As Narathion crossed the threshold into the infernal abyss, the air was heavy with sulfur and ash. Shadows clung to his form like desperate souls, and the heat was oppressive. His sword, forged in the light of the celestial forge, hummed faintly at his side, its glow defiance against the dark. He moved steadily, each step taking him deeper into the realm of hell.
Luceran Vale’s throne loomed ahead, a jagged monolith of obsidian and fire. The ruler of the underworld sat with almost casual grace, one leg crossed over the other, his silver hair falling in molten streams over his shoulders. Crimson eyes locked onto Narathion’s approach, glinting with a mix of curiosity and menace.
“Well, well,” Luceran purred, his voice silken yet edged with danger. “The famed Narathion descends into my domain. To what do I owe this audacious intrusion?”
Narathion’s grip tightened on the hilt of his blade. His voice was steady, though his fury simmered beneath the surface. “You know why I’m here, Luceran. Arthur is dead. The fragments left at the scene bear the mark of hell. I’ve come for answers.”
Luceran leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his expression darkening. “You come into my realm, wielding your little sword of light, and hurl accusations at me? Careful, Narathion. The fires of hell don’t discriminate between friend and foe.”
Narathion’s eyes narrowed, and the light from his blade flared brighter. “I didn’t come here for games. Tell me what you know, or I’ll carve the truth out of you myself.”
Luceran’s lips curled into a smirk. “Is that a challenge?”
In an instant, the Morning Star leapt from his throne, twin daggers materializing in his hands with a crackling surge of crimson energy. Narathion barely had time to parry as Luceran lunged, their weapons colliding in a flash of light and fire.
The clash of their battle echoed through the chamber, the force of their strikes shattering the jagged rocks around them. Luceran’s movements were wild and feral, his daggers cutting arcs of fire through the air. Narathion countered with precision, his strikes calculated, his blade glowing with celestial power.
“You’ve grown stronger, Narathion,” Luceran remarked, his voice dripping with mockery. “But strength alone won’t save you here.”
Luceran unleashed a wave of dark energy, forcing Narathion back. The wave scorched the ground where it landed, leaving molten trails in its wake. Narathion retaliated, channeling the light into his sword and delivering a radiant strike that shattered Luceran’s barrier. For a brief moment, the Morning Star faltered, his smirk replaced by a grimace.
But before either could press their advantage, the air grew deathly still. The flames dimmed, the oppressive heat replaced by an icy chill that seeped into the bones. From the shadows emerged a figure cloaked in tattered black, his presence extinguishing the light and fire alike.
The figure’s scythe glimmered with an unholy sheen, its blade like liquid night. Hollow eyes glowed faintly beneath the hood, and his voice was a spectral whisper that resonated with finality.
“Enough.”
Narathion lowered his blade but did not relax his stance. “Morvayne Acheros,” he murmured, his voice filled with equal parts respect and caution.
Morvayne’s gaze remained unblinking. “The force you seek? It’s me. I was the one who harvested his soul, for the balance must be maintained.”
Luceran’s grin faded as he realized the truth. “So it was you who set this in motion, Reaper. Why?”
Morvayne raised his scythe, his voice cold and final. “Because some souls are meant to be claimed. Arthur’s death was inevitable. And now, Narathion, you will face your own.”
With that, the Reaper vanished into the shadows, leaving behind a lingering, ominous silence.
As quickly as he had appeared, Morvayne dissolved into the shadows, his voice echoing like a fading memory.
Comments (1)
See all