The Deadlands were never quiet, but tonight, they screamed.
Beneath Nytheris, in catacombs older than the citadel itself, Vorath stood before a pit of endless black. The air reeked of iron and old death; the walls were lined with ossified remains, skulls with runes burned into their bone, their jaws eternally open in silent wails.
Serikar knelt beside him, head bowed, as Vorath traced his clawed hand along the pit's edge. The darkness rippled, as though something massive stirred below.
Velira stood to his right, her fingers dripping strands of shadow that coiled like serpents. "Are you certain you wish to unseal it now, my lord? The Veil will not hold if we summon what sleeps below."
Vorath's silver eyes gleamed faintly. "The Veil is already breaking. The gods' light tears at the seams of the Deadlands. If they mean to starve me, then I will feed on more than they can fathom."
With a flick of his wrist, he drew Nox Obscura across his palm. The blade drank his blood greedily, the black mist curling outward and plunging into the pit like liquid shadow.
The wails grew louder.
From the darkness, forms began to emerge—not skeletons, not revenants, but souls. Thousands of them, screaming, clawing, bound by chains of shadow. They circled Vorath like a cyclone, their whispers a storm of broken languages.
"Behold," Serikar murmured, raising his helm, "the Hollow Choir awakens."
Vorath extended his hand, the silver of his eyes igniting like twin moons. The souls stopped writhing, their screams ceasing in unison. One by one, they knelt in the air around him, their forms flickering like dying flames.
"You are mine," Vorath said softly. "Not Kael's. Not the heavens'. Mine."
The souls shuddered, their chains digging deep. And then, with a surge of black flame, they vanished—drawn into Vorath's body, his veins glowing faintly with their essence.
Velira's smirk widened. "You grow bolder with each transgression, my lord. Even the God of Death himself will feel that theft."
Vorath's lips curved into the faintest smile. "Let him. When Kael comes for what is his, I will add his skull to my throne as well."
Above, the ground trembled. The gods' light was intensifying. Soon, they would descend again.
Vorath turned, his cloak of shadows unfurling behind him. "Prepare the Colossus. When they strike next, we will answer."
Far away, Kaelen Draive awoke to the sound of chanting.
He was no longer in the ruined watchtower. The emissary had led him through a portal—a shivering, liquid mirror that had swallowed them whole—and now he stood in a place that felt… wrong.
It was a sanctuary, or so they called it, but its walls were made of light, shifting as though alive, and its floor rippled like water beneath his boots. Dozens of mortals were gathered in a circle, their hands clasped, their eyes glowing faintly with celestial radiance. Among them moved beings that were not quite human—tall, ethereal, their skin a marble pallor, their features too perfect, their voices like bells.
One such being approached Kaelen. She was draped in robes of white and silver, her eyes a piercing gold. When she spoke, her voice echoed as though layered.
"You are the mortal chosen," she said, not as a question.
Kaelen frowned. "So everyone keeps telling me. But no one's told me why."
The being tilted her head. "Because only mortal blood can pierce the Sovereign's heart. The gods' essence fuels him; their touch only strengthens him. A blade forged of the First Light, wielded by a mortal hand, is the only thing that can sever his soul."
She extended the silver dagger, its glow soft yet unsettling. "This is Lumenbrand. One strike to the heart, and even his abomination of a soul will be unmade."
Kaelen stared at the weapon. "And if I fail?"
"Then your world burns," she said simply. "The gods will sever the Deadlands entirely, sacrificing this plane if they must. You will die regardless."
Kaelen exhaled slowly. He wasn't a hero. He wasn't even a knight. But something in the air—the faint, distant sound of screams carried even here—told him the Deadlands were already spreading.
He took the dagger. "Fine. But if I'm your chosen, you better tell me everything you know about this bastard. Because from where I'm standing, it sounds like you lot have been losing to him for a while."
The celestial's golden eyes dimmed. "Vorath was once mortal, like you."
Kaelen's grip tightened on the dagger. "…That's not comforting."
In the Deadlands, Vorath stood atop Nytheris as the skies cracked further. A second rift opened, wider, spilling another flood of divine fire.
He could sense it now. A mortal spark, faint but deliberate, somewhere beyond the horizon. Not one of his own.
His silver eyes narrowed.
"They think to send a knife into my shadow," he murmured. "Let them try."
The mist around Nox Obscura coiled tighter, whispering eagerly.
"When it comes," Vorath whispered back to the sword, "we will see how sharp the gods' little blade truly is."