"Burn," came Merat's growl. At his command, his arms, too many to count, lobbed stones at the little village. They were covered in oil and set alight, but in his palm it did nothing. His loyalists quickly followed suit, and every building began to burn. Kobold and dracon alike escaped their burning homes, only to stop in their tracks at the vision of these terrible beings. "Come," he whispered, and those fool enough to gaze upon him felt their feet lurch under them, right in their direction. Once they were close enough, they, without any of their own say, brought themselves to their knees. Merat grabbed the nearest one and crammed him into his gaping maw. Blood dripped down his chin, and yet the villagers didn't move. They could not. Together, the Meratids began to feast, one small innocent after another, until not one survived. "Onwards, to Traeton," he ordered. "We are close."

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"Your Might! News from Magister Kutur!" shouted a messenger, interrupting Rughoi's response. "He's gone into a fit of hysterics, but before that, he had something to say to you!" Rughoi abandoned the intruders, running to Kutur's study. He burst open the door, to find Kutur rolling around on the floor, foaming at the mouth. Rughoi grabbed him and shook him, and this seemed to return the little kobold to his self.

"What was it?" he asked, the fear showing in his voice.

"Merat . . . Your Might," he gasped. "He's marching on the city, with dark forces at his back."

"Assemble the legion!" Rughoi shouted, and the messenger hastened to comply. "Bring us battle worgs! Kutur, I want you at my side for this." Kutur nodded, and Rughoi helped him to his feet. He ran back to his mother, and quickly embraced her. "Stay within the city walls," he said. "Don't leave them. This could be dangerous." Then he ran to address the army.