The Lake of Echoes stretched before Nightborne—a vast expanse of obsidian water that reflected nothing, not even the crystalline formations that hung from the cavern ceiling like frozen tears. Each step along its shore sent ripples across its surface, though his footfalls made no sound. The ripples whispered as they moved—fragments of ancient conversations, pleas, and screams.
"How much farther?" he asked the Whisperer who glided beside him, her form shifting between solidity and flowing shadow.
"We approach the boundary," she replied, her voice carrying harmonics that made the crystals above them sing. "Beyond the Corridor of Forgotten Names lies the Obsidian Gate, and beyond that—the Heart of Bone."
Hours earlier, Nightborne had submerged himself in one of the memory pools, allowing the ancient darkness to flow through him. What he'd experienced defied description—a thousand lives and deaths compressed into moments, knowledge falling like rain through his consciousness. Most had slipped away as he emerged, but fragments remained: the true King was a being from beyond stars, a consciousness that had found its way to their world eons ago. It hungered for something only the living could provide.
And now its vessel—the being known as the Lich King—was preparing for its return.
The herbs Elder Morrow had given him turned bitter on his tongue as he chewed them. "For clarity," the old man had said. Now Nightborne understood why. The deeper they traveled, the more the shadows seemed to whisper directly to him, offering power, secrets, oblivion.
"Here," the Whisperer announced, stopping before a narrow arch carved with symbols that hurt to look upon. "The Corridor begins. I can go no further."
Nightborne studied the passage. Unlike the natural formations of the Depths, the Corridor was deliberately constructed—its walls too smooth, its angles too precise.
"What awaits me inside?" he asked, checking his daggers. The ShadowSteel hummed against his palms, eager.
"Names," she said simply. "All that remains of those who failed to stop the vessel. Their essence feeds its power."
Nightborne nodded, then reached for the Pocket Abyss Cube at his hip. Its familiar warmth pulsed against his fingertips.
"If I don't return," he began.
"We know," the Whisperer interrupted. "The village above. We will warn them, guide them to safety if we can." Her form rippled. "But night-heir, understand this: if you fail, if the vessel completes the ritual and the true King returns, nowhere on this world will be safe."
Nightborne exhaled slowly, feeling darkness fill his lungs, steadying his heartbeat. "Then I won't fail."
He stepped through the arch.
The Corridor of Forgotten Names was aptly named. As he moved through its twisting passage, whispers assailed him from all sides—names spoken in languages long dead, identities reduced to desperate syllables. The walls themselves seemed to breathe, contracting and expanding with each new name.
*Sylvan... Azrael... Tarik... Evindra...*
He recognized some from legends, heroes who had vanished without trace. Others were unknown to him, but their desperation was palpable. The Corridor itself was a tomb for those who had challenged the vessel and failed.
Nightborne quickened his pace. The whispers grew louder, more insistent, trying to capture his attention, to add his name to their unending roll call. He focused on his breathing, on the void energies flowing through him, on the techniques he had mastered.
[Dark Domain]
The shadows around him shifted, acknowledging his command. Not complete submission—this place was far older than his power—but enough to carve a path forward.
The Corridor finally opened into a circular chamber dominated by a massive gate of pure obsidian. Unlike the rough stone of the caverns, this structure was polished to mirror-smoothness, reflecting a distorted version of Nightborne that seemed to move independently of him, always a half-second behind.
Before the gate stood three figures in elaborate bone armor, their forms hunched and twisted as if remade by unskilled hands. They turned as one when Nightborne entered, empty eye sockets flaring with sickly green light.
"The night-heir comes," they hissed in unison. "As was foretold."
Nightborne didn't waste time with words. He knew their kind—Bone Wardens, elite guards that drew power directly from the vessel they served. Their presence confirmed what the Whisperer had told him: the Heart of Bone lay just beyond the gate.
He blinked forward, a technique now perfected through combat and training. His form dissolved into shadow, reappearing between two of the wardens. His daggers flashed, channeling void energy through their edges.
The wardens were fast—faster than the thralls he had faced in the cavern above. One caught his blade on a shield of fused skulls, while another swung a massive bone-flail that whistled past his ear. The third chanted in a language that made the air thicken, green energies coalescing around its hands.
Nightborne dropped low, sweeping his left dagger in an arc that connected with the first warden's ankle. ShadowSteel met ancient bone with a sound like winter ice cracking. The warden staggered but didn't fall.
[Void Weaving]
Shadow-threads extended from Nightborne's fingertips, weaving a net that he flung at the chanting warden. The net wrapped around its skull, silencing the incantation as darkness seeped into the empty eye sockets. The warden clawed at its face, bone fingers scraping against bone.
The second warden's flail caught Nightborne across the back, sending him sprawling. Pain flared bright and sharp. He rolled with it, coming up in a crouch as he channeled darkness into his next attack.
[Umbral Crescent]
The arc of void energy sliced through the air, catching the flail-wielder across its midsection. Bone armor cracked but held. These wardens were better protected than any undead he had faced before.
Nightborne changed tactics. Instead of attacking their physical forms, he focused on the green energy that animated them—the tether between vessel and servant. He drew more deeply on the void within, feeling it respond to his call with eager hunger.
[Midnight Edge]
Both daggers ignited with pure darkness, not the absence of light but its negation. Where the blades passed, reality itself seemed to part. He struck at the first warden's chest, where the green glow was brightest, and felt resistance give way. The warden shrieked—a sound like metal grinding against stone—as the connection was severed. Its form collapsed into disarticulated bones that quickly turned to dust.
The warden entangled in shadow-threads had finally torn free, its skull cracked from its own desperate clawing. It lunged at Nightborne, bone fingers elongated into foot-long talons. Nightborne sidestepped, caught one arm with his dagger, and channeled another Midnight Edge through the limb. The arm disintegrated, but the warden pressed forward, unconcerned with its loss.
The flail-wielder attacked from behind, its weapon now glowing with the same sickly energy that animated its form. Nightborne ducked beneath the swing, rolled forward, and came up facing both remaining wardens.
Time to end this. He touched the Pocket Abyss Cube, drawing just enough power to fuel his final attack.
[Void Scythe]
The air split as a massive blade of pure darkness materialized above him. With a downward slash of his arm, Nightborne sent it scything through both wardens simultaneously. Their forms scattered into motes of green light and dust, their armor clattering to the ground in fragments.
Silence fell in the chamber. Nightborne checked himself quickly—the strike to his back had torn through his cloak but only grazed his skin. The ShadowSteel daggers hummed softly in his hands, their edges still trailing wisps of void energy.
He approached the Obsidian Gate. Up close, its surface wasn't merely reflective; it seemed to contain depths beyond what should be possible, as if looking into a window rather than a mirror. His reflection stared back at him, eyes darker than they should be, posture too straight, expression too confident.
Not his reflection at all, he realized. Something else.
"I've been waiting for you, night-heir," said his reflection, its voice resonating directly in his mind. "Few have made it this far. Fewer still with power such as yours."
Nightborne kept his daggers ready. "You're the vessel. The Lich King."
The reflection smiled—an expression Nightborne himself rarely wore. "A crude title, given by cruder minds. I am the Harbinger, the Voice, the Door Through Which the King Returns."
"You're nothing but a puppet," Nightborne replied, studying the gate for any sign of how to open it—or destroy it.
The reflection's smile widened unnaturally. "As are you, little shadow. Do you imagine your communion with darkness was by chance? That your power is truly your own?" It leaned closer, its face pressing against the inside of the gate like a membrane. "You were chosen, just as I was. The only difference is that I embraced my purpose."
Nightborne refused to be baited. "Open the gate. Face me directly."
"As you wish." The reflection stepped back, and the obsidian surface rippled like disturbed water. "Enter, night-heir. The Heart of Bone awaits."
The gate parted like a curtain, revealing a passage beyond—not carved stone like the corridors before, but what appeared to be the inside of a massive ribcage, each bone larger than a house, pulsing with faint green light.
Nightborne stepped through without hesitation, daggers at the ready. The gate sealed behind him with a sound like a final breath.
The Heart of Bone was aptly named. He stood within what could only be described as the chest cavity of some impossible leviathan, its ribs arching hundreds of feet overhead to meet at a sternum of polished bone. The floor beneath his feet was smooth and yielding, like cartilage. In the center of the chamber stood an altar fashioned from a single massive vertebra, atop which rested a crown made of finger bones arranged like rays of dark sun.
And before the altar, with its back to him, knelt the vessel.
In form, it resembled a man—tall, broad-shouldered, clad in armor of blackened bone that shifted and moved as if alive. But as it rose and turned to face him, Nightborne saw that resemblance was all they shared. Where a face should have been, it wore a mask of fused skulls, their features overlapping in a grotesque mosaic. Green light spilled from eye sockets and gaping mouths, casting sickly patterns across the chamber.
"Welcome to the threshold," the vessel's voice echoed throughout the Heart. "The place between worlds, where the veil grows thin."
Nightborne widened his stance, drawing darkness into himself with each breath. This close to the vessel, he could feel its power—ancient, cold, hungry. But he could also sense something else: desperation.
"Your ritual isn't complete," he said, the realization dawning. "You're still missing something."
The vessel tilted its skull-mask, green light flaring brighter. "Perceptive. Yes, one final component remains. One final sacrifice to anchor the King's return." It extended a hand toward Nightborne, bone fingers elongating impossibly. "Your darkness will serve nicely."
Nightborne didn't wait for it to elaborate. He blinked forward, daggers aimed at the vessel's chest—where a heart would be in a living being. But the vessel was faster than he anticipated. It sidestepped with liquid grace, one hand catching Nightborne's wrist in a grip that turned bone to ice.
"Your techniques are impressive," it hissed, "but I have existed for centuries, night-heir. I have forgotten more of darkness than you will ever know."
With terrifying strength, it hurled Nightborne across the chamber. He struck one of the massive ribs and felt something crack inside him. Pain lanced through his chest, but he channeled it, converted it to power as he pushed himself back to his feet.
The vessel was already moving, gliding across the floor with unnatural speed. From its hands, blades of bone erupted—jagged, serrated edges that gleamed with the same green energy that animated its form.
Nightborne met its charge, his ShadowSteel daggers clashing against bone blades with a sound like thunder. Each impact sent shockwaves through his arms. The vessel was impossibly strong, its technique flawless after centuries of practice.
He needed an advantage. As they exchanged blows in a deadly dance, Nightborne studied his opponent, looking for weakness. The mask of skulls seemed fused to whatever lay beneath, and the armor moved and shifted to protect vulnerable areas. But the green energy that powered it—that had to come from somewhere.
The altar. The crown.
Nightborne disengaged, blinking backward to create distance. The vessel pursued immediately, bone blades whistling through the air where he had stood a heartbeat before. He needed to reach the altar, but the vessel was too fast, too relentless.
Time to take a risk.
[Dark Domain]
The shadows around him deepened, responding to his call. Not just darkness but true void—the absence of everything, even time. The vessel hesitated, its skull-mask turning as if confused. Nightborne used that moment to blink again, not away but directly above his opponent, daggers plunging downward with all his weight behind them.
The ShadowSteel pierced the bone armor, sinking deep into the vessel's shoulders. Green energy erupted from the wounds, searing Nightborne's hands, but he held firm, channeling void through his blades into the vessel's core.
[Midnight Edge]
Darkness flowed from the daggers, negating the necrotic energy that animated the vessel. It screamed—a sound that existed on multiple planes at once, tearing at reality itself—and reached back with impossible flexibility, bone fingers closing around Nightborne's throat.
The pressure was immense, crushing. Spots danced at the edge of his vision. But he refused to release his grip on the daggers, continued to pour void energy into the wounds, seeking the connection between vessel and power source.
There—a thread of green light that stretched from the vessel's chest to the crown on the altar. With the last of his strength, Nightborne slashed at it with a tendril of pure shadow.
The thread snapped.
The vessel's scream cut off abruptly. Its grip on Nightborne's throat loosened as green light began to leak from every joint in its armor, every seam in its skull-mask. It staggered backward, bone blades retracting into its hands as it clutched at its chest.
"What have you done?" it rasped, voice now diminished, echoing only within the chamber.
Nightborne dropped to the floor, gasping for breath, daggers still ready. "Severed your connection. You're just a puppet with cut strings now."
The vessel lurched toward the altar, reaching desperately for the crown. Nightborne intercepted it with another blink, placing himself between the vessel and its power source. With one fluid motion, he sheathed his right dagger and reached for the Pocket Abyss Cube.
The cube hummed against his palm, its surface shifting as if alive. He focused his intent through it, creating a pocket of void just large enough for the crown. The finger bones began to levitate, drawn toward the cube's pull.
"NO!" The vessel lunged forward with surprising speed, bone fingers extended like spears.
Nightborne parried with his remaining dagger, slicing through three of the fingers before the rest caught him in the side, puncturing deep. Pain exploded through him, but he maintained his focus on the cube. The crown disintegrated into the void pocket, particle by particle, vanishing from this reality.
The vessel's howl of rage shook the Heart of Bone, causing dust to rain down from the massive ribs overhead. It grabbed Nightborne with both hands, lifting him off his feet despite its weakened state.
"Do you realize what you've done?" it snarled, green light flickering like a dying flame behind its skull-mask. "Without the crown, the ritual cannot be completed. The King cannot return—but neither can he be banished. He will remain trapped between worlds, and his rage will consume everything."
Nightborne smiled grimly, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. "Then I've bought time. Time to find a way to end him permanently."
With his remaining strength, he drove his dagger into the vessel's throat, where skull met spine. The ShadowSteel severed whatever force held the construct together. Green light erupted from the wound, cascading outward as the vessel's form began to collapse in on itself.
Nightborne fell to the ground as the vessel released him, its body disintegrating into motes of emerald light and bone dust. The skull-mask was the last to crumble, and as it did, Nightborne caught a glimpse of what lay beneath—not emptiness, but a face preserved in the moment of death, its expression one of mingled horror and ecstasy.
Then it was gone, leaving only a pile of blackened bone armor and the echoing silence of the Heart.
Nightborne staggered to his feet, pressing a hand against the wound in his side. It was deep but had missed vital organs. The void energy that coursed through his veins was already beginning to knit the flesh closed, though the process was agonizingly slow.
He approached the altar, now empty without the crown. The Pocket Abyss Cube at his hip hummed contentedly, having absorbed the artifact into its dimensional storage. He would need to find a way to destroy it properly, or keep it hidden where no one—nothing—could find it.
The ground beneath him trembled. Without the vessel to maintain it, the Heart of Bone was becoming unstable. The massive ribs overhead groaned like ancient trees in a storm, and cracks began to appear in the cartilaginous floor.
Nightborne turned toward where the Obsidian Gate had been, only to find a solid wall of bone. The vessel's death had severed his way back.
But he had faced worse. Drawing on his remaining strength, he called forth the darkness once more.
[Void Weaving]
Shadow-threads extended from his fingertips, seeking the weakest point in the chamber's structure. He found it—a hairline fracture in one of the lower ribs, where the bone had begun to calcify with age. Wrapping the threads around his fist like a gauntlet, Nightborne struck the spot with all his might.
The rib shattered, revealing a narrow passage beyond—natural stone, not bone. Freedom.
As the Heart of Bone collapsed behind him, Nightborne dragged himself through the opening, emerging into what appeared to be another section of the Whispering Depths. The black pools reflected his battered form as he limped past them, searching for a way back to the surface.
He had defeated the vessel, prevented the ritual—for now. But the true King still existed beyond the veil, and with its puppet destroyed, it would seek another way to return. Another vessel.
Nightborne touched the Pocket Abyss Cube, feeling the crown's presence within its dimensional fold. At least this component of the ritual was secure. But how many others existed? How many other artifacts would the King's servants seek?
As he found a spiraling passage that seemed to lead upward, Nightborne made a silent vow. He would recover his strength, expand his mastery of the void, and then he would seek out every remaining servant of the King. He would destroy them all, one by one, until no threat remained to Greenwood Hollow or the world beyond.
The true King might be immortal, trapped between realities—but Nightborne had wounded its designs today. And with every victory, every servant destroyed, every artifact secured, he grew stronger.
Perhaps one day, he would find a way to reach the King itself. And on that day, darkness would face darkness, and only one would prevail.
But for now, he needed to return to the surface, to Bertha's concerned gaze and Elder Morrow's knowing eyes. To report what he had learned and prepare for the battles yet to come.