Before the throne of skulls, before the blade of midnight, before the world trembled at the whisper of his name, Vorath was a man.
He remembered the warmth of the sun then. The laughter of comrades. The feel of Lyssara's hand in his — calloused from her own training, but gentle, steady, a promise in a world drowning in chaos.
He had been the gods' chosen champion, the "Radiant Blade." Mortals sang his name as he carved through demons and krakens, the gods themselves blessing his strikes. Every battle won was "in their name." Every life saved, a hymn to their glory.
And then came the war of rifts.
A tear between realms, bleeding endless horrors into the mortal world. Vorath had led the charge, cutting down things no mortal had ever seen, fighting until his body was more scar than flesh. But the rift would not close. The gods grew desperate.
Desperate… and cruel.
One night, as Vorath prepared for the final push, they summoned him. Their voices — cold, distant, commanding — told him what must be done.
"A soul must anchor the seal. Pure, unsullied, tied to you by mortal bond. She will serve."
At first, Vorath didn't understand. Then he saw Lyssara, bound in chains of light, eyes wide but unafraid. She smiled at him, even as the gods' hands closed around her.
"It's all right," she whispered. "If it saves them—"
Vorath reached for her, but the light seared his flesh. His protests meant nothing. The gods had spoken.
Lyssara's scream as they cast her into the rift echoed longer than the war itself. The tear sealed, the horrors vanished, and the world sang songs of salvation.
But Vorath felt nothing. The sun was cold. The hymns were ashes in his ears.
When he knelt before the gods and begged — begged — for them to return her, they denied him. Not because it was impossible. But because, as they said, "Your grief makes you obedient."
That night, Vorath stopped being the Radiant Blade.
He walked into the Ashen Deep, where the bones of dead gods slept. He bartered his soul to the whispering dark, learned the true name of death, and forged a pact with the shadows that lingered beyond creation.
When he emerged, the light feared him. The gods called him "Dread Sovereign." The mortals called him "monster."
Vorath called himself only one thing.
"Lyssara's vengeance."
And somewhere, in the heart of Nytheris, beneath the throne of skulls and the rivers of ash, a single sarcophagus lay hidden. Black chains bound it. The shadows whispered to it.
And within, untouched by time, Lyssara's body slept — waiting for the day Vorath could shatter the chains of heaven and hell alike to bring her back.