The skies over the Deadlands split wide, torn apart by another divine rift. Light poured down in molten rivers, searing the black plains to glass. To the mortals watching from distant hills, it looked like the world itself was bleeding.
On the balcony of Nytheris, Vorath lounged—not sat, lounged—on a throne carved from a dragon's skull, Nox Obscura balanced casually across his knees. The black mist curling from the blade whispered hungrily, but Vorath's expression was one of almost bored amusement.
"Three rifts in a single night," he murmured, running a hand through his silver hair. "It's adorable how desperate they've become."
Serikar, ever the solemn knight, knelt nearby. "The Vanguard comes in greater numbers, my lord. At least fifty thousand this time, led by Archon Tirael himself."
Vorath smirked faintly. "Tirael… is that the golden peacock with the wings? Or the self-righteous one with the flaming spear? I lose track. They all beg the same before they die."
Velira, leaning against the balcony rail, grinned. "The peacock, I believe. Shall I ready the Choir?"
Vorath waved a hand lazily. "Not yet. Let them march. I want to hear their hymns before I drown them in screams. Call up the Colossus, though. I do love the way the gods' faces twist when they see it."
As the horns of Nytheris echoed across the blackened plains, Vorath rose from his throne with a fluid motion, the shadows clinging to his frame like living silk. He glanced at Serikar, his silver eyes glinting with faint irritation.
"And, Serikar, do try to keep the revenants from trampling the wraiths this time. I swear, one would think I'm leading an army of drunken ogres, not the damned souls of kings."
"Yes, my lord," Serikar said, his voice tight, though he did not look up.
Vorath grinned, a flash of sharp, perfect teeth. "Ah, don't sulk. You get to kill angels tonight. That always cheers you up."
Far from the citadel, Kaelen Draive trudged through the ashen wastes, the silver dagger Lumenbrand strapped to his thigh. The emissary had vanished after delivering him to the gods' sanctuary, leaving him in the care of a mortal strike team—mercenaries and assassins, much like himself, though all carrying weapons blessed by celestial light.
Their mission was simple: infiltrate the outer fringes of the Deadlands and destroy one of Vorath's lesser forges, where he created his nightmarish constructs. Simple… in theory.
The reality was less forgiving. The Deadlands were alive.
The ground pulsed beneath their boots, as though veins of something vast ran just below the surface. Shadows moved where there was no light. And sometimes, when Kaelen looked too long at the horizon, he swore he saw faces in the black mist—faces that knew his name.
"Eyes up," hissed their leader, a scarred woman named Veyra. "We're close to the forge. Keep your charms lit or you'll be wearing your own bones by dawn."
Kaelen muttered under his breath, "Remind me why I agreed to this again?"
The man beside him, a nervous archer, chuckled grimly. "Because if you didn't, you'd be ash with the rest of us."
They pressed forward, the distant sound of horns echoing across the wastes—the horns of Nytheris, summoning its legions. Somewhere far ahead, Kaelen could hear something massive stirring, each movement accompanied by a quake. The Colossus, no doubt.
And beyond it all, faint but undeniable, a voice whispered on the wind.
"Mortal… You walk boldly into my shadow. Will you bleed quickly, I wonder? Or will you entertain me first?"
Kaelen froze. No one else reacted. They hadn't heard it.
The battle erupted before sunrise.
The Vanguard descended in waves, golden-armored angels and radiant knights filling the air with their chants. The light of their descent turned the Deadlands almost bright for a moment, shadows shrinking back like startled animals.
Then the horns of Nytheris answered.
The plains cracked open, vomiting forth legions of skeletal warbeasts, rivers of phantasmal wraiths, and the towering shapes of revenants wrapped in black flame. And then, with a deafening roar, the Ebon Colossus rose from the earth, its black star-heart pulsing like a second sun gone rotten. Its ribcage opened, and from within, it unleashed a storm of necrotic energy that turned dozens of angels to ash before they could strike.
Vorath strode onto the field, Nox Obscura in hand, his cloak trailing like spilled ink. Divine arrows rained toward him—he did not dodge. He simply raised a hand, and the arrows dissolved into black mist before they could touch him.
"Children," he called, his voice carrying unnaturally across the battlefield, smooth and almost playful. "You come again, singing your pretty songs, waving your little spears. Did you forget what happened to your gods last time?"
Tirael, the Archon, descended in a blaze of white fire, his golden wings cutting through the dark. His spear burned like a fragment of the sun itself.
Vorath tilted his head, smiling faintly. "Ah, the peacock."
Tirael didn't waste words. He dove, spear thrust forward, aiming for Vorath's heart.
Vorath caught the shaft of the spear with one hand, black mist swirling, and leaned in close enough for the Archon to see the faint amusement in his eyes.
"Is that all?" Vorath whispered, before twisting Nox Obscura upward. The blade drank the light from Tirael's wings as it passed, leaving them a dull, ashen gray. The Archon staggered, stunned.
Vorath didn't finish him—not yet. Instead, he shoved him back and turned his gaze to the Vanguard.
"Run," he said softly. "Or stay and die. Either amuses me."
As Kaelen's strike team crept closer to the forge, the ground shook violently. They could see the battle now—a clash of gods and death made manifest. And in the center, Vorath himself, cutting through angels like shadows through flame.
Kaelen swallowed hard, his grip tightening on Lumenbrand.
"That's him," Veyra whispered, eyes wide. "The Dread Sovereign. We're not supposed to engage him. We hit the forge and get out."
But Kaelen's eyes were locked on Vorath. For just a moment, the Sovereign's silver gaze flicked toward him across the chaos, as though he knew.
And in Kaelen's head, the voice whispered again.
"Ah… so you're their little knife. Good. Come closer, mortal. Let me see how sharp you are."