Imp
After Grall hurled himself into the portal, Imp snapped it shut with a violent gesture, sealing the last echo of that howling, hungry darkness behind its shimmering surface. He did not answer the gasps and frightened questions from the Dasari and Pyroniams. Their fear clung to him like smoke, and he wanted no part of it. He had his own fear to battle.
He raced through the world with a speed born not of magic, but desperation—until the white towers of Whitewater rose before him like gravestones in a blighted field.
He found Grodak in his room, sitting rigid at the edge of his bed, staring at nothing. The air around the orc was thick—crushing—a sorrow so potent Imp's lungs refused to fill. Something in Grodak had already begun to break apart.
Imp swallowed, though his throat felt full of ash.
"I was wrong," he forced out. He hated the sound of his own voice—thin, strained, trembling. "Marik was never the Reaper. It's Grall."
"I know." Grodak's voice cracked on the second word. Tears he had fought for hours dragged themselves down his face, heavy as molten iron.
"He's gone mad, Grodak," Imp whispered. "He came to me… demanded I send him to hell. I don't know why."
"How long ago?" Grodak's voice was hollow.
"A few minutes."
"Then we must prepare to battle him—"
Imp shook his head. There was more. Something far worse.
"He released something into the air before he left," Imp said. "A… plague, maybe. Or a curse. I couldn't identify it. It devours magic. And anything it touches dies—quietly. Like snuffing out a candle."
Grodak's expression twisted into anger. "I will not hide while the world ends around me, Impartis."
The full name hit Imp like a slap—heavy, sharp, and personal. Grodak had never used it. Not once. Now it felt like an accusation.
"I'm not asking you to run," Imp said, though his hands trembled. "I'm asking you to protect those who can't fight. Do you want children facing your brother? The sick? The elders? If so…" A portal tore open behind him like a wounded eye. "Then I'll leave. I won't watch them die."
Grodak seized him by the throat before he could step through, hurling him against the wall hard enough to crack the stone.
"How dare you," Grodak roared, grief and rage twisting his voice into something feral. "I can deal with Grall myself. I am stronger than the gods. I am the last perfect being. I will not cower—not from him. Not from anything."
Imp rose, blood running down his face. "Then do it," he hissed. "Fight him. Kill him. But don't drag your people into your pride."
Silence. A long, suffocating silence.
"…Fine," Grodak rasped at last. "Do what you want. I must prepare."
Imp opened his mouth—
—and froze.
A sensation like a blade sliding through the marrow of his soul struck him down. He staggered, gripping the wall.
"My gods…" he whispered.
Grodak frowned. "What is it?"
"Grall… just killed a demon lord."
---
Jaxale
Jaxale and Dronde soared above the broken sky when they saw the human sprinting toward them. Adrian looked wrong—hollow—like his soul was only loosely tethered to his body.
"I wonder what's wrong with that one," Jaxale muttered. "Humans don't move that fast unless they're on fire. Or something is on sale. Wait—Dronde, go lower. Find out if there's a sale."
Dronde banked downward.
Adrian's white hair whipped in the wind. His clothes were shredded. His eyes looked bruised. When he spoke, the voice wasn't entirely his.
"The dead have begun to rise," Adrian rasped. "Souls walk the world. The Veil is torn. All… is lost. The Reaper comes tonight."
His head jerked like a puppet released from its strings. His eyes rolled back. He toppled from the saddle.
"Dronde!" Jaxale called—and the dragon swooped under Adrian, catching him gently.
Adrian's own dragon—Starlight—hovered nearby, trembling.
"What did he mean," Jaxale asked, "by 'The Reaper comes tonight'?"
Starlight only shivered.
Jaxale sighed. "We should ask Imp. He usually knows when something apocalyptic is happening."
---
Grodak
When Imp left, Grodak sagged onto the bed. The illusion of strength fell away. All that remained inside him was dread—and a weight Talengar himself might have buckled beneath.
Talengar, god of war. Grodak's god. Invincible. Terrifying.
And even he had feared the Reaper.
Could Grodak—a mortal, however powerful—truly stand against his own brother?
He did not know. But he would try.
He dressed slowly, each piece of armor feeling heavier than the last. As he tightened his pauldrons, Xierma burst into the room, breathless, eyes wide.
"Grodak—we're ready. The hunt begins. The Reaper will not escape us."
He pulled her into his arms before she could spiral further into frenzy. He stroked her hair as if comforting a frightened child.
"There will be no hunt," he said softly.
Xierma tried to protest, but he silenced her with a gentle touch.
"Take everyone. Follow Impartis' orders. Save who you can. I… will deal with my brother."
She stared into his eyes and saw the truth: he didn't expect to return.
She pressed her head to his chest, listening to the heartbeat she loved—steady, strong, mortal.
---
Cassandra
Cassandra felt Grall's power long before she reached the inn. The Reaper's essence was no longer dormant—it bled through the world, scorching reality itself. Souls shrieked through the cracks.
The books in the Altain library had been clear:
Once the Reaper awakens, the world bends toward extinction.
Only killing him in the material plane severs the cycle.
She landed, expecting Tyril to come to her.
He did not.
Her unease grew. She burst through the door, shouting—
But Tyril stood behind her.
"I apologize, sister." He looked ruined—ashen skin, trembling hands, eyes sunk deep into shadow. "I was with Lady Xierma."
"Cut the act," Cassandra snapped. Rage and guilt twisted inside her. She should have known Grall was the Reaper. She had slept beside him. Trusted him. Wanted him. And she had been blind.
Tyril brushed past her, sitting heavily. "Xierma told me already. Impartis says Grall is in hell. Killing the demon lords."
Cassandra felt the world tilt. "What?"
"Killed five so far," Tyril murmured. "Maybe more. Every time one dies, their power bursts into the world. Earthquakes. Storms. Madness."
"You hoped they would kill him," Cassandra whispered.
"Yes." He didn't deny it. "Because he's too strong."
Coward, Cassandra thought—but the guilt in Tyril's eyes stopped her.
"If we fight together," she said, gripping his shoulders, "this will be like Marik."
Tyril shoved her hands away. "This is not like Marik!" His eyes darkened. "He is… something else."
Cassandra struck him across the face.
"Then run," she said coldly. "And never call yourself Marik's son."
She regretted it instantly. Tyril didn't deserve that. Not after everything he had sacrificed.
He looked shattered. "I'm not weak, Cassandra. I wasn't the one killed by a third-rate assassin. I wasn't the one who lost control and attacked the man they loved."
The words gouged her like a blade. She lowered her head.
"You're right," she whispered.
Tyril blinked, surprised she admitted it.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice softening.
"It's fine." Cassandra stepped toward the door. "If you won't fight, then stay behind."
Tyril exhaled—long, weary, ancient.
No. He had run far enough.
"Wait," he said. He retrieved his sword, its edge flickering with restless, wraith-light. "I will fight beside you, sister."
Tyril's voice was a low, cold rasp.
"What are you here for, Cassandra?" He spoke her name as if it burned his tongue.
"Grall," she snapped, wings trembling with agitation. "He's The Reaper and—"
"So you finally figured it out?" Tyril cut her off, drifting back into the shadowed inn as if he were being pulled by invisible strings. He dropped into a chair with the stiffness of a corpse regaining motion. "Xierma already told me. Our meeting was… to determine whether this calamity could still be approached. Contained."
Cassandra followed him inside. The air in the inn felt wrong—thin, cold, as if something enormous had exhaled and stolen all warmth with it.
"According to Impartis," Tyril continued, weary and hollow, "Grall is in hell. Killing the demon lords."
Cassandra froze. Then—
"What?" Her voice cracked like a whip. Even Marik—with all his divine blood—required an army of Altains to kill one. And Grall was slaughtering them alone. "How many?"
Tyril's eyes were sunken, haunted. "At least five of the nine. Perhaps more by now. He moves as if time no longer holds meaning for him." He rubbed his temples, fingers trembling. "A foolish part of me hoped the demon lords would end him. Spare this world from what follows. But he is too strong."
Cowardice. Cassandra saw it clearly now, staining Tyril's aura like rot.
She grabbed his shoulders and shook him. "Listen to me. If we fight him together, it will be like when we faced Marik—"
"This is NOT the same!" Tyril roared back, shadows bending toward him like frightened servants. "He is stronger than Marik ever was. Stronger than any being born of this cycle."
Cassandra struck him across the face, the sound sharp as a bone snapping.
"Then run," she hissed. "Run until your legs give out. But do NOT call yourself Marik's son. I have no use for a brother so afraid of an orc."
The words were acid, and they landed deep.
Shock flickered across Tyril's features… then hardened. "I am not weak," he growled. "I wasn't the one killed by a third-rate assassin and revived by a lover's desperate magic. I am not the one who lost control and attacked the man who saved me."
The blow landed deeper than Cassandra expected.
Her altain instincts—the divine reflex born in her at resurrection—had poisoned her judgment. She hated that he was right.
"You're right, brother." The word made Tyril flinch. She hadn't called him that since the day he became a wraith.
Tyril softened. "Cassandra… I didn't mean—"
"It's fine," she murmured. "You spoke truth. I spoke cruelty." She turned away, wings folding tightly against her. "If you won't fight him, then don't."
Tyril closed his eyes. Exhaustion dripped from him like shadowed rain. He was tired of saving the world. Tired of carrying the dead. Tired of caring.
But now… he inhaled sharply.
Now he needed to rise.
To exceed his father.
To stop the end.
"Cassandra." His voice steadied. "Wait."
She turned, slowly.
Tyril reached out, and his sword flew to his hand from the next room—its black blade humming hungrily as if awakening after a long sleep.
"I will fight beside you," he said. "My sister."
---
Imp
Imp was shoving the last cluster of frightened citizens into the pocket dimension when the shock hit him.
The death of the eighth demon lord crashed through his mind like a cosmic hammer.
A crushing wave of agony.
Like the universe itself screamed.
He collapsed, vomiting violently onto the stone.
Only an hour had passed since he sent Grall into hell. He, like all the others, had hoped the abyss would consume him. Now he prayed Grall would stay there forever.
When he finally pushed himself to his feet, wiping bile from his lips, a group stood before him:
Cassandra. Tyril. Jaxale. Dronde. And an unconscious Adrian hanging like a corpse in Dronde's claws.
Tyril knelt. "Impartis—are you injured?"
"I'm fine." His voice was a brittle lie. "The demon lords are not."
Cassandra stepped forward. "How many?"
Imp swallowed hard. "Eight."
Even the air recoiled from the number.
Jaxale blinked between them, baffled and terrified. "Uh… so. Adrian—well, if this is Adrian, no offense to humans, you all look like unfinished sculptures to me—said something weird. Like… weird even for you orcs, no offense either."
Imp, desperate and impatient, glared at him. "What did he say?"
Jaxale straightened like a student reciting a curse.
"He said:
'The dead have begun to rise. Souls now walk the world. The veil is torn. All is lost. The Reaper comes tonight.'
So. Uh. Thoughts?"
A long silence.
Imp's voice came out hollow. "He meant exactly what he said. Grall tore the veil before he left. And now… souls pour into the world."
Jaxale's face twisted between awe and horror. "Cool and terrifying. Neat."
"How did he know?" Cassandra demanded.
Adrian twitched faintly in Dronde's grip.
"The Source," Tyril said darkly. "It warns those it can use. It has done so before."
Jaxale looked as if he were about to ask another bizarre question when—
The earth bucked beneath them.
A rumble.
A howl.
Then—violent eruption.
A demon lord—massive, armored in obsidian scales—was blasted up from the ground, howling in fury and terror.
Imp reacted instantly. A portal snapped open above it, dragging the beast screaming back into hell. He sealed the tear with a desperate snap of his fingers.
But he was too late.
Because standing where the demon lord had emerged, framed by the steaming rift, was…
Grall.
Except he was no longer Grall.
His eyes were bottomless black voids.
His skin, pale and stretched as if blood had abandoned it.
His presence—an eclipse made flesh.
The Reaper had come.
And the world seemed to hold its breath.