Governor Korvold Kern marched alongside his generals on a grand white stallion at the back of his army, delegating the front to his more than capable lieutenants. His silver armor gleamed underneath the cruel sun. They had been marching for a little over two weeks and the Governor’s army now approached the border of the realms where the Empire of Epesia ended and the Kingdom of Paxia began. Empire Korvold thought bitterly. They weren’t an empire, not a true one. Epesia was hardly more than a collection of warlords that dared to call themselves rulers. They were essentially vassals that served at the leisure of the emperor. A drunk, fat, whoring moron that would rather see the empire fall to pieces than show the world that the gods still favored them.

However, this warlord was not so easily satisfied. His territory did extend through the entirety of the Red Mountains to the Poppy River but what did that mean he ruled over though? Most of them were backwater peasants like the riff-raff he just had the misfortune of marching by.

Paxia famously had hardly any defenses at their borders. Instead, relying on the fear represented by the power of the “Swords of the Kingdom.” Korvold was certain these “Swords” were nothing but a legend. Perhaps an army of the most skilled soldiers they had, but the Governor balked at the notion it was anything more than mere men.

His host numbered nearly three thousand men. Not the biggest force in the Epesian legions to be certain, but it was a stout force made of battle-hardened soldiers.

The feet of men and the stomping of hooves thundered through the valley as the army approached the bridge. Reports from the front forces reached him, speaking of a single man standing in front of the bridge to Paxia.

The warlord grinned wolfishly. Yes, he knew this was to be his for the plunder. The fools in Epesia had let this prized pig languish for no reason. All the ore a growing empire needed right under their feet. Not like the useless clay that he called his own.

As he was fantasizing about the swords and shields that beautiful metal would become, the first tremors of fear began to work their way through the ranks. At first it was only murmuring that something was wrong, but then the screaming began. Panic followed and formations of hardened men melted. The Governor heard the whinny of horses and the wailing of his troops. Korvold was baffled. Had they not seen only one man at the bridge? Perhaps there had been a garrison waiting on the other side of the bridge the scouts had not seen until now. No one man could cause this kind of stir.

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That was when a soldier being flung into the air caught the warlord’s gaze. No, it was only half a soldier. Half a soldier hurtled through the air and landed in the chaos below to a chorus of horror. Body parts began to fall from the sky like bolts of lightning. An arm here, a leg there, a skull slammed next to the Governor. The carnage was total and furious.

It was when he heard the horn to retreat that Korvold was snapped from his stupor. What was happening? He hadn’t ordered a retreat. The Governor began to madly bark orders to stay and fight, but his men were more terrified of what was in front of them than any discipline from him. The field began to grow dark despite how early in the day it was. Korvold looked up in bafflement.

A darkness deeper than any night, a void that devoured all light, poured out of a man in the sky. The inky velvet spread like a virus over the clear blue skies. It oozed forward without end until the sun itself was blotted out. Korvold could see nothing now, not even the hands in front of his face. He hardly remembered screaming for his men to retreat. Fear and regret for doubting the legends washed over him just before he felt a massive force plow into the ground mere feet away, splashing him with dirt.

His horse reared up in fright despite its training, bucking the warlord from his saddle. Korvold landed hard on his back, knocking the wind from his lungs. The last thing he remembered before losing consciousness was wondering if his eyes were open or closed. It was too dark; he simply couldn’t tell.

Time was meaningless when he awoke. The warlord grunted and staggered to his feet. His armor was heavier than he remembered, serving to almost tip him over as he struggled to find his balance. The scene around him was lighter, but everything was still cast in a dim, gray twilight. Korvold looked to the sky, his mouth slack. The sun was gone. In its stead was a vast black orb that stared down like a hungry eye.

Was he in the underworld? Had he died? No, he still heard the groans of the maimed and dying all around him. He swiveled to survey the carnage. On all sides lay dead or dying men, the newly disfigured searching for their lost limbs among them.

What kind of black magic was this? It was against the gods, whatever it was. It was then the warlord felt a presence behind him. Nobody had been there a moment ago. Korvold spun on his heels to meet the ghostly presence, unsheathing his sword. He would not die here; that was not his destiny. That was the last thought to rumble through the warlord’s mind as his head was cut from his shoulders.