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In the year of the Iron Moon, the sky over the Kingdom of Eldoria turned a bruised purple. Sir Alistair the Brave stood atop the ramparts of the Azure Peak, his blue-tinted armor reflecting the flickering torches of his kin. Below, the ground trembled. The Dark Wizard Malakor had arrived, his robes billowing like smoke, flanked by a legion of shadow-wraiths.
"Today, the steel shall meet the spark!" Alistair bellowed, drawing his broadsword, The Star-Sunderer. With a thunderous cry, the heavy oak gates creaked open. A hundred knights, their plumes waving in the freezing wind, charged into the valley.
Malakor raised his obsidian staff. "FOOLS!" he hissed. He chanted words that tasted like ash, and a torrent of green fire erupted from the earth. The fire twisted into the shape of a serpent, snapping at the charging horses. But Alistair was not alone. From the high towers, the White Wizards of the Council began their counter-spell. Beams of pure, blinding light crashed into the green serpent, turning the night into day.
The clash was deafening. Swords sparked against magical shields. Alistair reached Malakor, their eyes locking—one pair filled with justice, the other with ancient greed. The Wizard summoned a lightning bolt, but Alistair caught the strike upon his shield, the metal glowing white-hot. With a final, desperate lunge, the knight drove his blade through the Wizard’s shadow-mantle.
A shockwave sent the combatants reeling. When the dust settled, Malakor was gone, leaving only a scorched robe behind. The knights had held the castle, but the wizards warned: the shadows always return.