Far to the north of Yainna, deep into the black soil plains where the wind carried the scent of moss and river rot, lay the village of Viscro. Nestled on the bank of the great river Lishna, it had once been a peaceful border town, quiet and humble, where farmers tilled the earth and fishermen cast their nets at dawn. But peace was no longer welcome here.
Now, Viscro stood in ruin. Smoke rose from its thatched roofs like funeral incense. The cries of the dying had long since faded, and all that remained was silence, thick and unnatural, as if the gods themselves had turned their faces from this place.
The Man moved among the corpses with a slow, calculated grace. Cloaked in black, his face hidden beneath a veil of shadow and bone, he carried the aura of death. In his hand, a curved blade of dull iron trailed low, dragging across the earth with a soft hiss. Behind him shuffled the scouts—the undead, his thralls—pale figures with glazed-over eyes and bodies stiff from the grave.
They herded the last of the villagers into a line, binding hands behind backs, forcing them to kneel. Mothers clutched children, fathers whispered prayers. The Man passed slowly, pausing at each, gazing into their eyes like a judge at the gallows. And then—
Slice.
A head fell. The body slumped forward, blood rushing into the mud like spilled wine. He moved to the next.
Slice.
Another.
Slice.
And so it went.
His blade drank deep, and the soil turned red.
Farther down the road, where the wind bent the grass low, a man and a woman rode hard atop a single brown mare. They were peasants of Viscro, lovers wed beneath the village tree, now fleeing with only food on their backs and the dread in their hearts.
The man glanced back. His name was Orin. His jaw clenched at the sight—his home reduced to smoke and fire, the scent of burning thatch mingling with the copper tang of blood. But he kept his eyes forward, urging the horse faster.
The woman behind him—his wife—held tight to his waist. Her dark hair was damp with sweat, and her face streaked with ash. She looked back, one last time.
A single tear slid down her cheek.
"It's gone..." she whispered, voice quivering. "All of it... the gods have scorned us Orin"
Orin didn't respond. He dared not look again. But Lysa saw what he could not. From the edge of the ruined village, the scouts began to move—three of them splitting like arrows loosed from the same bowstring.
One was coming directly for them.
"Orin!" she gasped, clutching his tunic. "He comes—by the gods, he comes!"
Orin twisted to see.
The scout was not running—it was gliding, almost. Its limbs jerked unnaturally, yet it moved with terrifying speed, feet slamming into the ground as if the wind itself bore it forward. Its mouth was sewn shut, but its eyes—milky and wide—never left them.
Orin shouted, slapping the reins. "Go, beast! Faster!"
The horse obeyed, legs stretching long, muscles straining. Wind howled past them.
Orin turned again to gauge the distance—
And blood sprayed into the air.
He felt it before he saw it. Warm and thick on his cheek.
Lysa's body convulsed behind him.
He turned.
Her throat had been slit clean. Her lips parted, as if to say his name, but blood came instead. It gushed down her chest, soaking her shift. Her eyes were wide in disbelief. Then—
She fell.
Off the horse. Onto the grass.
Orin screamed. It was primal. Animal.
His vision blurred, and the world slowed. Sound dulled. Wind faded. The thunder of hooves was distant.
Then pain. Deep and sudden. A crackle of bone and tearing flesh.
He looked down.
A dagger protruded from his chest, just below the collarbone. He coughed. Blood sprayed his lips. His fingers loosened from the reins. His body fell, bouncing against the dirt, rolling through the wet grass until he lay still, staring ahead.
Lysa.
She lay a dozen feet away. Her dark hair fanned out in the mud. Eyes open. Unseeing.
Orin sobbed.
"No... no, please," he begged. "All Gods of the Heavens. Let her soul find Lakima. Let her be taken... let her be—pure…"
But there were no gods to hear him now.
Above him, the scout stood, dagger dripping red. It tilted its head, studying him.
Orin closed his eyes. "Take me then... coward, to take a man's life from behind his back"
The scout obliged.
Back in Viscro, the Man stood at the edge of the river. Lishna flowed quietly, as if untouched by the blood that soaked the land. His scouts returned to him, dragging corpses, stripping the dead of valuables and armor, building pyres and stacking bodies.
He raised his arms.
"The Ritual Has Begun" he shouted to the Welch Lands