Ash rained from the sky — heavy like snow, burning like embers.In the dying forest, where the trees reached like charred fingers toward the heavens, the howl of an engine shattered the silence.
Shadow rode.
Flames licked the wheels of his motorcycle, but the metal did not melt. Ashborn was as cursed as its rider — a creature forged from steel and damnation. Every inch of the bike was scarred, covered in blackened chains and glowing runes that pulsed to the rhythm of its engine.
The air stank of blood and burnt flesh.But Shadow smelled nothing.He felt nothing.
Only hunger.
The hunger for vengeance.
He steered Ashborn through the abandoned woods, smoke coiling around his armored form. Where he passed, flames bloomed in his wake, as if the earth itself felt his rage and caught fire.
In the distance, beyond the next ridge, there was a light.A campfire.Survivors… or prey?
Shadow twisted his burned lips into a grin.
"Time for the shadows to speak," he rasped, his voice like broken glass.
He twisted the throttle.And hell rode with him.