the Northern Branch of Ash-Sworn crested the ridge like ghosts marching toward damnation.
Draven Korr raised a gauntleted fist, signaling a halt. Fifty mercenaries followed, steel-clad and iron-hearted, trained killers who had faced cursed dukes, sky-serpents, and the bone-drums of the Norn Wastes. Yet none of them spoke as they looked upon the valley below.
What they saw wasn't a battlefield.
It was a graveyard that refused to die.
A black sun smoldered in the sky—wrong, obscene, as if it had been skinned and inverted. Beneath its sickly light, fire crawled across the land like it was alive, gnawing through the grass, the trees, even the corpses. Hills trembled with an unnatural rhythm, like lungs trying to breathe beneath the soil. Smoke twisted into human shapes that screamed and vanished. Whole legions of undead staggered under crimson skies, and in the heart of it all, something—no, someone—moved like a god of slaughter.
A single figure, wreathed in smoke and crowned in flame. He danced through horrors with a predator's grace, tearing through Liches like paper, dragging flame behind his sword like a comet's tail.
"That's not a Lich," one of the younger mercenaries whispered. "What the hell is that?"
Draven's voice was a gravel scrape. "That's something worse."
They watched in silence as the figure disemboweled a high Lich with a single upward slash, snatching its core midair and crushing it to dust. A pulse of energy rippled out, and several mercenaries staggered as if the air itself had been peeled away.
Then he vanished.
Not with a blink. Not with a flash.
He was just gone.
And then—
"Mercenaries?" a voice purred behind them, amused, warm.
They turned in unison, blades drawn, trained reflexes kicking in like clockwork.
He stood in the center of their ranks.
Egmund—wearing Aden Vasco's face like a poorly tailored mask, too perfect, too still. His eyes were wrong. The whites were black, and the pupils burned like twin coals. His smile split too wide, cheek to cheek, and something writhed behind his teeth, like tongues or serpents.
"Want a job?" he asked softly.
No one answered.
Draven moved first, slashing low.
Egmund didn't block. He let the blade strike his leg.
It passed through smoke. No blood. No wound.
Then he grabbed Draven's face.
"Lesson one," Egmund said. "Negotiations are final."
The mercenaries screamed as their captain burst into flames—no, not flames—brands, demonic runes that bloomed like blisters along his armor, flesh, soul. He shrieked once, a raw, rattling noise that cracked into silence. When the fire faded, he was still standing.
But he was no longer Draven.
His eyes were empty voids. Sigils glowed across his spine, pulsing with unholy rhythm. His mouth opened wide, too wide, jaw dislocated—and a low growl erupted from within, primal and furious.
"Hellbound," Egmund whispered lovingly. "My new elite."
The Ash-Sworn moved as one. Shields raised, spears bristling, war cries chanted in unison.
Egmund vanished again.
Then the killing began.
One was impaled by his own weapon, twisted in midair into a spiral that drove into his chest. Another exploded into moths made of razors. A third tried to flee and turned to salt before taking two steps.
Egmund reappeared above them, floating midair like a marionette cut from heaven, limbs too loose, spine twisting unnaturally.
"I love your resolve," he crooned. "But let's be honest. You brought knives to a devil's banquet."
More fire.
Only this fire sang.
It moaned with voices—dozens, hundreds—the dying screams of those it had consumed. It curled around one mercenary, whispering his mother's name, before burning his eyes out with a kiss.
The remaining Ash-Sworn broke formation.
Too late.
Egmund raised his hand.
Chains of black bone erupted from the earth, catching ankles, throats, hearts. Those who struggled only sank deeper into the dirt, as if the ground itself wanted to devour them.
"Refuse the pact," he said, "and suffer."
One did.
She screamed as her flesh boiled and folded inward. Her limbs melted together into a hound-like form—skinless, gnarled, slavering. Her eyes, still human, stared in mute horror as she turned toward her comrades and charged.
A dozen fell under her claws before the thudding stopped.
Only one made it out.
A boy. Seventeen. Fresh-faced, trembling. Blood soaked. His name was Orren.
He didn't run—he crawled. Slipped between corpses. Smelled his friends' burned fat. Bit back sobs. Prayed to gods he didn't believe in.
And he saw Egmund notice him.
Those burning eyes flicked his way.
And smiled.
But Egmund didn't follow.
He let him go.
Because the message was clear.
Let them know. Let the world see.
Orren vanished over the ridge like a broken arrow, sobbing, bleeding.
Egmund stood alone.
Around him, the Ash-Sworn were either ash, hounds, or bound to him in deathless servitude. Their helms burned with silent sigils. Their voices echoed not their own names, but his.
The Hellbound knelt.
He raised his sword, black and steaming.
"Now," Egmund said, licking blood from his cheek, "let's take the capital."
And the broken valley howled in reply.