The first spear of light split the Deadlands in two.
It fell from the heavens like a blade drawn by the hand of creation itself, slamming into the black plains outside Nytheris with a detonation that turned stone to molten glass. A column of divine fire followed, stretching from the torn sky to the earth below. From within that celestial blaze, armored figures began to emerge—the Vanguard of Lythara, ten thousand strong, their forms aglow with radiant auras, their wings of searing gold cutting through the ash-choked winds.
From the balcony of his citadel, Vorath watched them descend like a tide of judgment. His expression did not change.
Behind him, the obsidian gates of Nytheris opened with a grinding roar. The first of his legions marched forth—not in orderly ranks, but as a tide of death. Skeletal warriors clad in corroded mail. Wraiths drifting like tattered banners. The hulking revenants of Kaerath, their eyes burning faintly green, dragging colossal axes behind them.
And towering above them all, tearing its way from beneath the Deadlands itself, came the Ebon Colossus.
It was no creature of flesh, but a war machine sculpted from bone and shadow, bound together by chains of voidlight. A titan of ribcages and skulls, its limbs bristling with rune-carved blades, its chest cavity containing a singular, burning black star—the heart Vorath had stolen from the corpse of a dead god. As it rose, each of its steps shattered the scorched earth beneath, unleashing waves of necrotic energy that dimmed the divine light above.
Vorath stepped to the edge of the balcony, Nox Obscura in hand, as the Vanguard spread into formation across the horizon. His silver eyes glimmered faintly, and with a subtle flick of his wrist, the legions moved.
"Break them," he whispered.
The Deadlands erupted into war.
Far to the west, on the fractured edges of the mortal kingdoms, a young man watched the sky burn.
Kaelen Draive was no hero—at least, not yet. A mercenary by trade, he had survived the collapse of three kingdoms by doing what he did best: staying out of wars he couldn't win. But this… this was not a war. This was annihilation.
From his vantage point atop a crumbled watchtower, Kaelen could see the rift in the clouds above the Deadlands, where divine fire poured like molten rivers. He could also see the horizon shift—thousands, no, tens of thousands of undead swarming like locusts, answering a call no mortal could hear. And above them, that thing, the Colossus, its black star-heart pulsing with a rhythm that made Kaelen's own blood feel cold.
He didn't know which was worse: the gods, who leveled entire cities to smite a single man… or the Dread Sovereign himself, who commanded an army that could blot out the sun.
"Kaelen Draive?"
The voice startled him. He spun, hand to the dagger at his belt, and found himself staring at a cloaked figure. The stranger's face was obscured by a bronze mask shaped like a sunburst. On their chest gleamed the sigil of Lythara—the Goddess of Light.
Kaelen swore under his breath. "I don't do holy work. Find someone who swings a blessed sword for a living."
"You misunderstand," the figure said calmly. "You have been chosen. The gods will not risk all in their battle with the Dread Sovereign. They need a mortal hand… someone who can walk where they cannot."
Kaelen narrowed his eyes. "Chosen for what, exactly?"
The stranger reached into their cloak and produced a dagger unlike any Kaelen had seen. Its blade shimmered like liquid silver, its hilt wrapped in pale leather that seemed warm to the touch. The weapon pulsed faintly, almost like a heartbeat.
"To kill him," the emissary said simply. "The Dread Sovereign. Vorath. The gods will tear his armies apart… but only a mortal can strike the final blow."
Kaelen looked back to the horizon, where the Ebon Colossus had just driven its blade-arm through a column of celestial warriors, scattering them like sparks in a gale. He thought of the throne made of gods' skulls, the black sword that had drunk the soul of a dragon, and the legions clawing their way out of the dirt.
Then he looked at the dagger in the emissary's hand.
"…Right," he said flatly. "And if I say no?"
The emissary tilted their head. "Then you will burn with the rest when the Deadlands consume the living world."
On the battlefield, Vorath raised Nox Obscura, the mist curling into a vortex around him as he strode into the fray. The sword whispered in his hand, eager, hungry.
He looked up at the sky, where the gods' light shone brightest, and smiled.
"Let's see," he murmured, "which of you I'll be adding to my throne next."
The mist exploded outward. The battle began in earnest.