In the shadow of the Dreadspire, where black stone cliffs clawed at the heavens and the earth was scorched and barren, a lone figure knelt amid the ashes of forgotten men.
The wind howled, carrying with it the stench of old blood and burnt offerings. The trees, long dead, stood like broken spears upon the hills.
There, beside a crumbled altar to a god whose name none dared speak, lay a man — or what seemed a man.
His body bore the marks of ancient punishment, symbols older than time etched into his flesh. His face was hidden, though his eyes burned like twin dying suns. The beasts of the earth would not approach him, and even the shadows recoiled.
His name was Apocrypha.
And on that cursed day, a traveler came — a man clothed in rough robes, a staff in his hand, his eyes bright with the fire of madness and revelation. His name was Azareel.
When he beheld the fallen one, he spoke not at first, for fear gripped him. But the wind whispered secrets, and in his heart a voice declared: "This is he of whom it was spoken."
Azareel lifted his staff and called out:
"Art thou man or spirit? Speak, wanderer of the waste!"
But Apocrypha answered not.
So Azareel drew closer, undaunted, and spake again:
"I am Azareel, Voice of the Most High. The world is dying, the kings are false, and the blood of the innocent stains the soil. But there remaineth a place, beyond the fields of ruin and the gates of shadow — a land untouched by death, where no curse may follow. Come with me, stranger, and I shall show thee the path."
Then at last Apocrypha spoke, his voice like a stone dragged across the bones of the earth:
"I have walked a thousand years and seen a thousand kingdoms fall. I have known the counsel of angels and the curses of the deep. Why should I trust thee, mortal prophet?"
Azareel smiled, for madness was in his heart, and he said:
"Because thou hast naught else. Because the world would see thee dead. Because the Gate stirreth, and thou alone canst break its seal. And because the doom of men is written in thy blood."
The wind howled like a dying beast.
And Apocrypha rose, the earth cracking beneath his feet. He took his tattered cloak, and said:
"Lead on, prophet. If lies thou speakest, I shall drink thy marrow."
And so it was, that the prophet and the fallen one began their journey toward Solinar, the last city of men, and toward a doom neither could escape.
And so it was, that Azareel and Apocrypha left the dread mountain behind them, the earth groaning beneath their feet. The road stretched long and empty before them, choked with dust and the bones of nameless dead.
The days bled into nights without mercy.
Often, Azareel would speak to the wind, his voice carrying words of ancient tongues, and though none answered, the beasts of the wild kept their distance.
"Be thou not afraid," he would say to Apocrypha as the dark closed in. "For the Eternal One watcheth His own."
But Apocrypha, shrouded in his tattered cloak, spake little.
On the fifth night of their journey, they came upon a crumbled shrine by the wayside, its stones black with old blood, and upon its face the broken visage of a god whose name was long lost.
Azareel beheld it and whispered:
"This was once the altar of Zathuriel, Keeper of the Gate. The old men would make offering here, that the world might be spared the wrath of the deep places."
Apocrypha stood before the ruin and said:
"They offered much, and yet the world fell. Such gods as these deserve no lament."
A wind rose then, and from the nearby trees came the sound of weeping, though no mortal soul could be seen.
In the distance, the lights of a small hamlet flickered.
Azareel lifted his staff.
"We make for the village," he declared, though the place stank of death and unclean spirit. "There may yet be those who will hear the word of the Most High."
As they approached, the stench of decay thickened. Bodies hung from dead trees, and the earth was dark with old blood. Yet from a single house came the sound of faint singing.
Azareel entered first, and there found an old man, white of beard and near-blind, muttering prayers before a cracked stone — a piece of something ancient, etched with strange symbols.
The old man spoke:
"The kings are dead, the rivers bleed, and the sky shall crack. The Gate shall open, and the old ones shall walk again."
Azareel knelt before him.
"Old father," he said, "speak thou of what gate? And what blood is this upon the stone?"
But the old man wept and said no more.
Apocrypha took up the stone, his eyes narrowing.
"This is of Ashemor," he said, "a fragment of the Seal. It should not be here."
Azareel's heart grew heavy, for he knew then that the old tales spoke truth — the seals were breaking, and the gate of the ancient ones would soon stir.
They left the village in silence, the dead watching them from empty windows.
And as they walked, Azareel spoke:
"Soon we shall reach Solinar. There the kings wait, and the last great lie holds sway. And thou, Apocrypha, shalt see thy place in the ending of days."
The dark road stretched before them.
And far, far behind, something moved in the shadows.
And it came to pass upon the third moonless night, that Azareel and Apocrypha walked the cursed road toward Solinar, where the kings yet held their crumbling thrones. The wind carried the stench of burnt flesh and rotting earth, and the trees along the path were blackened like the limbs of the long-dead.
As they walked, a sound arose from beyond the crooked hills — a shrieking unlike any creature of the earth. It was as though the sky itself wept in terror.
"Hark," said Azareel, pausing upon the road. "There is unclean travail upon the wind."
From the dark came men — a haggard, bloodied band numbering seven, clad in torn raiments, bearing crude spears and rusted swords. Their eyes were wide with terror, and behind them something moved in the mist.
"Mercy, strangers!" cried one, his voice ragged. "A beast doth pursue us — a thing not born of man nor earth!"
Apocrypha stepped forth, his shadow falling long upon the dust.
"Name it," he said.
But the men could not, for the tongue had no word for what approached.
And then it came.
A great, seething mass of flesh and bone, its form shifting with each heartbeat, as though it wore the dead faces of a thousand men, only to shed them again. Limbs burst from its side like the limbs of trees, eyes opening and closing in senseless hunger. Its mouth was a wound upon a wound, lined with teeth that were not teeth, but small writhing hands.
The very air bent about it, and the earth bled where it trod.
One of the fleeing men fell to his knees and wept.
"It is the offspring of the forgotten deep," he sobbed. "A revenant of the old sins!"
Azareel lifted his staff. "Stand thou aside," he said. "The abomination hath come for judgment."
Apocrypha unbound the cloak from his shoulders, revealing his form — tall, ancient, marked by the scars of countless wars. His eyes were twin pale suns, and his flesh seemed wrought of stone and ash.
Without a word, he strode toward the beast.
The thing shrieked, a sound like a thousand dead children, and lunged.
What followed was no battle of mortal reckoning.
The air itself recoiled as Apocrypha moved. His fist struck the creature with a sound like the breaking of the firmament, sending it sprawling across the earth, its many limbs flailing. The ground cracked, dust rising in pillars.
The beast writhed, its flesh reshaping, birthing blades from its body, striking at him from all sides.
Apocrypha caught one such limb and tore it free with a wrench, black ichor spilling upon the road. He cast the severed thing into the night.
With a voice like thunder, he spoke:
"Thou wast not meant to endure this world."
And he drove his hand into the beast's chest, pulling forth a heart the size of a man's head — though it beat with the faces of the damned.
The creature wailed once, and was still.
The earth lay quiet.
The seven men fell prostrate, trembling. Azareel approached, his face grave.
"Such things walk now in the waking world," he said. "The seals are broken indeed."
Apocrypha wiped the blood from his hand.
"This road grows darker," he said. "Let us walk on."
And so they did, leaving the dead thing to rot, its flesh crumbling to dust, its countless faces vanishing like mist at dawn.
The seven men followed at a distance, their hearts heavy with dread, for they had seen a battle not of men, but of things the old world had long sought to forget.
And far above, in the unseen places, something ancient turned its gaze upon the road.