The battlefield was silent.
The mysterious man floated mid-air. Unlike Cervic or the Demon Lord, he wore no armor, no regal robes, no battle-worn cloak. Instead, his attire was simple, a plain black tunic and a light coat over it, dark trousers, and a pair of comfortable looking sandals. He even looked to just be in his mid ages, perhaps approaching fifty years old, but a very healthy fifty year old at that.
His presence, however, was anything but ordinary.
The alliance warriors, the dwarven kings, and the elves all stared at him, unsure of what to make of this man.
Cervic, still kneeling with his battered body, did not wonder like the rest, as he recognised who this man was, the moment his gaze landed on the man.
Without hesitation, he took a step back, then another. Finally, he turned away, withdrawing from the battle entirely and rejoining the exhausted alliance warriors.
The dwarven kings, perplexed by his retreat, immediately pressed him for answers.
