The stars hid behind dark clouds, as if refusing to witness the coming horror. On the battlefield of Daworada lay the fallen by the thousands - light elves in silver armor, their luster now stained with blood, and vampires whose immortal bodies crumbled to ash. Queen Illyria of the Light Elves stood atop the highest hill, her long platinum-blonde hair fluttering in the wind like a banner of despair. At her feet lay Lord Malachai, the vampire lord, an elven blade driven through his black heart. "May you be cursed," Malachai breathed with his last breaths, dark blood trickling from his mouth. "Cursed for a thousand generations. Your purity will be your weakness, and our hunger will last forever. Never shall our peoples unite in peace. And should a love ever blossom between light and darkness..." He coughed, his eyes glowing red. "...it will bring doom to them both." Illyria wanted to answer, but a burning pain shot through her chest. She looked down and saw the dark magic winding around her heart like black vines . The curse had already begun. "What have you done?" she whispered in horror. Malachai smiled, a cruel, triumphant smile. "I have ensured that you will live in fear forever. For when light and shadow unite, both realms will go up in flames." With these words, the vampire lord crumbled to dust, which was carried away by the wind. But his last words echoed through the centuries, an echo that would never be silenced. Queen Illyria sank to her knees and wept - not for the fallen, not for the lost lives. She wept because she felt the curse eating away at the souls of her people, a poison that would be passed down through the generations. Morning broke in the sky, but the sun rising over Daworada brought no hope. Only the certainty that something ominous had been sealed.