The star dragon Mithandrir had its teeth buried in Natosatael’s neck, long raking claws scrabbling for purchase against the daemon’s thick leathery hide, wings held wide in a desperate attempt at balance. The daemon, for its part, was attempting to wrestle the dragon to the ground via sheer strength alone, thickly muscled legs straining for purchase on the frosty ground and bulky forearms buried deep amongst glistening dragonscale.

Lost amongst the two battling monstrosities, the elf-lord Turgon seemed an insignificant and puny figure. Still, the ancient longsword wielded by the Elythisian prince was a gleaming beacon of power that the daemon made much effort to avoid, constantly attempting to keep the rider off-balance by muscling Mithandrir to the earth.

The ground trembled in fury and fear as the two titans struggled for the upper hand. The chill air crackled with the occasional spell as one or the other asserted momentary arcane dominance, only to lose it a second later as its opponent wrested it from him. The melee was brutal and merciless, a swirling whirlwind of flailing limbs and sharpened talons that blinded with its intensity all those who looked on helplessly.

The end came surprisingly quickly. Mithandrir’s left foot stumbled amongst some loose bones on the battlefield, and the mighty dragon slipped, just for an instant. Before it could adjust, Natosatael had pounced. Trapping the dragon’s head beneath one clawed foot, using the other to restrain the remainder of its thrashing bulk against the ground, the daemon howled in triumph as it dragged the Dragon Prince of Tor Elythis from the saddle. Grasping the struggling elf in one viciously clenched hand, ignoring the green ichor that seeped from his palm from where Turgon had managed to embed his blade, Natosatael roared victory to the sullied heavens.

“IT’S OVER, ELF!” the horned horror bellowed, relishing in the moment of conquest. “FOR YOU, AND…”

The filthily matted fur that crowned the daemon’s shoulders exploded into searing white flame, causing it to fling its prize away in shock and pain. Turgon landed heavily in the midst of his elnaith, bowling over horse and rider alike with his impact. The elf-lord groaned once with the weight of his injuries, then blissfully lost consciousness.

Natosatael raged in fury, frenziedly casting his serpentine gaze about him. His eyes – all nine of them – flailed uncertainly as they searched for the perpetrator… it was not Ecthelion, the daemon knew, for he had set up arcane wards against the High Archmage of the Ivory Spire as soon as he had felt the elf reveal himself…

“YOU!”

His glare settled upon a lone figure amongst the barren ground, struggling even to stand in the epicentre of the daemon’s wrath. Dark blue cloak tattered and tore against the terror’s heated breath; one arm hung limply in front of his slender frame, battered spectacles hanging loosely from grimly set features. Tear-struck black eyes burned with unconcealed intensity, betraying a fierce determination… a hidden will of fire.

Ingwe Helyanwe glared back through rapidly slipping consciousness, barely aware even of what he was doing. All he knew was that his friends were in danger, and that he had to do something to help them. His breaths coming in light, loose gasps, the young man tried again to dredge power from the utmost depths of his soul, but it was as scraping the bottom of an empty pot… there was simply nothing left there to find.

But he could not run away. His fear of doing so and abandoning his allies completely overwhelmed his terror at the daemon to his for that would be his doom. Ingwe supposed that in a way, this was a good thing.

“I REMEMBER YOU!” Natosatael roared, bunching his legs beneath him and driving the haplessly snapping Mithandrir into the ground. In one massive bound, the daemon now stood in front of the young man, looming over the human as a mountain loomed over an insignificant insect. Arcane wards sprung into belated action behind him as Ecthelion and others of the manling’s allies tried to distract him from his prey, but Natosatael ignored them like he would have ignored the buzz of a fly during his nightly rest.

The air between man and daemon shimmered in a series of flashbacks. Wood and paper buildings of distinctly eastern construction, framed in hungry fire; a gibbering horde of goblins intent of murder and mayhem; a treacherous psy-mage leading a select cadre of compatriots towards an arcane portal bound to Haidia, the daemon-realm. Over a year ago now, in Nippon, they had encountered one another, and…

“YOU’LL PAY FOR WHAT YOU DID!” Natosatael roared, the pain of his ignominious banishment – at the hands of an untrained amateur, no less – resurfacing through long months of hatred and resentment. The daemon reared back, reaching high towards the heavens with both hands and spreading its wings wide as if welcoming the long-awaited opportunity. Its bestial face mutated in a vengeful grin, savouring the bittersweet triumph.

Ingwe collapsed to the ground even before the daemon had struck, barely feeling the frigid resistance of the ground through the terrifying numbness that had conquered his body. Weakly he fought to keep his eyes open, trying to remind himself that to sleep was to die… but strangely enough, even that dire warning failed to rouse him from the blissful temptation of slumber.

Only then did he realise that blood was seeping through his white tunic into the thirsty earth beneath him, and that the cold air was masking the pain of a deep wound across the side of his abdomen where one of Angelus’s bolts had pierced his desperate defence.

No wonder… he laughed ruefully despite himself. It explains why I… can see… regrets…

The slowing beat of his heart in his head drowned out anything his ears could hear, but his mind’s eye focused vaguely on a memory from his past… a young woman with dark shoulder-length hair and delicate features, clad in a white tunic similar to his and walking towards him with a gentle smile on her face.

Yuka…

A lone gyrfalcon cried out sorrowfully as it circled in the skies overhead.