Standing silently atop the jagged ridge, I allowed the cold wind to whip against my cloak, my gaze locked on the chaotic battlefield unfolding beneath me.
A sea of skeletal warriors, eyes glowing with an eerie, spectral light, surged like a tide of death. Their relentless march sent tremors across the ruined lands, their blackened weapons shimmering with cursed aether.
And amidst the chaos, at the heart of the battlefield, lay a lone figure—sprawled, unmoving, at the mercy of the undead tide.
My eyes narrowed as I focused on him.
The body was clad in some strange form of armor—dark and organic, like it lived and breathed around him. I had never seen anything like it.
The armor pulsed faintly, but it was cracked in multiple places, split from relentless assaults.
Through the fractures, a glimpse of his face revealed itself—obsidian black hair, disheveled and bloodied, and sharp scarlet eyes now barely open.
Recognition hit me instantly.
Einar Sanguis.
