The black spires of Har Ganeth pierced the perpetual twilight of Naggaroth like obsidian daggers. From his vantage point atop a nearby ridge, Alith Anar, the Shadow King of Nagarythe, watched the city with eyes that had witnessed millennia of bloodshed. His pale features remained impassive, but beneath that mask of calm burned a hatred as ancient as the Sundering itself.
"The pieces are in place," he whispered to the wind, his voice carrying the weight of countless years of planned vengeance. Below, in the sprawling slave quarters of Har Ganeth, hundreds of small flames flickered to life – the signal he had waited for.
Markus Wulfhart, the Huntsmarshal of the Empire, crouched beside him, his prized bow at the ready. "Your people's grudges run deep, Shadow King," he remarked, adjusting his weathered hat. "Though I must admit, the Empire's coffers appreciate the Phoenix King's generous compensation for this venture."
Alith Anar's lips curved into a rare smile. "Gold means little to me, Huntsmarshal. But your reputation for bringing down monsters precedes you, and Har Ganeth houses some of the most monstrous of all."
The first explosion rocked the eastern wall. Green-skinned slaves, secretly armed over months by Alith's shadowy agents, burst from their pens with savage war cries. Skaven slaves, their natural cunning enhanced by promises of freedom, emerged from the sewers they'd gradually weakened. Even captured Empire soldiers, positioned strategically by Wulfhart's careful planning, broke their chains.
From the battlements, the harsh sounds of Druchii war horns split the air. Dark Elf warriors, resplendent in their black armor, rushed to suppress what they believed was a simple slave uprising. That's when Alith Anar's true assault began.
Shadows seemed to come alive as the Shadow King's warriors materialized from the darkness. Arrows tipped with enchanted silver whistled through the air, finding gaps in armor with supernatural accuracy. Among them flew Wulfhart's own shots, each one claiming a Druchii officer with unerring precision.
"Your hatred burns cold, Shadow King," Wulfhart observed as another Dark Elf commander fell to his arrows. "Like the winters of Kislev."
"Thousands of years provide ample time to perfect one's revenge," Alith replied, nocking another arrow. "The Druchii believed themselves safe in their black cities. They forgot that shadows exist even in the darkest places."
The battle raged through the night. Witch Elves screamed battle hymns to Khaine as they carved through rebels, only to fall to precisely placed arrows from unseen attackers. Corsair reinforcements found their routes to the city blocked by Empire huntsmen, positioned days earlier in the surrounding crags.
As dawn approached, the Drachau of Har Ganeth stood upon his palace balcony, watching his city burn. The slave rebellion had been merely the spark; Alith Anar's centuries of planning were the true inferno. The Dark Elf lord raised his sword, preparing to rally his remaining forces, when a single arrow materialized from nowhere, finding its mark in his throat. In his last moments, he saw the Shadow King standing before him, as solid as smoke.
"Your kind took everything from me," Alith Anar said softly. "Now I return the favor, one city at a time."
The sun rose over a changed Har Ganeth. The proud Dark Elf city lay in ruins, its surviving inhabitants fled into the harsh lands of Naggaroth. Former slaves disappeared into the wilderness with Wulfhart's huntsmen, and Alith Anar's shadow warriors melted away like morning mist.
Only the Shadow King remained, standing atop the highest tower. His vengeance here was complete, but his war was far from over. Somewhere in the darkness, more Druchii cities waited, and Alith Anar had nothing but time.