The moon hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the ruins of the Harvest Shrine. Vyros crouched atop a ridge, watching the Silver party approach the stone steps that led into the hollowed-out shrine. The air was thick with unease, a lingering energy that seemed to pulse through the earth. The ground beneath them was cracked, the stones blackened by age and fire.
His eyes narrowed as the trio descended the steps. Captain Marlowe, ever vigilant, scanned the surroundings as his spear remained at the ready. Behind him, Jorik Ironjaw, a burly warrior with a grimace of impatience on his face, hefted his hammer with ease, clearly eager for any combat to come.
And then there was Lyanna Crestvale, her pale skin glowing in the moonlight, her white and silver robes shifting with each step. She moved with grace, but there was an undeniable strength in her presence—an aura that commanded attention without words. Her healer's staff was held firmly in her hand, her expression determined yet filled with concern as she surveyed the ruins.
Vyros felt a shift in the air as Lyanna moved closer to the shrine. She was strong—there was no doubt about it. A noble blood, cloaked in silver, and yet... a healer. Perhaps too soft for what was about to unfold.
The warlock—the one behind the curses, the one whose magic animated the scarecrows—had been here. Vyros could feel it in his bones, the pull of dark power rising from the earth. This was no simple magic. This was something older, something that had been buried in these ruins for centuries.
As Lyanna, Marlowe, and Jorik ventured deeper into the shrine, Vyros watched, the wind rustling the leaves around him. From his vantage point, he could see the warlock emerging from the shadows of the ruins, his tall figure draped in a dark cloak, and his bone mask gleaming ominously in the pale light.
The warlock stepped forward, his staff raised high. He did not speak at first, only watching the adventurers, his eyes hidden beneath the mask.
"Silver lambs, sent to slaughter," the warlock's voice echoed across the ruins, deep and resonant, carrying a chilling promise. "The fields were but a test. Now the harvest begins."
The earth trembled beneath them. The ground cracked open as dozens of scarecrows—their once-burlap forms now twisted and unnatural—rose from the soil. Their glowing eyes burned like green lanterns in the night, and in their hands, they clutched rusted farm tools—pitchforks, sickles, and broken scythes.
Captain Marlowe was the first to react, planting his spear firmly into the earth and charging at the nearest scarecrow. His movements were fluid, controlled, but even he knew that facing this number would be no easy task.
Jorik Ironjaw, laughing as always, swung his hammer wildly, taking down the first scarecrow that got too close. Blood sprayed from the creature's split skull, but more rose in its place.
Meanwhile, Lyanna stood at the rear of the group, her staff raised high as she began chanting prayers in High Aurelian. A silver light spilled from her hands, surrounding the group in a shimmering barrier of protection. The light seared the creatures as they came close, turning them to ash with each prayer. Yet, for every one she destroyed, two more crawled from the ground.
The air grew thick with the smell of burnt straw, and Vyros could see that the Silver-ranked adventurers were quickly being overwhelmed. Their skills were undeniable, but the sheer number of scarecrows was pushing them to their limits.
From his perch above, Vyros observed the battle unfold. The warlock was not yet directly involved, his staff raised high as he continued to summon more of the creatures from the earth. The sight of him, standing in the distance, sent a shiver down Vyros's spine. This was no common spellcaster.
The power was dark, ancient. Vyros could feel it, tugging at the edges of his consciousness. The runes, the green fire, the growing tide of creatures—it was all interconnected.
But what worried Vyros more was the battle below. Lyanna, Marlowe, and Jorik were strong, but the warlock's control over the field was absolute. They were losing ground.
Marlowe was the first to fall behind, his leg pierced by a pitchfork from one of the scarecrows. He roared in pain but managed to rip the weapon out of his leg, fighting back as best he could. Jorik fared no better—his laughter turning to a roar of fury as he swung his hammer with all his might, only to be surrounded by more of the cursed creatures.
Lyanna was doing her best to keep them alive, but her energy was waning. Her healing light flickered with each passing moment as the dark magic grew stronger, surrounding them. She was tiring.
Watching them struggle, Vyros made his decision. He couldn't wait any longer.
With a deep breath, he stood from his hidden position and began to chant under his breath, his dark magic swirling around him. He reached deep within, calling upon his power—something darker than the silver flames Lyanna wielded, something deeper than the earth itself.
Dark fire, combined with his raw physical might, surged within him. His eyes glowed, and the earth beneath him seemed to tremble in response. The magic he unleashed was chaotic, swirling dark flames interwoven with shadows, clashing against the warlock's green fire.
Vyros's shapeshifting sword materialized in his hands, and he charged forward, the ground cracking beneath his feet as he moved faster than humanly possible. His blade swung in a wide arc, and the first wave of scarecrows was consumed by the fire. Ash and splinters filled the air as their bodies were shattered into pieces.
The warlock, surprised by the sudden onslaught, turned his staff toward Vyros, but it was too late. Vyros's blade cleaved through the staff with ease, and with a single eruption of dark fire, the warlock's body was consumed in flames. His bone mask shattered, and the once-powerful mage was nothing more than ash.
The field fell silent. The scarecrows, now severed from their creator's will, collapsed into lifeless heaps. The smoke from the dark fire drifted up into the sky, carrying with it the stench of burning straw and magic.
The Silver party stood in stunned silence. Captain Marlowe, his spear still clenched in his hand, looked up at Vyros, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"What… what power is this?" Marlowe gasped, his voice hoarse with awe and fear.
Jorik Ironjaw, still clutching his shattered hammer, scowled in frustration. "We could have handled it. We didn't need your help," he grumbled, but there was no conviction in his words.
Lyanna, however, was quiet. Her pale face, stained with blood and soot, turned to look at Vyros. She stepped forward, her gaze locked onto his. Fear was evident in her eyes, but there was something else there too—something that lingered beneath the terror. A curiosity, a fascination with the dark power she had witnessed.
Vyros stepped forward, his greatsword still glowing faintly in his hand. He was silent, his gaze locked on Lyanna. But as he walked past the fallen bodies of Marlowe and Jorik, his lips curled into a cold smile. His steps were sure, as if nothing in this world or the next could challenge him.
Without a word, Vyros raised his hand, and the dark fire began to recede. The field, once a battlefield of chaos, now felt eerily still.
"I spared your life because I allowed it," Vyros said calmly, his voice as cold and commanding as the night. "But now you must choose."
Lyanna trembled, her bloodied hands clutching her staff. "Choose?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Vyros's gaze turned to the two remaining Silver adventurers, whose fate had already been sealed.
The towering figure of Jorik Ironjaw attempted to rise from the ground, his breathing labored. He had never been one to yield. But before he could lift his battered frame, Vyros was upon him.
The greatsword in Vyros's hand shifted, its dark blade gleaming under the moonlight as it tore through the air. Without a moment's hesitation, Vyros swung it downwards, cleaving Jorik's head from his shoulders in one swift, brutal motion. The sound of bone splitting echoed in the silence, and Jorik's body crumpled to the ground with a final, blood-soaked sigh.
Vyros turned his gaze to Captain Marlowe next, who, despite the grave wound in his leg, still held his spear with defiance. Marlowe's eyes were filled with anger, but also recognition—the understanding that he was now facing a force far beyond his own.
"Captain, it seems your discipline will not save you now," Vyros muttered, his voice dark and unyielding.
Marlowe gritted his teeth, pushing himself up with his spear. He thrust it toward Vyros with a desperate roar, hoping to land a final blow. But Vyros was faster. The blade of his greatsword shimmered in the moonlight as it cleaved through the spear, splitting it in half. With a single motion, Vyros swept the sword upwards, and the Captain's body fell in two pieces, the blood spraying in a wide arc.
The two powerful adventurers, now nothing more than lifeless corpses, lay in the blood-soaked dirt at Vyros's feet. His gaze shifted back to Lyanna, who was still kneeling, her face pale, her eyes wide in awe and terror.
She stumbled back, hands shaking. "Please… don't…" Her voice was small, but her eyes lingered on his dark power, filled with both dread and fascination.
Vyros stepped closer, the shrine fire reflecting in his eyes. His voice was calm, commanding:
"You live because I allow it. You now face two paths. Serve me—body and soul. Become my secret ally. Or defy me… and join your friends in death."
Lyanna's breath caught in her throat. Her gaze flickered to the bodies of Marlowe and Jorik, both of whom had fallen before him.
Slowly, with her body trembling, she lowered her staff and knelt before Vyros.
"I… I will serve," she whispered, her voice filled with both fear and something more.
Vyros nodded once, turning to leave the shrine, his cloak billowing behind him. Lyanna stayed kneeling, her eyes never leaving him.