Igris the powerful shadow
the age when shadows still remembered their masters, Igris stood at the edge of a silent battlefield.
The world around him was colorless—ash, stone, and broken earth—except for the red arc behind him, a slash of power still burning in the air like a wound that refused to heal. It was the echo of his last strike, a reminder that even silence could bleed.
Once, Igris had been a knight of honor, bound by oath and crown. He fought for a king whose name was lost to time, whose castle now existed only as dust beneath forgotten skies. When that kingdom fell, so did the sun—and Igris fell with it, not into death, but into shadow.
Now he stood reborn.
His armor was no longer steel but darkness itself, shaped by loyalty stronger than life. His eyes glowed white, not with rage, but with purpose. He did not need a face to be feared. The shadows spoke for him.
The wind carried whispers of enemies approaching—foolish, confident, alive.
Igris did not move.
He waited.
Because he was not a hunter anymore.
He was a guardian of the abyss, a blade drawn only when his master's will demanded it. When the ground finally trembled under the steps of those who dared challenge the dark, Igris took one step forward.
The shadows rose with him.
And the battlefield remembered why it had learned to fear the name
IGRIS.