpled form of their High Judicator as he hit the dirt.

Gharaak—without another word—planted Einval into the ground before him.

His voice boomed across the battlefield.

"Lay down your arms and be spared further bloodshed."

And then—a bloodcurdling, hellish screech rang out from the fortress as the massive portal within collapsed. Eric’s heart clenched at the sound.

He whirled on Irina. "Go." His tone was steel. "Get inside. Now." She did not hesitate.

Then, he turned to Garrett. “Get to him. Now.” The two of them moved with flawless precision, reaching Darius just as he began to push himself upright.

And then—they felt it. A shift in the air. A pulse of raw magic.

Eric’s gaze snapped back to Gharaak—

And he was already raising his hand as the flames and embers billowed upon the battlefield; a magic seal flared into existence above his palm, energy swirling violently.

The battle was not yet over.

The battlefield was ablaze. Not with the dying embers of siege fire, nor the searing light of divine magic from the Penitential Order’s charge. This was something else.

Flames erupted, consuming the sky in a golden inferno. A massive phoenix of holy fire streaked across the battlefield, its wings outstretched, leaving behind a trail of blistering heat and devastation. The air itself writhed under its presence, the very ground igniting beneath its gaze. The flames did not discriminate. Denethari and Penitential alike burned.

Gharaak’s eyes narrowed as his raised hand locked into place, the swirling arcane seal above his palm completing at the last possible moment. A maw of pure abyssal void tore open, swallowing the firestorm before it could consume him entirely. The force of the colliding powers detonated outward, a massive shockwave cascading through the battlefield, sending all combatants sprawling.

For the first time, Gharaak braced. For the first time, his balance wavered.

When the flames finally dissipated, she hovered in their place.

Miadryn, the Radiant Flame.

Her form was wreathed in divine fire, her piercing gaze ablaze with unrelenting fury. The air around her pulsed, seething with power, a living storm of flame and judgment. She was not here to lead. She was not here to save. She was here to cleanse.

Her voice rang out, her words not spoken but declared. “Mortal General.”

Gharaak’s eyes narrowed. Not in fear, not in anger—but in disappointment. The Denethari, witnessing the impossible arrival of the Radiant Flame, immediately began to retreat, their formations breaking apart as they fled toward the fortress. And the Penitential Order? They did not know what to do. Their High Priestess had nearly killed them all.

The hesitation lasted a fraction of a second, but it was enough. Miadryn wasted no time. Her arm lifted, and from her palm, a whip of divine fire lashed forth, streaking toward Gharaak with the speed of a falling star.

The Mortal General twisted in response, Ebonshatter flashing upward, cutting the fire apart in a single, precise motion. Another strike—another perfect deflection. She struck again, and again, each burning lash met with impeccable precision. But even in combat, Gharaak was holding back. He did not strike back. He did not retaliate. He only defended.

Miadryn did not stop. Her flames continued to rain upon him, scorching the very ground he stood upon. And then—she saw the retreating Denethari. She changed course.

A new target.

A wounded Denethari warrior was struggling to flee, his armor burned, his sword lost in the chaos. Miadryn did not hesitate. Her hand extended—the fire launched forward, a spear of divine wrath.

And Gharaak moved.

There was no thought. There was no calculation. He simply acted.

His massive form shoved the warrior aside—placing himself directly in the path of the oncoming attack.

The flames were upon him.

And then—they weren’t.

Blue arcane chains erupted from the sky. Pain seared through every Penitential soldier present. Miadryn herself was wrenched mid-air, her divine form jerking violently, the holy flames around her flickering, the power of the chains chastising her as though she were no different from those she had struck down.

But none of Gharaak’s forces were touched.

The Denethari, the warriors of his empire—they stood untouched by the divine bindings.

Then—a voice. A voice that none could ignore.

"Enough."

The battlefield froze. The weight of absolute finality settled over them all, more powerful than any flame or weapon.

Eric’s breath hitched. The flames. The screams. The sheer disregard for the lives caught in the crossfire.

He had seen this before.

And now, as the divine chains bound Miadryn, as even the High Priestess of their faith was struck down by the command of Kathyrne herself—

Eric saw it for what it truly was.

The battlefield was silent, suffocated beneath the weight of her presence. The divine chains shimmered in the air, binding every soldier of the Penitential Order—even Miadryn—in place. The Denethari stood untouched, their forms frozen in wary disbelief. And at the center of it all, Kathyrne, the Penitent Sister, descended.

She did not float upon wings of fire, nor did she wield a blade of judgment. Her radiance was not one of war, but of absolute, undeniable presence—as if the world itself bowed to her will. This battle was over, because she had willed it so.

Her gaze passed over the field, over the bodies, the wreckage, the still-glowing embers of destruction left in Miadryn’s wake. There was no anger in her eyes—only sorrow.

Then, she spoke.

“Faithful children of the Order.” Her voice carried across the battlefield, soft, yet impossible to ignore. “I have seen your devotion. I have heard your prayers. I have felt your suffering.” There was warmth in her tone, but also something deeper—a profound disappointment, like a mother looking upon a child who has lost their way.

“But this… this was not the purpose of what I created.”

Eric felt his stomach tighten.

Kathyrne’s gaze swept across them, but it did not linger on any one soldier, nor upon Darius, nor even upon Miadryn. It encompassed them all.

“Look around you. Look at the fields of the fallen. Look at those who still breathe, those you called monsters, those you called heretics. And ask yourselves—truly—was this peace?”

Eric’s hands clenched. His faith had no answer.

Kathyrne’s voice did not waver. “Did they raise their weapons to conquer? Did they march to pillage, to burn, to slaughter? Or were they simply those who stood their ground against an army that had come to end them?”

His breath came slow, measured, as if every word was unraveling something inside him. Had he truly never seen it before?

Kathyrne turned, her radiant gaze falling upon Gharaak. The Mortal General stood tall, but his expression was unreadable—his body rigid, his gaze unmoving.

“And when you fell, when your ranks were broken, who saved you?” Her voice carried no venom, only the weight of truth. “Was it the righteousness of your cause, or the very demon you sought to destroy?”

Eric exhaled sharply. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears.

Kathyrne lowered her head, her golden light dimming ever so slightly. “Never again.”

The words carried the weight of divine finality.

“This will never happen again.”

The Order did not speak. They could not.

Then, softly, almost mournfully, she turned to Gharaak. “For what has transpired, I offer you my deepest thanks.” A pause. A sorrowful breath. “And my deepest apology.”

Gharaak’s fingers curled slightly at his sides. He had stood against armies, against kings, against warlords who sought to break his empire. But this? This moment? He had not expected.

Kathyrne’s voice, gentle but resolute, carried forward. “For allowing my sight to waver. For allowing this to come to pass without my hand to stop it sooner.”

Miadryn stiffened against the chains, her fiery gaze still burning, but she did not speak. She did not understand. Even now, even after all that had transpired, she could only see this as another test. Her rage was silent, but it remained.

Kathyrne raised her hand.

And in a single moment of incomprehensible power, the battlefield itself shifted.

The very fabric of reality twisted and warped, the space around the Penitential Order bending like glass caught in the heat of a forge. Then—with a blinding flash of light—they were gone.

Only the Denethari remained. Only Gharaak remained.

The battlefield was silent. Not in the way it had been before the battle, when anticipation hung thick in the air, nor in the way it had been during Kathyrne’s intervention, when time itself seemed to hold its breath. No, this was the silence of finality—a battlefield left only to the dead.

Gharaak stood at the center of it, surrounded by scorched earth and the remains of a battle that had never needed to happen. The last embers of divine flame still flickered in the distance, but even they would soon fade. The sky above was darkened with the smoke of destruction, yet beneath it, there was nothing left to burn.

His gaze fell, briefly, to Einval—the weapon that had ignited this conflict, the weapon Darius Fairwillow had once wielded with such unshakable faith. It lay where it had been left, humming faintly with divine energy, now ownerless. His eyes lingered on it for only a moment before his fingers tightened around the hilt of Ebonshatter, the weight of his own blade far more familiar in his grasp. There was no triumph here. No glory. Only another chapter written in blood and flame, one he had fought to prevent and yet had still been forced to endure.

A deep breath. A slow exhale. Gharaak closed his eyes and lowered his head. A prayer. Not to the gods, nor to fate, nor to the forces that had deemed this war necessary. But to the fallen. To those who had perished here, whether Denethari or Penitential. To those who had fought not for conquest, not for zealotry, but simply to survive another day.

The moment passed. Gharaak turned, stepping away from the battlefield, leaving it to the dead.

The Battle of Nacarath was over.

But the story was hardly over...

Hey, thanks so much for your patience and for reading the Battle of Nacarath! I've been wanting to do this piece for an incredibly long time, and I hope you all loved it as much as I loved making it.

Let me say a HUGE thanks, once again to the team at Civit for their awesome work allowing me to post it with poor dar bear losing his arm; and to the enormous community support since I've come to the platform. This has been such an awesome experience, and I have loved every moment of it. And, yes. The plan was to have it end like that from the beginning, it was not lazy writing. I know some people will be really mad about the way Miadryn and Gharaak's scene happens. I  *promise* it pays off in future arcs if you're disappointed by it, but think of Lands Beyond as *much* more character driven and narratively layered than the fight scenes it has.

And now... I would like to announce there will be an EPILOGUE covering the immediate aftermath and six months following the Battle of Nacarath.

after that catch up on all of Arc 1's stories shall begin! :) <3

Edit 16.02.25: Cleaned up some formatting and fixed some old terms I accidentally used when describing Gharaak (whoopsie)