The sky had darkened above the Silverlow Expanse. Ominous clouds rolled across the horizon like a tide of ash, and the sun—what little remained of it—bled crimson through the mist. On a hill overlooking the valley below, Russ stood in silence, the newly-forged scythe resting across his shoulders like a mantle of judgment.
Below, the legions of the Hollow King gathered.
Endless in number. Tireless. Merciless.
Maven stepped beside him, her cloak whipping in the wind. "They're preparing for war. Real war."
Russ didn't speak. His eyes were locked on the horizon. He could feel the Hollow King now—like a weight pressing against the edges of his soul. The scythe had opened his perception. The boundaries between life, death, and Void had blurred. He could see the corrupted threads binding the Hollow King's army together. He could even feel where they frayed.
He tapped the scythe's haft against the ground, and the echoes resonated through the valley.
Behind him, a warband emerged—Veilborn, Flameforged, humans, even fractured remnants of old houses once loyal to the Throne. United not by bloodlines or titles, but by survival and Russ's sheer will.
Kael approached, armor blackened but intact. "They've started calling you The Herald, you know."
Russ arched an eyebrow. "I'm not interested in titles."
Kael smirked. "Doesn't matter. It's sticking."
As if on cue, a distant horn sounded from the Hollow King's camp—long and guttural, like a grave being opened.
Russ gripped the scythe. "Then let's give them something worth remembering."
He descended the hill, and his army followed. Not with cheers or chants—but with grim determination. Every soul here had lost something to the Hollow King. A homeland. A family. A future.
Now they marched to reclaim it—or to take vengeance in its place.
At the valley floor, the ground trembled as monstrous constructs of bone and steel surged forward—creatures crafted from the remains of fallen kingdoms. Towering juggernauts with bleeding eyes, serpents woven from rusted blades.
Russ didn't slow. He raised the scythe high, and with one fluid motion, cut the air itself.
A ripple tore through reality. The leading abomination shattered—its form collapsing in on itself as the Void consumed it.
Gasps echoed behind him.
Kael muttered, "Holy flame…"
Maven's voice was softer. "He's become more than we imagined."
The enemy roared.
And Russ charged.
He was a blur—dancing through the battlefield with elegance and lethality. Each swing of the scythe cleaved not only flesh, but the corrupted essence that animated the Hollow King's minions. Where he struck, the magic binding the monsters unraveled. They fell like puppets with severed strings.
Behind him, the army surged with renewed fury. The ground burned with arcane sigils as Maven unleashed torrents of blue fire. Kael tore through iron-clad horrors with brute force.
But Russ… Russ was something else.
A shadow stitched with lightning. A storm cloaked in silence.
He reached the center of the field, where a behemoth loomed—one of the Hollow King's first creations, known as the Graven Maw. It lunged at him, maw stretching wide enough to swallow ten men.
Russ stood still. Waited.
And just before the beast struck—he vanished.
Appearing above it, scythe drawn in a silent arc.
With a single cut, he severed its link to the Hollow King.
The behemoth collapsed.
And the field went still.
For a moment, there was only breath. Smoke. Blood.
And then a whisper across the wind:
"The Reaper has come."