Prologue

"It is the nature of man, to fear what we do not understand. An army of unknown, a tidal wave of death and destruction ravages our land. And now we live with a different fear, not of the unknown, but of them. They do not seek land, nor gold or power. They seek only our total annihilation, to plunge us into the dark. And so "Nocturnals" we shall name them..."

- High General Franz Rhylon of Igothul, 746 AH (Age of Hybien).

"HOLD THE LINE!" Commander Lowrey screamed as the Nocturnal horde clashed against his scouts.

He had entered Avisier with an entire battalions worth of ready men, but now only a measly thirty remained, and they would have to do.

"NOT ONE STEP BACK!"

They had been pushed all the way to the docks, so it was either fight and die a warriors death, or drown in the crimson sea behind them.

Commander Lowrey was the leader of the Sularan Scouts, the best Igothul's military had to offer. But even the best could do little in the face of the Nocturnals, who's mere presence was enough to send chills down the spine of the most hardened of warriors.

The sight of his men fighting to the bitter end filled Lowrey with sadness and guilt. He had trained, lived and laughed with these men. He knew each and every one of them by name, had heard their dreams and aspirations and all the things they fought so hard for. And now he had led them all here, to their deaths.

If only Franks could make it, he thought, if Franks could somehow divert the Nocturnals' attention, maybe some of them would live to see another day. But as the minutes dragged, still there was no sight of him. He was most likely already dead, buried under a mountain of bodies on the other side of town. His most trusted captain, his most trusted friend, just another corpse Lowrey had lead to the slaughter.

Down to twenty men now, it seemed only a matter of time until he himself would be struck down, cut to pieces. Gods only knew what they would do with his body.

He stepped forward, sword in hand, the least he could do was fight with his scouts, they deserved that much. Standing shoulder to shoulder with them Lowrey fought as hard as he could, as hard as he ever had. Sweat began to build under his helmet, dripping down his face and obscuring his sight, his arm beginning to feel heavier and heavier. He felt as if he'd been fighting for hours, making barely any progress, but at least he still breathed. They were down to a dozen now.

The fangs of his attackers were a frightful sight, their thick leathery skin was hard to pierce and they smelled like blood and guts. They growled like hounds and hate was the only discernible emotion on their terrible faces. The only advantage Lowrey's men had was their equipment as the Nocturnals' was clearly inferior, mass produced and ill-fitting.

Lowrey had lost count of how many he himself had cut down, but it seemed he and his men were making a difference, as the enemies forces looked to be dwindling, albeit too little too late. He comforted himself, thinking that maybe, just maybe, they had done enough to the Nocturnals that High General Rhylon might have a shot at victory on his front.

One by one his remaining men began to fall, until eventually only Lowrey and three others remained. This was the end, and he dared not look at their faces, he knew they resented him, he could not bear to see the fear in their eyes. His mind wandered back home, to his daughter Mathilda, would she ever forgive him for leaving her, to fight this unwinnable war.

Suddenly, the Nocturnals stopped and stepped back, seemingly retreating, although at a very slow pace. Lowrey had no idea what to make of this, he was so vastly outnumbered that there was no way he could be posing any threat at all, so why not just finish the fight.

That's when he heard it, the sound of galloping horses rushing towards their position. Had Franks made it after all, was he going to save them? But his spirit was tamed as he heard no clash of arms, the horses stopped short of the Nocturnal line, and their riders appeared to have dismounted.

The Nocturnals facing the scouts moved aside, as thunderous steps echoed through the street. Franks had not come after all and what little hope had remained... was now forever lost.

Before Lowrey was, what can barely be described as a man. Towering over the rest of the horde, an aura of death surrounded him, the being was clad head to toe in dark steel which seemed crude and badly molded. Spikes and various other imperfections shot out at random places, notably his shoulders and back. He looked as if he were straight from the underworld, straight from Novem itself. Lowrey's eyes however, were drawn to this knights neck, where a dark-red glow emanated from an alluring amulet he wore.

He had to be their leader, Lowrey thought, if he could kill this man, this... demon, he might be able to turn the tide of this battle, or even the war entirely.

It was headed straight for Lowrey, so it was now or never. With all the strength he had left he took off his helmet, wiped the sweat from his brow and raised his worn out sword. The knight stopped dead in his tracks, but Lowrey could tell it wasn't from fear, but from curiosity. He wanted to see what Lowrey would do, nay, what he possibly could do. So who was Lowrey to deny him his show. He charged the knight, sword raised high, and swung...

As soon as contact was made, his once trusty sword, which had served him well in days of old, shattered, as if made of glass. Fear took over and Lowrey attempted to back away, but the knight rushed forward, and before the commander could even comprehend what was happening he had been grabbed by the neck and hoisted into the air without much effort at all. The knights touch was cold and his grip tight and Lowrey could feel his life slowly slipping away with every passing second. He grabbed a dagger concealed in his gauntlet and tried desperately to pierce his attackers armor. But with every strike he became weaker and weaker, and the steel showed no sign of wear or tear. The dagger fell to the ground as the knight turned, allowing the commander to see his remaining scouts, and as he had anticipated, their eyes were filled with fear. But their gaze did not meet his, they stood petrified, eyes upwards. He could not look to see what frightened them so, the knights hold was just too tight.

"P- please." Lowrey spit out as he gasped for air, tears gathering in his eyes.

But still the knight remained completely silent, not even a breath could be heard. It was all over now, and he was tossed to the ground.

The last thing the great Commander Lincoln Lowrey of Sularan ever witnessed, was a great darkness in the sky, and the faint smell of brimstone... in the pouring rain.