The Veiled was not slowed down by the abominations charging in a never-ending wave; on the contrary, they moved more quickly, as if the chaos only made them more determined. Twenty meters. Fifteen. Ten.
Riven muttered under his breath, his breath ragged,
"Why isn't that bastard slowing down... That was the whole point of calling those things. To slow them down. So why the hell isn't it working... Damnit."
The clouds peeled back above, ripped apart by the wind, and moonlight spilt across the shattered city, silver and cold like the edge of a blade. A full moon. At least he could see again, but he could no longer rely on sound; chaos was all around him. Screams. Roars. Crash stone. Metal slicing flesh.
The monsters were all around him, not just behind him. Like tumours emerging from the darkness. He never stopped as he twisted past one and skirted another. They were still audible to him. They could still feel the air changing as they moved. That was all that kept him alive. But his speed would disintegrate with just one punch. Already, his body was straining itself.
It would be over if he slipped. Like a god of war, the Veiled blazed a trail behind him. A black-clad colossus that devours everything in its path. Abominations fell like a farmer's cutting wheat. They didn't ever quit. Never gave up. Unfazed by numbers, the Veiled sped through where Riven crouched and wove.
Not so lucky were the five Firstborn who were at the rear.
They moved as a unit, barely. One held the back, bloodied and struggling; two guarded the flanks, blades flashing; the final pair fought to hold the front. They moved like a broken circle, encircling each other in desperate formation, but the tide was against them. The creatures were relentless; for every one that fell, two more clawed through the ruins; the Firstborn at the back was staggering, legs shaking, sword arm limp; claw marks raked their side; they gasped, swinging wide, but too slowly; a shrieking thing lunged; another Firstborn turned, intercepting the blow. Survival through instinct. Through trust. Their movements were ragged but precise. They didn't have the Veiled, but they had each other.The Veiled, far ahead, remained unstoppable. Unrelenting
From ahead, Riven saw two more monstrosities leaping. He pulled suddenly into what had previously been an alleyway—narrow and crooked, collapsed stone pressing in from both sides. His boots skidded on broken tile as he ducked beneath a shattered arch. The path was extended with each diversion he took. However, it bought him seconds. He didn't have seconds. The Veiled were drawing near. Still far away, but too close, the moon glinted against the curve of their mask. Too near.
With a curse, Riven accelerated his sprint.
'Why? Why do they refuse to give up? Why do they keep chasing?'
He ran across the remnants of a fallen hallway. From the left came another monstrosity. He jumped over it. landed with force. Despite his legs screaming, he continued to run. Finally, there was silence. No more monsters. Behind him, the sound of the pursuit subsided. A rare moment of peace. It didn't feel right. There was a sloping garden beyond the roadway.
Riven staggered to halt. The location resembled a dream-ripped artwork. or a bad dream.
A silver moon, which appeared to have fallen too near to the earth, loomed huge in the sky. The garden was covered in ghostly hues from its weak light. Bending and gnarling, the trees resembled claws reaching for the heavens from above. Their branches formed lines that resembled glass cracks in the moonlight.
Here, the blossoms were white. Or they had been. They were boring now. Dust-colored. In the wind, their petals shook like ash. A chilly wind blew across them, murmuring like long-dead whispers. It was wild grass. Uncontrolled. Like veins under the skin, it is entangled in itself. And there was a guy standing in the moonlight at the top of the hill.
Riven gasped for air. He walked cautiously into the garden. He had no idea why. Maybe it was because there was nowhere else to flee to. Maybe because he was backed into a corner by the Veiled. Among the ruined flowers, he stood. Behind him was the cold, giant moon. Clinging to his back were shadows.
Even though his body shook, he remained motionless. attempting to hide the terror. He was trying to sound calm. The Veiled came out of the alleyway
There was the sound of footsteps—light, careful, The pulse's rhythm. Slow.
measured.
Then he caught sight of them.
The mask glimmered in the moonlight. Smooth. Soul-silver. No eyes. No mouth. No facial expression. Just the very weak outline of a face. Unreadable. What had once been exquisite clothing now appeared to be armour created by the dark. Silent designs sewn over the sleeves of a high-collared tunic. A purposefully made corset coated in black metals. Cloak dragging like a liquid shadow in the back. A belt laden with arcane charms and golden blades. boots with knee straps and laces. Their entire body was designed for combat.
Riven remained still.
Then he spoke.
"Why are you pursuing me?" The corners of his voice cracked. "Is wanting freedom so wrong?"
The Veiled's head cocked. The voice reverberated through the quiet lawn,
"Freedom..."
reverberating from under the mask.
"You killed three of my people."
That is not acceptable. A pause occurred. Overhead of the ruins, the wind howled. The Veiled then advanced a step.
"A cunning ploy... I'll confess. but useless. All of this was ultimately useless.
With the moon behind him like a brilliant omen, Riven stood in the dead garden. The trees were dead, gnarled, ashy, and devoid of any springtime recollection. Silence loomed heavily in the air around him. A quietness that seemed to be monitored. The Veiled moved closer, taking slow, methodical steps, like a creature relishing the last second before making a kill. His heart pounded like a war drum in his chest, but he forced himself to appear composed.
"You know," said Riven, his gaze fixed on the faceless mask, "I never requested any of this. All I wanted was freedom. A breath of air not linked in cords."
The Veiled looked at him and said
"And yet, you've painted your path with blood. Three Firstborn, dead. Do you truly think you can outrun the weight of that?" Riven's lips twisted into a faint smile, and his eyes were now filled with deliberate, burning, and sharp madness.
"I don't need forever," he said, adding, "just a few more minutes." The Veiled tilted their heads slightly, as if perplexed by the emotion in his voice.
He took a step back and gestured quietly towards the opposite side of the garden, towards the slope behind him. Further,
"You said I was clever," he added. "So you must've figured out that I don't bluff."
He had noticed it before, a person at the far end of the garden, when he had entered it by himself. An outline in the fog, shrouded in darkness, holding something enormous. The shape of a Scythe. There could be no human present. Not in this city of hell. Whatever it was, it wasn't flesh and blood.
He had acted quickly. Found two stones, struck them hard—again and again—until the sharp metallic ring echoed through the garden. A sound like a cry. Like bait.
He just needed time. Just enough for the Veiled to follow
Now, the Veiled's masked face turned slightly, sensing something beyond the conversation. Their tone sharpened.
"What do you mean?"
Riven didn't answer. He didn't need to
Because a strange mistake came
A cold veil crept low over the dying garden, sliding between blackened trees and drooping ash blossoms. It moved like breath—slow, deliberate, unnatural.
Then, a sound. Soft. Metal scraping stone. At first it could have been imagined. A trick of the ears. But then came the hum. Low, deep, and rising—like a string pulled taut beneath the skin of the world. And then he stepped through the fog.
Tall. Inhumanly tall.
His arms dangled too long, the fingers curved downward, nearly grazing the ground—each topped with claws like black glass. He wore robes darker than night, thick and tattered, yet they moved like fog kept together by anger. A shroud of quiet.
His neck creaked like rusty hinges as his head turned too slowly.
There was merely a mask where a face ought to be. Easy. Broken. Glaring softly crimson, featureless but for a jagged crack that ran from brow to chin, pulsating with hate like a heart stuck behind stone. Moreover, in his right hand...
The Scythe looked enormous. Horrible.
The blade was made of black steel Wider than any man could lift, it curled. Despite this, he dragged it with ease, the blade making a long, bloodless cut in the ground. He came to a halt.
The Reaper's head tilted again. Toward the Veiled. Toward Riven.
And in that moment, they both knew.
This was no beast. No hunter.
Only death awaits anyone who fought this fiend