The crimson night, an unending torment etched into the very fabric of his being, continued its agonizing crawl. Each second stretched into an eternity, each dying breath of the unseen victims a fresh wave of agony washing over Lysander's paralyzed form, carving itself deeper into the already ravaged landscape of his soul. The air remained thick with the phantom stench of blood and fear, a constant reminder of the unspeakable horrors unfolding around him in this relived nightmare.
Then, through the swirling chaos of carnage and despair, a familiar figure stumbled into his fractured line of sight. His father. The man who had been his protector, his guide, the unwavering anchor in the turbulent seas of his youth. His face, usually etched with a quiet strength, a calm resilience that Lysander had always admired, was now contorted with a desperate fury, a raw and untamed emotion that mirrored the chaos of the night. He moved with a reckless abandon, a whirlwind of desperate attacks against the relentless human slayers, his body a blur of motion fueled by a primal need to defend. His worn blade, a faithful companion through countless trials, flashed in the blood moon's lurid light, a silver arc against the crimson backdrop, felling one attacker, then another, each fallen foe a momentary reprieve in the face of overwhelming odds. But they were too many, their numbers seemingly endless, a tide of brutal humanity washing over his father's valiant efforts.
Lysander strained against the invisible bonds that held him captive, his muscles screaming in protest against their unyielding paralysis. A silent scream built in his throat, a desperate cry of anguish and fear for his father's life. "Father! No!" But the sound remained trapped within him, a voiceless cry lost in the deafening symphony of carnage, a cruel irony of his powerless state. He could only watch, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of impending doom.
He watched in horror, his eyes wide with disbelief and a terror that clawed at his insides, as his father's movements grew sluggish, each swing of his blade less forceful, his defenses faltering under the relentless assault. The youthful vigor Lysander remembered had been replaced by a weary desperation, the toll of the fight etched onto every strained muscle, every labored breath. Finally, inevitably, he succumbed to the overwhelming assault. A brutal blow, delivered with savage finality, struck him down, his body crumpling to the blood-soaked cobblestones with a sickening thud that echoed in Lysander's soul.
One of the slayers, his face twisted in a triumphant sneer, a grotesque mask of bloodlust and cruelty, approached Lysander's prone form, his bloodied weapon raised for the final, merciless kill. "Another one," he growled, his voice thick with the guttural satisfaction of slaughter, his eyes devoid of any semblance of humanity, reflecting only the crimson light of the blood moon and the dark hunger for more violence.
Just as the blade, dripping with the lifeblood of others, began its fatal descent, a final surge of desperate strength, born of a father's love and a fierce will to protect, erupted from Lysander's mortally wounded father. With a guttural cry, a primal roar of defiance against the encroaching darkness, he lunged forward, his failing body propelled by a final, heroic effort, tackling the slayer away from his paralyzed son. The slayer roared in surprise and fury, his intended blow missing its mark, the momentum throwing him off balance.
But the effort was too much. Lysander's father, his lifeblood staining the cobblestones, his body riddled with fatal wounds, collapsed, his weight falling heavily across Lysander's unmoving limbs. The warmth of his blood seeped into Lysander's paralyzed flesh, a final, desperate embrace, a tangible connection in a world that had become a nightmare.
Lysander watched, his eyes wide with disbelief and a grief so profound, so absolute, that it threatened to shatter the very foundations of his being, as the light faded from his father's eyes. The strong hand that had once guided him through life's uncertainties, comforted him in moments of fear, now lay still and cold upon his chest, the life force extinguished. The crimson light of the blood moon seemed to mock his devastating loss, bathing the scene in a grotesque parody of warmth, highlighting the finality of death.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the fragmented vision began to recede, the horrific details blurring at the edges like a fading nightmare. The metallic tang of blood faded from his nostrils, the cacophony of screams softened into a distant echo, the oppressive crimson light dimmed, replaced by the strange, ethereal glow of the corrupted glade.
He was back. The cold, damp cobblestones were gone, replaced by the soft, yielding earth beneath him. The stench of death was replaced by the cloying sweetness of the alien flora. But the emotional residue of the vision lingered, a raw ache in his chest, the phantom weight of his father's body a chilling reminder of his helplessness.
A persistent, grating sound cut through the lingering echoes of terror, dragging him back to the present, back to the immediate threat. "Lord… Lord…" It was Xyl'gotha's rasping voice, insistent and laced with a hint of impatience, a stark contrast to the overwhelming grief that still gripped Lysander.
The agonizing shriek that had triggered the flashback had also softened, becoming a low, drawn-out moan that spoke of utter exhaustion, a sound that still carried the raw edge of agony even in its weakened state. Titania's ethereal form was barely visible behind the writhing, suffocating black tendrils, her once vibrant emerald light now a faint, flickering glimmer, like a dying ember struggling against the encroaching darkness. The corruption, a tangible force of malevolent energy, seemed to be leeching her very essence, consuming her light and twisting her form into something grotesque and unrecognizable. The contrast between the vibrant being he had encountered and the fading light before him was stark, a chilling testament to the power of the encroaching darkness. The memory of his father's sacrifice warred with the immediate threat to Titania, tearing him between past grief and present danger.