The shrill, keening wail split the night like the peal of profane clarions, lancing through Seraphina's skull in waves of white-hot agony. Her head whipped around, senses straining to pinpoint the source of the unholy disturbance.

There, silhouetted against the baleful crimson glow emanating from the central keep's lofty battlements, she saw the Ravager - that vile sorcerer wreathed in billowing robes of deepest black. His arms were raised, gnarled fingers contorting into obscene geometries as he wove his foul magics.

"Seraphina!" Tristan's bellow cut through the din of battle, raw and ripped from the depths of his very soul. "Behind you!"

She twisted just in time to see a...